CHAPTER XXI.
Life is but thought, so think I will,That youth and I are housemates still.Coleridge.
Life is but thought, so think I will,That youth and I are housemates still.
Life is but thought, so think I will,
That youth and I are housemates still.
Coleridge.
Coleridge.
Violet had imagined the place when Laura's reception was given, but this sight far exceeds her wildest dreams. The moon is nearly at its full, and the lawn lies in a sheet of silver light, while the lamps throw out long rays of color. Roses are everywhere, it is their blossoming time. All the air is sweet and throbs with music that stirs her pulses like some rare enchantment. The odorous evergreens are rich in new and fragrant growth, the velvet turf gives out a perfume to the night air and looks like emerald in the moonlight. Beds of flowers are cut in it here and there, a few clumps of shrubbery, the pretty summer-houses, the sloping terrace, and the river surging with an indolent monotone, make a rarely beautiful picture. The columns upholding the porch roof are wreathed with vines, but the spaces between are clear. The low windows are all open, and it is fairyland without and within. Floyd Grandon paces up and down, with John Latimer at his side, while the band around on the other side are in the discord of tuning up.
"Upon my word, Grandon, youareto be envied," says Latimer. "I am not sure we have done a wise thing coming up here this summer. The fuss and pomp of fashion rarely move me to any jealous state of mind, but I am afraid this will awaken absolute covetousness."
Grandon gives a genial, wholesome laugh, and he almost believes he is to be envied, in spite of the perplexities not yet at an end. He is proud of his lovely home, he has a beautiful child and a sweet wife, and if she does not charm the whole world what does he care? There is no one left to fret them in household ways, for he fancies he has seen signs of softening in his mother, and she is having new interests in life, with her daughters well married. There is only Eugene to feel really anxious about.
The carriages are driving up the avenue and there is a flutter through the hall. Floyd goes up-stairs presently and finds Violet in his room waiting for the finishing touches to be added to Cecil's attire. She turns quickly, and a soft flush makes her bewitching, radiant.
"How do you like me?" she asks, in her innocent simplicity.
She is in pure white, his favorite attire for her, but the wraith-like laces draping her lend her a different air from anything he has seen before. The rose-leaf tint in her cheek, her lovely dimpled mouth, the eyes that look browner and more like velvet than ever, and the shining hair give her a glamour of sweetness and youth that stirs his heart to its very depths.
"Like you?" he echoes; "you are beautiful, bewitching!"
She comes a little nearer. His commendation makes her extremely happy. He holds out both hands, and she places hers in them, and kisses her on the forehead; he has fallen so much into the habit that he does it unthinkingly.
"Floyd," says Mrs. Grandon, from the hall, "you certainly ought to go down."
"I am all ready," cries Cecil, who flies out, beautiful as a fairy, in a shimmer of white and pale blue, her waving hair like a shower of gold.
Violet is a good deal frightened at first, although she resolutely forces herself to a point of bravery. She has never been the central figure before, and she has a consciousness that all eyes are turned upon her, and that she hardly has a right to the use of her true name while Mr. Grandon's stately mother is present. Laura is resplendent in silk and lace,—she never affects anyingenuestyle,—and madame is a dazzle in black and gold, her Parisian dress of lace a marvel of clinging beauty, and her Marechal Niel roses superb. She has been mistress and head for several days, but now she is simply the guest, and none better than she knows how to grace the position.
Outside there is a sea of bewildering melody, that pulses on the air in rhythmic waves. The French horns blow out their soft, sweet gales, like birds at early morn, the flutes whistle fine and clear, and the violins, with their tremulous, eager sweetness, seem dripping amber; viols and horns reply, shaking out quivering breaths to the summer night air, until it seems some weird, far-away world. Violet is so entranced that she almost forgets she is Floyd Grandon's wife, being made known to society.
The first quadrilles are full of lovely gliding figures. Violet dances with her husband, then with Eugene. Floyd and Madame Lepelletier are in the same set. It is the first time he has danced with her since they were betrothed. She knows if she had stayed at home and married him, neither would have been the kind of people they are now, and she does not envy that old time, but she wants the power in her hands that she had then. She would not even care to give up all the years of adulation when rank and title were an open-sesame to golden doors, and even now has its prestige. There is nothing she really cares for but the love of this man, little as she believes in the divine power.
Thefêteis really open now. Guests stroll about and listen to the music, or sit on the balcony chairs and watch the dancing. By and by there are some soft melodious waves with no especial meaning, then the French horns pipe a delicious thrill, "viol, flute and bassoon" burst into beguiling bloom of the Zamora, and hands steal out to other hands, arms cling to arms, and the winding, bewildering waltz begins.
Violet is talking to a young man, one of the Grandon Park neighbors, who stands bashfully wondering if it would do to ask her to waltz. Unconsciously her feet are keeping time, and her heart seems to rise and fall to the enchantment in the air. Then she feels a presence behind her and turns.
"This is our waltz," Floyd Grandon says, just above a whisper, and, bowing to her companion, leads her away.
"Shall we go out on the balcony?" he asks, and the quick pressure on his arm answers him. Out in the wide warm summer night, where the air throbs and glows with some weird enchantment, he puts his arm about her and draws her close; there are several irregular measures, then their figures and steps seem to settle to each other, and they float down the long space, up again, there is reversing to steady her a little, then on and on. He looks down at the drooping eyes with their tremulous lids, at the faint flush that comes and goes, he feels the throbbing breath, and realizes what a powerful and seductive temptation this might become. He is even kindled himself. For the first time he feels himself capable of rousing such a torrent of love in her that her whole soul shall be absorbed in his. Down in this shady corner, while the other couples are quite at the other end, he raises the sweet face, tranced in the beguiling melody of movement, and kisses the lips with all a man's passionate fervor, holds her in such a clasp that she struggles and throws out one hand wildly, as if suddenly stricken blind, and a frightened expression drowns the sweet delight.
