CHAPTER XIII.
For two enemies the world is too small, for two friends a needle's eye is large enough.—Bulwer.
The brothers spend nearly all of the next morning in the factory. Floyd has left his substitute with the professor, and sent Cecil to ride, so that she shall not distract Violet's attention. He tries to explain to Eugene all that he has done, the money he has advanced, and the future that seems possible. "It will be a long pull," he says, "but when you get through, the result will be a handsome business. Three years ought to do it."
"Three years," Eugene repeats, with a sigh.
For a moment Floyd is provoked. Does Eugene never expect to put his shoulder to the wheel, to take any real care? Must he fight the matter through for them all? But then, there is Violet.
"I shall expect you to take some part of the business, Eugene, and keep to it. Wilmarth is admirable in his department. He is getting out new patterns, and now that he is really convinced of success he will no doubt throw all his energies into it. Will you keep the books and look after the correspondence? I have so much work of my own to do, and we must economize all we can."
"Well," indolently, "don't expect too much of me."
"How would you like to travel, then?" asks Floyd. "Father, I find, did a good deal himself."
"The travelling would be jolly, but I may as well be honest. I've no knack of selling."
"Then begin at the books," returns the elder, decisively. "You ought to be able to do a man's work somewhere."
"When I made such a blunder about the fortune, eh?" he says, with a half-smile. "Were you really caught, Floyd?"
Floyd Grandon is sorely tempted to knock down this handsome, insolent fellow, even if he is a brother. Oh, if he never had offered Violet to him!
"What I wrote first," he says, "was at her father's desire. Then she did for me a favor of such magnitude that my whole life will not be long enough to repay, but honor led me to be fair to you, or I never should have written a second time. Remember that she is my chosen wife, and forget all the rest."
There is something in the tone that awes the young man, though long afterward he recalls the fact that Floyd did not say he loved her. But he is sobered a little and promises to make himself useful. Floyd has no faith in him or his word. What a heavy burthen it all is!
Laura comes up again, and is all excitement. They are staying at a hotel and Madame Lepelletier is with them, but she is going into her house in a few days, and the Delancys hardly know whether to board or to have a home of their own. There are her beautiful wedding gifts, and there is the pleasure of giving dinners and teas! She discusses it with her mother and Marcia. Eugene, whose advice is not asked, says, "Have a house of your own by all means. Nothing is so independent as a king in his castle."
Violet does not grow any nearer to her new relatives, excepting Gertrude, who has a latent, flabby sense of justice that rouses her now and then when the talk runs too high. There seems to be a grievance all around. If Floyd married her for her fortune, then it is a most shamefully mercenary piece of business; if he married her for a mistress to his home, madame would have been so much more admirable every way, especially now that Floyd is likely to become an attractive and notable member of society.
"Everybody wants to see him," declares Laura, much aggrieved. "Mr. Latimer was talking yesterday. I think they will give him a dinner. And this house ought to be a sort of headquarters,—made really celebrated, you know. I like a good supper and a German, but itisthe fashion to be literary. Everybody travels and writes a book, and just now all these queer old things have come around. I don't care a penny how long the world has stood or what people did two thousand years ago; my good time isnow, but we must keep in the stream. I count myself a very fortunate girl. I can have all that is best in fashion through Mrs. Vandervoort, and all that is intellectual through Mrs. Latimer, so you see I come in for both. Then if Floyd had married Madame Lepelletier, there would have been another set here. But that little dowdy, who doesn't even know how to dress decently! Common respect ought to teach her about mourning!"
"Her trousseau ought to be right; it was made by Madame Vauban," interposes Gertrude.
"Madame Vauban! Never!" ejaculates Laura, in quite a dramatic tone.
"But I tell you it was! And Floyd had all the ordering, I dare say. He isn't fond of mourning."
"And the paying, too," sneers Laura.
"Well, she has the cottage, and if Floyd is going to make such a fortune for her, hecouldpay himself back, granting he did spendhismoney, which I very much doubt."
"The fortune is yet to be made," retorts Laura, with a superior air. "There may never be any.Wemay not ever getourown."
"Then," says Gertrude, poising her weapon steadily, "he boughtyourwedding clothes as well."
"He ismybrother. I should look well asking Arthur to pay such bills."
"Do let them alone," exclaims Gertrude, angrily. "You married to please yourself, and so did he."