"Oh!" and she gives a little cry of pain and mystery.
"My darling!"
The voice is tenderly reassuring, and they float on again, but for a brief moment the lightness seems gone out of her feet. He draws a long, deep inspiration. Sweet, tender, and devoted as she is, it is not her time to love, and he remembers all the years between them. She is as innocent of the deeper depths of passion as Cecil.
There is a long, long throb on the air, almost a wail of regret, from the human voices of the violins. The cornet seems to run off in the distance, and the horns have a sob in their last notes. The dancers stop with languid reluctance. Floyd Grandon leads his wife along as if he would take her down the steps, away somewhere.
"Let us sit here," she cries, suddenly, and there is a curious strain in her voice, a thrill as of fear. Does she not dare trust herself with him anywhere, everywhere?
"Are you tired?" he asks, with a tenderness that touches her.
She still seems like one in a dream.
"No," she answers. "It was enchanting. I could dance forever. I don't know——"
Her voice falters and drops as the last notes of the music have done. It would be a mortal sin to awaken her. She shall dream on until the right time comes.
"Then you liked it?" His voice has a steady, reassuring tone. "There is another; shall we try it again, presently?"
This time it is the "Beautiful Blue Danube."
"Oh, no, no!" she says, vehemently.
The strains begin to float and throb again, light, airy, delicate, with one pathetic measure that always touches the soul. She rouses and listens, then the little hand creeps into his beseechingly.
"Oh," she says, "may I take that back! I think I was beside myself. Will you waltz with me again?"
It is an exquisite waltz, pure, dreamy pleasure, delicious to the last bar, and nothing has startled her. He watches her lovely flower-like face that is full of supreme content.
"Now," he says, after she has rested awhile, "we must look after our guests. Let us take a stroll around."
Nearly everybody has been waltzing. Marcia and her husband are present. It was quite against his desire that Floyd extended an invitation to Jasper Wilmarth, but he felt he could not do otherwise. He does not mean to be over-cordial with his brother-in-law in the matter of hospitalities. Wilmarth is proud of this victory, because he knows it cost Floyd Grandon something. He is glad, too, of an opportunity of becoming better acquainted with Mrs. Grandon. This does not altogether mean conversing with her, although he has managed several passing talks, but he likes to watch her, and the old thought comes into his mind that with a little better planning he might have won her. A half-suggestion of his had put the thought of Eugene Grandon in the mind of St. Vincent, but he well knew that Eugene would only laugh such a proposal to scorn. The factor he had not counted on was Floyd himself.
Marcia is set wild with the first waltz. She is new to wifehood, and she stands a little in awe of Jasper Wilmarth. There are people, husbands, who object to it. Eugene is too late to secure madame, and stands looking rather bored and sulky.
"Would you mind dancing it with me, just once?" says Marcia, pleadingly.
"Of course not," he answers, indifferently.
"Eugene wants me to waltz with him," she whispers to her husband; and he, in deep conversation with a neighbor, simply nods. There will be time enough for marital training when the worship becomes irksome, and he wants spice instead of sweet. They shall all see that Marcia has an indulgent husband and is not to be commiserated. But when he sees Floyd Grandon floating up and down with that lovely fairy-like figure in his arms, he hates him more bitterly than before. Irene Lepelletier and Jasper Wilmarth could well join hands here. The gulf between them is not so very wide.
Marcia is up in the next waltz as well, but this time with an old admirer. Eugene resists the glances of Lucia Brade and makes a wall-flower of himself. He begins to watch Violet presently, and remark with what entire perfection she waltzes. Who would have suspected it in a little convent-bred girl? Sheispretty in spite of all detractions, Laura has discovered. How her shining hair glitters, as if sprinkled with diamond-dust.
Cecil comes running up to her after they have promenaded around among the guests.
"Mamma," she exclaims, "that was just as we dance. Why can't you dance with me here to all the pretty music!"
Violet glances up to meet her husband's smile of assent. "Next time, Cecil," she says, slipping the little hand in hers.
They do not have to wait very long. After a mazourka comes a waltz, and Cecil is made supremely happy.
"How utterly bewitching they look!" says a low, melodious voice at Floyd Grandon's side. "How tall Cecil has grown in a year!"
"A year!" he repeats. Yes, it is a year ago that his old life ended, and how much has been crowded in that brief while.
"You are a wise man," madame says, in an indescribable tone. "You have not forced your bud into premature blossoming. There might be a decade between Laura and your wife."
"I wonder if Laura had any real girlhood?" he remarks, musingly.
"Why, yes, at fourteen, perhaps. That is the way with most of us. But hers, not beginning so soon, will have the longer reign. How lovely the river looks to-night! I should like to go down on the terrace," she adds, after a moment.
"I am at your service," and he rises.
They cross the lawn amid groups sauntering in the moonlight, keeping time to the music, if they do not dance. The whole scene is like enchantment. They stroll on and on, down the steps and then over the broad strip of grass. The cool air blows up along the shore, and with the tide coming in every ripple is crested with silver. Over at the edge of the horizon the stars dare to shine out amid the silence of the rocks and woods opposite, making a suggestive, shadowy land.
"'On such a night,'" she quotes, with a smile that might beguile a man's soul.
"We could not have had anything more beautiful. And I owe a great deal of the perfection of the scene to you, since the season was in other hands. Allow me to express my utmost gratitude."
"I am glad to be able to add to your pleasure in any way," she answers, with a kind of careless joy. "Possibly I may add to your displeasure. May I make a confession?" and she smiles again.
"To me?" not caring to conceal his surprise.
"Yes, to you. I shall bind you by all manner of promises, but the murder must out."
"Is it as grave as that?"
"Yes. If you had not gone by the heats and caprices of youthful passion, you would be less able to extend your mantle of charity. I care enough for your good opinion and for that of your family not to be placed in a false light by the imprudence of youth,—shall we call it that?"
"I cannot imagine," he begins, puzzled, and yet almost afraid to trench on this suspicious ground.
"Can you not? Then I give the young man credit for a degree of prudence I was fearful he did not possess."
"Oh," he says, with a curious sense of relief, "you mean—my brother?"
"Floyd," in a low, confidential tone, and she so rarely gives him his Christian name that he is struck with her beautiful utterance of it, "I want you to do me this justice at least, to let me stand higher in your estimation than that of a mere silly coquette, who makes a bid for the admiration of men in general. There was a time when it might have turned my head a little, but then I had nogeneraladmiration to tempt me. I have been friendly with Eugene, as any woman so much older might be, and the regard he has for me is not love at all, but just now he cannot see the difference. He feels bitter because he cannot have matters as he fancies he would like, and in a few years he will be most grateful for the cruelty, as he calls it."
"Oh," Floyd says, with a sense of shame, "he certainly has not been foolish enough to——"
"You surely do not think I would allow him to make an idiot of himself!" she replies, with an almost stinging disdain. "I should not want him to remember that of me. One may make a mistake in youth, or commit an error, but with added years there would be small excuse. I had a truer regard for him, as well as myself. It was wiser to quench the flame before it reached that height," and she smiles with a sense of approval. "So if you see us at sword's points, you will know that the disease has reached the crisis, and you may reasonably expect an improvement. Indeed, it is time he turned his attention to other matters. Shall you be able to make a business man of him?"
"I am afraid not," replies Floyd Grandon.
"Now that I have confessed, I feel quite free," she begins, in a tone of relief. "I wanted the matter settled before I came up here, and I did want to keep your good opinion, if indeed you have a good opinion of me."
Something in her voice touches his very soul. It is entreating, penitent, yet loftily proud. It says, "I can do without your approval, since I may have forfeited it in some way, yet I would rather have it. You are free to give or to withhold."
"I think," he says, steadily, "this is not the first time you have acted sensibly. I wonder if I shall offend you by a reference to those old days when we both made a mistake. Time has shown us the wisdom of not endeavoring to live up to it. Both of our lives have doubtless been the better, and we have proved that it makes us none the less friends."
There is no agitation in voice or face. He stands here calmly beside the woman he was to have married, and both he and she know the regard has perished utterly. An hour ago he would hardly have said what he has. Why does he feel so free to say it now? She is superbly tranquil as well, but she knows him for a man who holds his honor higher than any earthly thing. If Violet St. Vincent had not come between, she might have won him, but now all the list of her fascinations cannot make him swerve.
"I ought," he continues, scarcely heeding the momentary silence, "to thank you in behalf of my wife as well. You have shown us both many kindnesses. You have been a true friend."
He never makes the slightest reference to any family disagreements or any lack of welcome his wife has experienced.
"I should have done a great deal more if Mrs. Grandon had been less shy of strangers," she makes answer, quietly.
They walk up and down in silence. The river ripples onward, the moon sails in serenest glory, the wind wafts the melody down from the wide verandas, and it trembles on the river, making a faint echo of return from the other side. They are both thinking,—Grandon of Violet, and madame of him. She has found few men so invincible, even among those very much in love. There is a certain expression in his face which she as a woman of the world and read in many fascinations understands; it is loyal admiration, for he is constrained to admire in all honesty, but it falls far short of that flash of overmastering feeling, so often mistaken for love and leading to passion, the possibility of being tempted. It would satisfy her vanity better to believe him incapable of a deep and fervent love, but she knows better. When he is touched by the divine fire he will respond, and she envies bitterly the woman who is destined thus to awaken him. Will it be Violet? She crushes her white teeth together at the thought, imagining that she would feel better satisfied to have it any other woman. But why should he not go on this way? Let him honor the girl whom circumstances and not election have given for a wife, so that in real regard he sets her no higher than a friend.
"We must go back," she says, with a touch of regret in her voice. "One could stay here forever, but there are duties and duties."
He turns with her and they come up the path together. Cecil and Violet stand on the balcony, warm, yet full of youthful gladness. Cecil has acquitted herself so beautifully that the two have been a centre of admiration, and Violet has run away from the compliments. She has been idly watching the two figures on the terrace, and as they come nearer it gives her a curious feeling that she at once tries to dismiss as selfish.
Eugene strolls out to them. He has been on terms of friendly indifference with his pretty little sister-in-law, classing her with Cecil, but to-night he has seen her in a new character, which she sustains with the brilliant charm of youth, if not the dignity of experience. He is sore and sulky. He has not been fool enough to believe madame would marry him, but he would have married her any day. He has been infatuated with her beauty, her charms of style and manner, her beguiling voice; the very atmosphere that surrounded her was delightful to breathe in concert with her. He has haunted her afternoon teas and her evening receptions, he has attended her to operas, and sometimes lowered savagely at the train that came to pay court to her. Like a wary general she has put off the symptoms of assault by making diversions elsewhere, until the feint no longer answered its purpose. She would not allow him to propose, that would savor of possible hope and encouragement; she has spoken with the friendliness a woman can command. This course of devotion on his part draws attention to them and is ungenerous to her. "How do you know what I mean?" he has asked, in a tone of gloomy persistence.