"Ifhe did. I only hope there may be enough in it to keep him pleased. The marriage is utterly incongruous every way."
Gertrude relapses into silence and her book. Why can they not be peaceable and let each other alone? It was so pleasant before they all came home.
Marcia soon nurses up a grievance. Why is a mere child like Violet to be allowed to spend hours with this wonderful professor, pretending to translate or copy, while she, who has actually translated poems for publication, is kept outside of the charmed circle? How delightful it would be to say, "My dear, I am so busy translating with Prof. Freilgrath for his new book that I have not a moment for calls." She does not cordially like the professor. He has very little appreciation of art,herart, and when one evening she took great pains to explain an ambitious scheme, he said, "O Miss Marcia, such a thing would be quite impossible! You would want years of thorough training before you could attempt it. I should advise something less arduous and better suited to a young lady's desultory pursuits. You have no idea of intense study."
"Floyd," she says, one morning, "why cannot I help with copying or translating? I should be glad to do something."
"Oh," he answers, carelessly, "Violet is able to do all, and satisfies the professor perfectly."
The professor has come to feel the flurry of unrest in the air. These ladies of fashion cannot understand he is here now to work, not to be entertained.
"Mrs. Grandon," he says, one afternoon, as Violet folds the notes she has been making and puts them in their place,—she is so orderly and exact it is a pleasure to watch her,—"Mrs. Grandon, I have been thinking of a plan, and your husband allows me to consult you. I should like to take your cottage for the autumn. It is so charmingly situated, so quiet, and your old housekeeper is a treasure. The ground floor would be sufficient, and nothing would need be disturbed. Some time I might ask up a friend or two, and you could come over; the exercise would be beneficial. You grow quite too pale with so much work."
"Why, yes," replies Violet, with a rift of pleasure. She would like having him there, and it would be pleasant for Denise to prepare meals and keep house regularly. And the change for her, the absolute getting away from this unfriendly atmosphere. "You may have it, certainly."
"Thank you. Can you go over and make arrangements? We both need a little exercise, and we have been beautifully industrious. I do not know what I should do without your swift fingers. Will I order the carriage?"
As Violet is dressing herself, an uncomfortable wonder enters her mind. She hears a good deal of talk about propriety, and she does not know whether she ought to do this alone. Even Cecil is out with Jane. She must ask Denise, but alas, she cannot get at her now. Gertrude is kind to her, and she might—
Violet runs down stairs and relates her perplexity.
"Of course you can," says Gertrude. "Married women go anywhere."
"But if you only would!" beseechingly. "And you have never seen the cottage. Oh, please do!" And she kneels down, taking the nerveless hands in hers.
Gertrude considers. She hates to be disturbed, but her book is unusually stupid, and Violet's eager, winsome face is irresistible. How can they say she is not pretty? And if there is the slightest question they will find no end of fault. She groans.
"I know it is asking a good deal, but it would make me so happy, so comfortable."
"And you are such a dear little thing!"
"Do you really think so? Oh, if you could care about me," and the entreaty in the voice touches the heart of the elder as nothing has in a long while.
"I will go," returns Gertrude, with unwonted decision. "I will be quick about changing my dress. There is the carriage."
Gertrude is not much improved by her mourning. She looks less deathly and washed out in the soft white gowns, but there is a languid grace about her that, after all, moves the professor's sympathy. "It is a better face than the other one," he thinks; "not so silly and self-sufficient." He is ever entertaining, unless deeply preoccupied, and now he addresses most of his conversation to her, and is friendly solicitous about her comfort and her health. "There are such delightful baths in Germany. Is there nothing like them in America?" he asks.
"They are really so," Gertrude answers. "We were in Germany once, when my health first began to break."
"In Germany?" With that he brightens up and questions her, and Violet is pleased that she answers with interest. She so pities poor Gertrude, with her broken-off love story, and she helps the conversation with now and then a trenchant bit of her own that does not lead it away. She is so generous in this respect. She has not come to the time of life when one wishes to amass, or is it that she has not seen anything she covets?
The professor is satisfied with every room. If they can put in a bed he will sleep here, and take this for his workroom. The parlor is still left for the entertainment of guests. Here is a porch and a rather steep flight of steps, where he can run up and down when he wants a whiff of the cool river breeze or a stroll along the shore. Violet explains to Denise that Prof. Freilgrath will want some meals. "You know all about those odd foreign soups and dishes," she says, with her pretty air. "And I shall come over every day to write or to read. You can't think what a business woman I have become."