She gives a little laugh, suggestive of incredulity and a slight flavor of ridicule.
"Because I know it is impossible for you to really mean anything derogatory to me or to yourself," she answers, in a tone of assured steadiness. "If I were a young girl it might be love or flirtation; if I were a coquette it might be an evil fascination such as too often wrecks young men. As I do not choose it shall be any of these, you must not grow sentimental with me."
She looks at him out of clear eyes thataremaddening, and yet he cannot but read his fate in them. It is thus far and no farther.
"Oh," he answers, with a touch of scorn, "I think I have read of marriages with as great disparity of years as between us! It is supposed they loved, they certainly have been happy."
"But I am not in my dotage," she cries, gayly. "Neither am I such a wonderful believer in love. There are many other qualities requisite for what I call a good marriage."
"I do not suppose I shall ever make agoodmarriage," he says, calmly, but with bitter emphasis.
"And yet you ought. You are handsome, attractive, you can make a fortune if you will; you can grace any society."
"Spare me," he replies, with contempt. "My impression is, that I shall never have faith enough in any woman to marry her."
"Oh, that is so deliciously young, Eugene! It ought to be applauded." And she laughs lightly.
"Good morning," he says, in a furious temper.
He has not been near her since, and chooses to absent himself on a business trip the first three days she spends at Grandon Park, coming home last evening, and meeting her at the breakfast-table this morning, where she has tact enough to cover all differences. He has not danced with her, though they have met in the quadrilles, and he is moody and resentful, although he knows that she is right. But he puts it on the score of money. "If I were the owner of Grandon Park," he thinks, "she would not so much mind the years between."
Therein he is mistaken. It would hurt Irene Lepelletier'samour propreto make herself conspicuous, to be held up to ridicule or blame. She does notcarefor marriage; her position is infinitely more delightful in its variety. She can make a world of her own without being accountable to any one, but she has come perilously near to loving Floyd Grandon, when she considered love no longer a temptation, had dismissed it as a puerile insanity of youth.
Eugene catches sight of the two promenaders. Almost beside them now are Miss Brade and Mr. Latimer. There is nothing in it, and yet it stirs his jealousy. Laura has always been so sure that Violet alone interrupted a marriage between them, and in this cruel pang he is grateful to Violet, and glad, yes, exultingly glad that madame never can be mistress here. There is one check for her, even if she triumphs in all things else.
"What an exquisite dancer you are," he says to Violet. "I never imagined you could learn anything like that in a convent."
"I don't think you learnquitelike it," she says, with a soft little ripple. "I never danced so before; it is enchantment. And I never waltzed with a gentleman until to-night, except to take a few steps with my teacher."
"You like it?" He is amused by the enthusiasm of her tone.
"Oh," she confesses, with a long sigh, "it is rapturous! I am so fond of dancing. I wonder, doyouthink it frivolous?" and she glances up with a charming deprecation.
Sheisvery pretty. It must be her dress that makes her so uncommonly lovely to-night, he fancies, but it is all things,—her youth, her joy, her sweet satisfaction.
"Why, no, not frivolous. It is—well, I don't know how society would get along without it," and he gives a short, grim laugh. "We could not have balls or parties or Germans,—nothing but dinners and teas and musicales and stupid receptions. And there wouldn't be anything for young people to do; the old tabbies, you know, can gossip about their neighbors, and the men can smoke."
"It is all so wonderfully beautiful!" she begins, dreamily. "The lawn is a perfect fairyland, and I never saw so many lovely dresses and handsome people together in my life. And the music——"
The strains floating in the air are quite enough to bewilder one, to steep him in delicious reveries, to transport him to Araby the blest.
"Will you waltz once with me?" he asks, suddenly, taking her hand.
"OughtI?" she inquires, innocently. "You see I do not quite understand——"
"No," he answers, "I will take a galop instead, but it is all right enough. Floyd wouldn't care, I know."
He has a jealous misgiving that Floyd will waltz with madame if Violet thus sets him an example.
The galop begins presently. Floyd is busy with the duties of host, and supper is soon to be announced. Madame dances superbly, but neither of them are up now, except that just at the last Floyd takes a few turns with Cecil, whose time of revelry is now ended.
Eugene takes Violet in to supper; not exactly as Floyd has planned, but as she desires. Her next neighbor is very bright and entertaining, and Eugene really does his best. Between them both Mrs. Grandon is vivacious, sparkling, and radiant with the charms of youth and pleasure. Eugene is quite resolved to show madame that he has not been hard hit, and even devotes himself awhile to Lucia Brade, who is supremely happy. There is more dancing, and Violet and Floyd have another lovely waltz. So with walking and talking and lounging on balcony and lawn, listening to the delicious music, the revel comes to an end.
"You have been very happy?" Floyd Grandon says to his wife.
"It has been perfect," she makes answer. "I could ask nothing more, nothing."
He kisses her with a little sigh. Is there something more, and does he long for it?
CHAPTER .
"Love and hay are thick sown, but come up full of thistles."
Mrs. Floyd Grandon is considered fairly in society, and the world decides there is nothing detrimental about her. She is admitted to be pretty, she is well-bred, with some little touches of formalism, due to her training, that are really refreshing to elderly people, and sit quaintly upon her. She is charming, both when her natural vivacity crops out, that has been so repressed, and when she is shyly diffident. Cards and invitations are left for her, and Grandon Park blossoms out into unwonted gayety. The people who go away find no difficulty in renting their houses to those who want to come; perhaps the Latimers have given the impetus, for Mrs. Latimer is one of those women who are always quoted, without having any special desire to achieve a society reputation. The cottage frequently has some visitors of note: its smallness renders large companies impossible.