Denise raises her eyebrows a little. "And Mr. Grandon?" she asks.
"Oh, I expect he will never want to come back home! Denise, wouldn't it be lovely if we lived here, with Cecil? I wish he might want to," in her incoherent eagerness. "It will be another home to us, you see, where I shall feel quite free. Why, I could even come in the kitchen and cook a dish!"
With that she laughs delightedly, her sweet young face in a glow.
The visitors go up-stairs to see the prospect, which is lovely from the upper windows. "This is—this was papa's room," correcting herself. She does not think of him any more as in the grave, but in that other wonderful country with the one he loves so dearly.
"Denise," she says, one day, shocking the old woman, "why should I wear black clothes when papa is so happy? It is almost as if he had gone to Europe to meet mamma. Sometimes I long to have him back, then it seems as if I envied her, when she only had him three years, so long ago. Why should any one be miserable if I went to them both?"
"You talk wildly, child," answers Denise, quite at loss for an argument.
But now, when they come down, Denise has a cup of tea, some delicious bread and butter, cream cheese that she can make to perfection, and a dish of peaches. Violet is as surprised as they, and rejoices to play hostess. They are in the midst of this impromptu picnic when Grandon looks in the doorway, and laughs with the light heart of a boy.
"I was coming to talk with Denise," he says.
"I have made my bargain," the professor answers, in a tone of elation. "It is delightful. I shall be so charmed that I shall lose the zest of the traveller and become a hermit. I shall invite my friends to royal feasts."
Violet has poured a cup of tea and motions to Floyd, who comes to sit beside her. She is so alluring in her youth and freshness that he sometimes wishes there was no marriage tie between them, and they could begin over again.
"Whatever happened to you, Gertrude?" he asks. "I am amazed that tea-drinking has such a tempting power."
"The fraulein is to come often," says Freilgrath, lapsing into his native idiom. "It has done her good already; her eyes have brightened. She stays within doors too much."
Gertrude's wan face flushes delicately.
When they reach home the dinner-bell rings, and they all feel like truants who have been out feasting on forbidden fruit.
The next day the professor moves, but he promises to come down every evening. Marcia is intensely surprised, and Mrs. Grandon rather displeased. It is some plot of Violet's she is quite sure, especially as Floyd takes his wife over nearly every day. Curiously enough Gertrude rouses herself to accompany them frequently. They shall not find unnecessary fault with Violet. Denise enjoys it all wonderfully, and when the professor sits out on the kitchen porch and smokes, her cup of happiness is full.
Then he goes to the city for several days. There is the club reception to the noted traveller, and though Laura would enjoy a German much more, she does not care to miss this. Madame Lepelletier is invited also, but she is arranging her house and getting settled, and this evening has a convenient headache. There are several reasons why she does not care to go, although she is planning to make herself one of the stars for the coming winter.
She has had occasion to write two or three business notes to Floyd Grandon since she said farewell to him, and they have been models in their way. In his first reply, almost at the end, he had said, "Laura, I suppose, has informed you of my marriage. It was rather an unexpected step, and would not have occurred so suddenly but for Mr. St. Vincent's fatal illness."
In her next note she spoke of it in the same grave manner, hoping he would find it for his happiness, and since then no reference has been made to it. From Laura she has heard all the family dissatisfactions and numberless descriptions of Violet. From Eugene she has learned that Miss Violet was offered to him, and there is no doubt in her mind but that she was forced upon Floyd. She cannot forgive him for his reticence those last few days, but her patience is infinite. The wheel of fate revolves, happily; it can never remain at one event, but must go on to the next. The Ascotts' house is a perfect godsend to her, and her intimacy with Mrs. Latimer a wise dispensation. They are all charmed with her; it could not be otherwise, since she is a perfect product of society. She hires her servants and arranges her house, which is certainly a model of taste and beauty, but she wishes to give it her own individuality.
Mrs. Grandon has written to invite her up to the park, and Laura has begged her to accompany her and see the idiotic thing Floyd has made his wife. She is gratified to know they had all thought of her and feel disappointed, but she means they shall all come to her first, and this is why she will not meet Floyd Grandon at his friend's reception. There is another cause of offence in the fact that through a two months' acquaintance he should never have mentioned his own aims and plans and achievements. If she could only have guessed this! She is mortified at her own lack of discernment.