There is the usual lawn tennis, and croquet, which is rather falling into desuetude, but still affords unequalled opportunities for flirtation. There is boating, and the river looks quite gay with boats with striped and colored awnings to protect the fair ones from the sun. Grandon and Latimer are famous oarsmen, and often gather an admiring audience which gets greatly excited over the victorious champion, though honors keep evenly divided. Then there are garden parties and musical evenings, so there is no lack of amusement.
Violet has become quite an expert driver, and she and her pretty step-daughter, who keep up their adoration of each other, make a lovely picture in the basket phaeton. She rides on horseback very well, and here Eugene is always at her service. In fact, though he neverquiteconfesses it, he lets her fancy that he is an unfortunate moth who has been drawn into the flame when he would not have flown of his own account and desire. He is the kind of masculine who must always be dear tosomewoman, who floats on the strongest current of fascination or sympathy. It has been the former, it is now the latter. The many frank allurements of youth in Violet charm him insensibly. She has a secret sympathy and a curious misgiving that she cannot overcome,—it grows upon her, indeed,—that Madame Lepelletier is dangerous to man and woman.
Had madame more personal vanity in her conquests, she might feel piqued at the defection of her knight, who has not wavered in his allegiance for the last year. She is rather pleased than otherwise, she even breathes little bits of encouragement and commendation to Violet, as if seconding her efforts; and Violet falls into the mistake that many have made before her, of comforting a young man and assisting him to overlive his fancy for another woman, as well as secretly blaming the other. Eugene is so fond of shifting burthens upon other people.
Laura and Mr. Delancy go abroad. Mrs. Grandon accepts several invitations for summer visits. She is less the head of the house now that her daughters are married and away, but she does not abate one jot of her dignity, and is secretly mortified to see Eugene so ready to treat with the enemy, as she still considers her.
Mrs. Jasper Wilmarth is at the summit of delighted vanity. They cannot compete with Grandon Park, but they have taken a rambling old country house on the outskirts of Westbrook, and Marcia has certainly managed to accumulate no end of bizarre articles. The rooms are large and the ceilings low; there are corner fireplaces and high mantels, there are curtains and portières and lambrequins, there are pictures and brackets and cabinets, easels with their "studies," and muchbric-à-brac. Jasper Wilmarth insists that the sleeping chamber and sitting-room shall be kept free from this "nonsense," as he calls it, and does not meddle his head about the rest. Indeed, he rather smiles to himself to see of what consequence his name has made her. He does not even object to being considered a hero of romance in her estimation, knowing her sieve-like nature, and that whatever is in must drip through somewhere. She adores him, she waits on him with a curious humility that is very flattering, while to the rest of the world she puts on rather lofty airs. They amuse him, and he sees with much inward scorn the respect paid her—for what, indeed? Was she not as wise and as attractive six mouths ago? Yet he means she shall have the respect and the honor. He will not be the rich man that he once dreamed of, but he has enough to afford her many indulgences. So when she makes a rather timid proposition for a party of some kind, he listens with attention as she skips over the ground and makes a jumble of festivities.
"I should choose the garden party," he says, briefly, for in his mind he considers it the prettiest for the expense and the most enjoyable. There is no velvet lawn, but there is the remnant of an orchard, and the old trees are still picturesque. They need not have the fuss of a regular supper, but refreshments out of doors, with quartet tables, for the evening will be warm and moonlight.
Marcia is delighted. The pony phaeton flies around briskly, and invitations are accepted on nearly every hand. Floyd Grandon would much prefer to decline, but he cannot, without seeming churlish, and Violet takes it as a matter of course.
Is it a special Providence that interferes? That very morning an important telegram comes, and some one must go to Baltimore. It is not a matter he cares to have Wilmarth settle, and Eugene is not to be relied upon. He could take Violet, but it would look absurd this hot weather, and on such a hurried journey, when he has not hesitated to go alone before. Why should he be so reluctant to leave her, he wonders.
"It's just shabby!" declares Eugene. "Wait until to-morrow. Marcia will feel dreadfully put out if you are not there to-night."
"To-morrow would make it too late to see one of the parties, who is to go abroad." And he knits his brows.
"Well," says Eugene, "I'll take care of Violet to-night, though I can't hope to fill your place. But—I say, Floyd, do you mind if she waltzes with me?"
"Not if she cares to," is the answer, in a tone of reluctance that is quite lost upon the younger. He realizes that he has hardly courage for a direct prohibition when Eugene has just begun to show himself brotherly.
Violet is out driving with Cecil. He hurries up to the Latimers'. She has been there and gone, and there is no more time if he catches his train, and not to do it might be to lose immeasurably. But to go without a good-by to her or Cecil, and the old thought, the ghost that haunts every untoward parting, if he should never see them again, unmans him for an instant. What folly! Why, he is growing as fearful as a young lover.
He writes a brief farewell in pencil, and lays it on her table. She shall decide about the party herself, but he longs for a kiss, for one look into her lovely, untroubled eyes.
Violet does not return until luncheon is on the table. Eugene is looking out for her.
"Floyd had to go," he begins. "There was some important business, and he had to make a Baltimore connection, but he scoured the town to find you, and was awfully sorry."
It does not occur to Violet that there is anything unusual in his sudden departure, since it is not the first time he has gone with a very brief announcement. A thrill of satisfaction speeds through her at the thought of his wishing to find her, and she is truly very sorry that he should miss anything of the slightest consequence to him.
"I ought not have stayed," she says, with tender regret. "But I remembered I had promised to call on Miss Kirkbride, and I wanted to before I met her to-night. Oh——" and she pauses in vague questioning.
"That is all right. Floyd engaged me for your loyal knight and true," announces Eugene, in a confident tone, bowing ludicrously low.
Violet laughs, then a faint pink is added to the color in her cheek. It is like her husband's thoughtful ways.
"I am not sure I ought to go. Why, I have never been out without Mr. Grandon," she says, in alarm.
"Well, he has often been out without you," returns Eugene, with what he considers comforting frankness. "And then—it wouldn't do at all, you see. Mother is away, and there is not a single member of the family to do honor to Marcia, for if you remained at home I should stay to keep you company. And Marcia made a great point of our coming."
She has been pulling off her gloves, and now goes slowly up-stairs. Cecil has run on before and Jane is busy with her, but she calls eagerly as Violet passes through the hall. There lays the note on her table, a fond farewell to her and Cecil, a kiss to each, and regrets that he must go in such haste, but not a word about the party.
"I am all ready first," announces Cecil, coming in, attired in a fresh white dress.
"Yes, my darling. That is from papa," as she stoops and kisses her, "who has had to go away without a bit of good-by."
Cecil questions as to where he is gone, and why he went, and why he did not stay until after luncheon; and Violet explains patiently, recalling past times when the child has been almost inconsolable. She is so solaced by her message that she does not think of any other side.
Still, she is not quite satisfied to go without him to so large a gathering, and brings up half a dozen pretty reasons that Eugene combats and demolishes.
"And there will be dancing," she says.
"It would be stupid if there were not," the young man replies. "Such people as the Latimers and the Mavericks can talk forever, but Marcia hardly keeps up to concert pitch in a long harangue, and Wilmarth is not altogether a society man, though I must say he does uncommonly well as a benedict. And you can waltz, too. Floyd actually bestowed the privilege upon me," and he gives a light, flute-like laugh. Certainly when Eugene Grandon pleases he can bring out many delightful graces.
A little pang goes to her soul. Floyd Grandon has never been exclusive or in any sense jealous. Indeed, he has had such scant cause, but she wishes secretly that he had not been so ready to give away that enjoyment, and resolves that she will not waltz with Eugene.
"Come out and lie in the hammock," he says, after lunch. "It is shady, and there is a lovely breeze; you must take a siesta to look fresh and charming, and do honor to the Grandon name. How odd that there are only us two!" and he gives an amusing smile. "What a marrying off there has been since Floyd came home! Four brides in a year ought to be glory enough for one family."
Eugene should, by right, go over to the factory and answer a pile of letters, but instead, he throws himself on the grass, with an afghan under his head, and falls fast asleep. Violet drowses in her hammock and dreams away the happy hours. Only a little year ago. It runs through her mind like the lapping of the waves in the river.
They are a little late in reaching Mrs. Wilmarth's. It is an extremely picturesque sight, with seats rustic and bamboo, urns and stands of flowers, and moving figures in soft colors of flowing drapery. Some one is singing, and the sound floats outward to mingle with the summer air.
"Marcia certainly deserves credit," declares Eugene. "She is in her glory. She always did love to manage, and maybe she tries her arts upon Vulcan,—who knows."
"Mr. Wilmarth looks happy," says Violet, with gentle insistence.
"I suppose he is,—happy enough. But the marriage always has been a tremendous mystery to me. I should as soon have thought of the sky falling as Jasper Wilmarth marrying, and that he should take Marcia caps it all. I give it up," declares the young man.
"But Marcia is—I mean she has many nice ways," remarks Violet, as if deprecating harsher criticism.
"Well, for those who like her ways."
"You are not quite——" and Violet pauses.
"Generous or enthusiastic or any of the other womanish adjectives." Eugene pauses, for Marcia comes to meet them and Mr. Wilmarth stands on the porch.
"Well, youhavemade your appearance at last!" begins Marcia, with an emphasis rendered more decisive from a remark uttered by her husband a few moments before.
"Yes, but you can be thankful that you have us at all," says Eugene, in a tone of lazy insolence. "We only came as representatives of the great family name whose dignity we are compelled to uphold in the absence of the august head of the house."
Jasper Wilmarth hears this and would like to knock down the young man.
"Where is Floyd?" asks Marcia, sharply.
"Gone to Europe," says Eugene, with charming mendacity.
"Oh," cries Violet, in consternation, "not Europe! It is Baltimore." And fearing Marcia will be hurt she adds quickly, "It was very important business."
"Well, some one else went or is going to Europe. He was in a panic for fear of missing a connection. And he left loads of regrets, didn't he, Violet?"
"He left all that word with you," replies the young wife, wondering in her secret soul if Floyd really meant her to come and why he did not speak of it in the note.
They are in the hall by this time. Eugene nods coolly to Wilmarth, and Violet speaks with a curious inflection, her thoughts are elsewhere, but Wilmarth's steel-gray eyes remark that without reading the motive.
"Where has your brother gone?" he asks of Eugene. "I was not aware of any urgent business when I saw him this morning."
"I dare say it is his own affairs. Some ruin-hunter is no doubt going to the East, and he wants to send for an old coin or a bit of stone with an inscription, or the missing link," and the young man laughs indolently.