Laura is in the next morning. Madame has chosen a gown that throws a pallid shade over her complexion, and she has just the right degree of languor.
"Oh," she declares, "you have come to make me wretched, I see it in your blooming, triumphant face! You had a positively grand evening with all yoursavantsand people of culture. Is your German a real lion in society, or only in his native wilds?"
"Well, I think he is a real lion," with a fashionable amount of hesitation. "You positively do look ill, you darling, and I was not at all sure about the headache last night."
"Did you suppose—why, I could have sent an excuse if I had not wanted to go," and madame opens her eyes with a tint of amaze. "Everybody else was there, of course. Did your brother bring his wife? A reception is not a party."
"He had better taste than that, my dear. He would not even bring Marcia, though she was dying to come. It was for the verycrême, you know. I'm not frantically in love with such things, only the name of having gone. Do you know that Floyd is rather of the leonine order? Isn't it abominable that he should have made such a social blunder? The only comfort is, she is or ought to be in deep mourning, and cannot go out anywhere. Why, we gave up all invitations last winter."
"I wonder, Laura dear, if I would dare ask a favor of your mother? It might be a little rest and change, and yet—I am just selfish enough to consider my own pleasure; I should like to invite her down for a fortnight, and give two or three little spreads, don't you young people call them? You see I am not quite up in slang. A dinner and one or two little teas, and an at home evening, something to say to people that I am really here, though there have been several cards left, and Imustget well for Thursday. How stupid to indulge in such an inane freak when I have uninterruptedly good health."
"Oh, I am sure mamma would be delighted! Why, it is lovely in you to think of it, instead of taking in some poky old companion."
"I am not very fond of companions. I like visitors best. I dare say I am fickle. And I want some one able to correct any foreign ignorance that may linger about me."
"As if you did not know you were perfect and altogether charming, and that your little foreign airs and graces are the things we all fall down and worship!" laughs Laura. "I could almost find it in my heart to wish I were a dowager."
"You can come without the added dignity of years. I have a motherly interest in you. If you were not married I dare say I should 'ransack the ages' for some one fit and proper, and turn into a match-maker."
"You had better take Marcia in hand; I think of doing it myself. Gert is past hope."
"Marcia is not so bad," says madame, reflectively, "if only she would not set up for a genius. It is the great fault of young American women. Abroad everything is done, even studying music, under an assumed name, but one does not go on the stage."
"Marcia is a fool," says Laura, with most unsisterly decision.
"Well, about your mother. You think I may write. I trespassed upon your hospitality so long——"
"Oh, whatever should I have done without you! And there is another funny thing," says Laura irrelevantly. "Mrs. Floyd has taken up literature. She copies and translates and does no end of work for the professor; and he has hired her cottage, where they all do some Bohemianish housekeeping, I believe."
Madame raises her delicate eyebrows a trifle. "She must be well trained, then," she makes answer. "She may do admirably for your brother, after all."
"Hem!" retorts Laura, "what does a little writing amount to? Only itisqueer."
Madame never indulges in any strictures on the new wife, rather she treats the matter as an untoward accident to be made the best of; she is not so short-sighted as to show the slightest malice.
Then she takes Laura back to the reception and is interested in hearing who was there and what was done, who was a bore, who is worth inviting, and so on, until Laura finds she has stayed unconscionably. After her visitor is gone she writes the daintiest of epistles, quite as a loving daughter might. She means to sap all the outer fortifications; she even considers if it will not be wise to invite Marcia some time.
To say that Mrs. Grandon is delighted is a weak word. Nothing has ever so taken her by storm since Laura's engagement. She carries the letter to Floyd. Had madame foreseen this?
"Of course you will go." His eyes are on the letter, where every stroke of the pen, every turn of the sentence, are so delicate. The faint perfume, which is of no decided scent, touches him, too; he has never known any one quite so perfect in all the accessories, quite so harmonious.
"How can I?" she says, fretfully. "There is no one to look after the house."
Floyd laughs at that.
"I should suppose the servants might be trusted, and surely Marcia knows enough to order a meal. You do need a holiday. Come, just think you can go. I shall be in the city a good deal the next month, and as Freilgrath has a domicile of his own—yes, you must answer this immediately."