Marcia is going up-stairs with Violet. "I think Floyd might have put off his journey until to-morrow," she says, in an offended tone. "He did not come to the dinner, either. Perhaps he thinks we arenotgood enough, grand enough. You are quite sure you have not come against his wishes?"
Violet starts at this tirade, and if she had more courage would put on her hat again and walk out of the house.
"I am very sorry," she begins, but some one enters the dressing-room and she goes down presently to be warmly welcomed by several of the guests. Eugene constitutes himself her knight, and she feels very grateful. It is so strange to go in company without her husband; she can roam about the woods or drive her pony carriage and not feel lonely, but it seems quite solitary here, although she has met most of the people.
Eugene takes her arm and escorts her about. They are a charming young couple in their youth and beauty, and more than one person discerns the fitness. The business, too, would be of so much more account to Eugene, and he is in most need of a fortune. Jasper Wilmarth wonders if a time of regret will come to him.
Wafts of music float out on the summer night air. There is some dancing and much promenading. Marcia has a surprise in store, a series of tableaux arranged out of doors, with a pale rose light that renders them extremely effective, and they are warmly applauded. The guests sit at the tables and enjoy creams, ices, and salads: it is the perfection of a garden party. Marcia is in rather æsthetic attire, but it is becoming, and she is brimful of delight, though she wishes Floyd were here to see. She has a misgiving that he does not mean to rate Jasper Wilmarth very highly, and her wifely devotion resents it, for she is devoted. Jasper Wilmarth is both pleased and interested in the puppet he can move hither and thither to his liking, and occasionally to his service. He is gratified to see her party a success, though somewhat annoyed at the defection of his brother-in-law, who so far has not been his guest. He is piqued, too, about the sudden journey, and remembers now that a telegram came for him this morning. There is no business connection in Baltimore that need be made a secret, unless it is some secret of his own.
"There," exclaims Eugene, "a waltz at length! I began to think the ogre had forbidden so improper a proceeding. Now you are to waltz with me." And he rises, with her hand in his, but Violet keeps her seat.
"Why is waltzing considered improper?" she asks, slowly.
"Upon my life I don't know, unless, like the woman, you have to draw the line somewhere, and it is drawn at your relations or your husband. I have it—bright thought—it is to givethemsome especial privileges that will rouse the envy of the rest of the world. For myself I think it a humbug. There are other dances quite as reprehensible when you come to that, but I've never come to harm in any," and he laughs. "And as for flirting, there are devices many and various; when you reach that point, Madame Lepelletier can do more with her eyes than any dozen girls I know could with their feet. Come."
"I think—I do not feel like it," replies Violet.
"Oh, don't wear the willow!" advises the young man. "You have just been up in one quadrille, and people will notice it. Besides, I was very particular to respect any lingering prejudice my august brother might have had."
"And he said you were to waltz with me?"
"Oh," he rejoins, in a kind of hurt tone, "you really do not suppose I would tell you a falsehood in this matter! I really do want to waltz with you, but I shouldn't descend to any such smallness as that."
She is touched by his air and disappointment.
"Well," she answers, reluctantly.
Just then madame floats by them. Violet rises, and they go gracefully down in the widening circles. Eugene waltzes to perfection. A few young girls look on with envious eyes, and something about Lucia Brade's face appeals to Violet. Shedoescarry her heart on her sleeve, and has always been fond of Eugene Grandon.
"Let us stop," entreats Violet.
"Why, we were just going so perfectly! It was like a dream. How beautifully you do waltz! What is the matter?"
All this is uttered in a breath.
"I want you to go waltz with Miss Brade," says Violet. "She looks so lonely talking to that old Mr. Carpenter."
"Nonsense." And he tries to swing her into line.
"No; I do not feel as if I had any business with the young men," says Violet, rather promptly, standing her ground with resolution.
"See here," exclaims Eugene, suddenly, "if I waltz with her, will you give me another somewhere? If you won't, I shall not dance another step to-night," and he shakes his black curls defiantly.
That means he will keep close to her as a shadow, and she wishes he would not.
"Yes," she answers, "if you will do your duty you shall be rewarded."
"Be good and you will be happy," he quotes.
"Takemeover to Mr. Carpenter."
"He will prose you to death. See, there is Mrs. Carpenter waltzing with Fred Kirkbride. That is the way young and pretty second wives enjoy themselves," says this candid young man.
Lucia Brade goes off supremely happy. Violet watches them from her rustic seat. She has been a little amazed at Lucia's evident preference, so plainly shown. Mr. Carpenter only needs a listener to render him supremely happy in his monologues, so Violet can follow her own thoughts.
She is wondering why she feels so lost and lonely in this bright scene, and why the waltz did not enchant her! Where is Mr. Grandon—drowsing in a railway car? If he were here! The very thought thrills her. Yes, itisher husband she misses,—not quite as she used to miss him, either. He has grown so much more to her, he fills all the spaces of her life. He may be absent bodily, but he is in her soul, he has possession of her very being. Is this love?
A strange thrill runs over her. The lights, the dancing, the talk beside her, might all be leagues away. She is penetrated, possessed by a blissful knowledge, something deeper, finer, keener than she has ever dreamed, not simply the reverence and obedience of the marriage vow that she has supposed included all. And then comes another searching question,—how much of just this kind of love has Floyd Grandon for her?
The waltz has ended, and the lanciers begun. She will not dance that, but sends Eugene in quest of another partner, at which he grumbles. The Latimers are not here,—a sick baby has prevented,—though now Violet begins to feel quite at home with many of the dwellers in the park and about. Even madame searches her out presently.
"My dear child," she says, in that soft, suave tone, "are you not well this evening? You are such a little recluse."
"Quite well." And the brilliant face answers for her.
"Then you are not enjoying yourself. You young people ought to be up in every set."
"I did dance. But I like to look on. The figures are so graceful, and the music is bewitching."
"It seems unnatural for one of your age to be merely a spectator. How lovely Eugene and Mrs. Carpenter look together! She is just about your size and dances with theverveof youth, which I admire extremely. Gravity at that age always seems far-fetched, put on as a sort of garment to hide something not quite frank or open, but it never can conceal the fact that it covers thoughts foreign to youth."
Violet wonders if she has been unduly grave this evening. Shehassomething to conceal, a sweet, sacred secret that only one person may inquire into. Will he, some day? He has never yet asked her the lover's question to which it would be so sweet to reply.
"There," exclaims Eugene, sitting down beside her, "I have done my duty. The very next waltz, remember."
The last is in a whisper, and it brings the bright color to her face, brighter because madame's eyes are upon her; but fortunately for her peace, madame is wanted.
"Do you know," says Eugene, "I am very glad you married Floyd, for Idothink it would have ended by his taking her; not that he cared particularly, and the queer thing was that Cecil would not make friends with her; but she is the kind of woman who generally gets everything she tries for. And I do believe she envies you your home and your husband."
"Oh!" cries Violet, much abashed, "do not say so. It seems to me there is nothing that she can envy or desire."
"Don't believe the half of that, little innocent! Oh, listen, this measure is perfection! Come."
She rises, for she cannot endure sitting here and discussing madame, and they all take so much for granted between her and Mr. Grandon.
The waltz is lovely out here in the summer moonlight. She forgets her discomfort in it, and is very happy; but when it ends she feels that her duty is done, that she would like to go home, and mentions her desire to Eugene.
"Why, yes, if you like," he answers. "If it had not been for you the whole thing would have bored me intolerably. Floyd may thank his stars for an excuse to keep away."
They make their adieus to host and hostess. Marcia tosses her head with a curt farewell.
But it has been a success. Doubtless many of the guests came from curiosity; but Mrs. Wilmarth is delighted to have had what would have been an enormous crush inside, and much elated to have it praised on every hand.
"But what idiots Violet and Eugene made of themselves," she says, in the privacy of her own room, when all is quiet and the old orchard is left to the weird dancing shadows of the moonlight, while the insect voices of the night keep up an accompaniment.
"Did they? I thought he was unusually modest and chary of his numerous graces," returns Jasper Wilmarth, with his usual sneer, which is nearly always lost upon Marcia, who has settled it as belonging to his way and not meaning anything.
"That is just what I complain of. They walked round or sat under trees like a couple of spooning lovers. I believe they did waltz once; and Violet did nothing but dance the night of her ball."
"I wonder," Jasper Wilmarth says, slowly, "if Eugene does not, or will not regret giving up the St. Vincent fortune."
"Giving up the fortune!" Marcia turns straight around, with a resemblance to Medusa, since her short, uneven hair stands out every way with the vigorous use of her magnetic brush. "How could he have had the St. Vincent fortune?"
Wilmarth is surprised. Is it possible that Marcia does not know? Have these two men kept the secret from the family?
"Why of course you are aware that it was offered to Eugene!" he answers, composedly.
"No, I am not," she replies, shortly. "Was it to marry Violet?"
He nods. "Yes, she seemed to go begging for a husband. I had the chance first, but I really fancied she was not more than fourteen or so, and I must wait for her to grow up. But St. Vincent was in a hurry, for I suppose he knew his days were numbered, and when Eugene declined—well, no doubt he offered her and her fortune to your brother Floyd, who was more shrewd than either of us."
Marcia drops in an easy-chair, quite astounded. It is true, the secret has been kept from her. Eugene had the grace to swear Laura and madame to secrecy; and Marcia not being at home when Mrs. Grandon became possessor of it, a little fear of Floyd kept her from confiding it to this untrustworthy member of the family.
"And you would have married her?" cries Marcia, jealously.
"The fortune might have tempted me. I will not pretend to a higher state of grace than your brother, and you know up to that time you had taken no pains to render yourself attractive to me. See how soon I succumbed."
"You delightful old Vulcan!" And Marcia flies across the room to shower kisses on her husband, convinced that she might have had him long before if she had only smiled upon him.
"What a cheat Floyd was!" she declares, "making believe he fell in love with Violet because she saved Cecil. But—the fortune was not certain?"
"I should have made it certain as well as your brother," says Wilmarth. "But if Eugene repents and falls in love with the pretty little thing, there will be a nice row."
"And it does look like it," declares Marcia, who is delighted to ferret out unorthodox loves. "I mean to watch them."
"Do no such thing," he commands. "Eugene will not be very hard hit, and your brother is quite capable of taking care of his wife. They are like two children, but itisa pity Eugene had not been wiser. If your brother had only waited until Eugene had met Miss St. Vincent. The hurry in this matter always did surprise me a little. But I forbid you ever breathing a word to your brother. You see what a foolish husband I am to trust you with secrets," and he laughs.
"No, you are not foolish. Of course I should never speak of it to Floyd," she says, reflectively. She would never have the courage.
"Well, that is all right," patronizingly. "I dare say the rest know it. It was because you were not in their confidence."
That remark nettles Marcia, and she secretly resolves to find out, as Jasper Wilmarth is quite certain that she will. He has spoken of this with a purpose, not simply in foolish marital confidence. He believes Violet Grandon is very much in love with her husband, and he does not care who gives her the stab. It is this adoration that adds fuel to his hatred of Floyd Grandon.