She has a few other flimsy objections, but Floyd demolishes everything, and almost threatens to write for her. There is no reason why they should not all be good friends, even if he has married another person; and he has a real desire to see Madame Lepelletier. He wants to smooth out some little roughnesses that rather annoy him when he thinks of them.
So Mrs. Grandon writes that Floyd will bring her down at the required date. Then madame has not miscalculated.
She goes to a reception at the Vandervoorts', to a charming tea at the Latimers'. People are talking about Freilgrath and Mr. Grandon, and some new discoveries, as well as the general improvement in science and literature. There is an "air" about the "house Latimer" very charming, very refined, and madame fits into it like the frontispiece to a book, without which it would not be quite perfect. "What an extremely fascinating woman!" is the general comment.
Mrs. Grandon has been flurried and worried up to the last moment. She is afraid her gowns arepassé, that she looks old for her years, and that her prestige as Mrs. James Grandon is over forever. But the instant she steps into the hall at madame's the nervousness falls away like an uncomfortable wrap. The air is warm and fragrant, but not close, the aspect of everything is lovely, cosey, restful. A figure in soft array comes floating down the stairs.
"I am delighted," madame says, in the most seductive tone of welcome. Then she holds out her hand to Floyd; looks at the waiter, and orders the trunk to be taken up stairs. "I was afraid you would repent at the last moment, or that something untoward might happen," she continues. "Will you sit down a moment," to Floyd, "and excuse us, just for the briefest space?"
She waves him to the nearest of the suite of rooms with her slender hand, and escorts Mrs. Grandon up to her chamber adjoining her own, and begins to take off her wraps as a daughter might, as Mrs. Grandon's daughters never have done. The attention is so delicate and graceful.
Floyd meanwhile marches around the room in an idle man fashion. It is in itself a fascination, perhaps not altogether of her choosing, but the fact of her taking it at all presupposes her being in some degree pleased. The art was all there, doubtless, but madame has left her impress as well in the little added touches, the vase where no one expected it, the flowers that suggested themselves, played a kind of hide-and-seek game with you through their fragrance, the picture at a seductive angle of light, the social grouping of the chairs, the tables with their open portfolios. He half wishes some one could do this for the great house up at the park, give it the air of grace and interest and human life.
Madame Lepelletier comes down in the midst of these musings, alone. They might have parted yesterday, the best and most commonplace friends, for anything in her face. He has an uneasy feeling, as if an explanation was due, and yet he knows explanations are often blunders.
"It was very kind of you to think of taking mother out of her petty daily round," he says. "Let me thank you!"
"Oh!" she answers, "do not compel me to apologize for a bit of selfish motive at the bottom. And I am glad to see you. You are in the list of those who achieve greatness, I believe," with a most fascinating smile.
"Or have it fall upon them as a shadow from some other source! I am not quite sure of my own prowess. That will be when I attempt something alone."
"I was so sorry not to meet your friend the other evening, though I hope it is only a pleasure deferred. Do you feel at home in your native land? Was it not a little strange after all these years?"
"I could hardly feel strange after the cordial greeting," he says. "It was delightful; I am sorry you missed it. Will you allow me to present my friend, Prof. Freilgrath, to you?"
"If you will be so kind after my apparent incivility. You know I am so generally well that it seems any excuse on the point of health must be a——"
"You shall not use harsh terms," and he smiles. She is the beautiful, brilliant incarnation of health, a picture good to look upon. He cannot but study her, as he has times before. The splendor of her dark eyes falls softly upon him, her breath comes and goes in waves that would sweep over a less abundant vitality, but it is the food on which she thrives, like some wonderful tropical blossom.
"Then I am pardoned," she replies. "Now, when will you bring him? Shall I make a little feast and ask in the neighbors, shall I swell out into a grand dinner, or, let me see—covers for four while your mother is here? You shall choose."
"Then I will choose the covers for four," he replies, to her satisfaction.
"The time also. You know your engagements best. Will you stay and take luncheon with us? I have ordered it immediately, for Mrs. Grandon ought to have some refreshment."
Her tone is gently persuasive. Grandon studies his watch,—he has just an hour on his hands.
"Thank you; I will remain." Then, after a pause, "I am really glad of the opportunity. I have been so much engaged that I fear I have behaved badly to my friends. You know we always think we can apologize to them," and he indulges in a grave little smile. "Circumstances prevented my half-promised trip to Newport."
If she would only make some reference to his marriage, but she sits with her face full of interest, silent and handsome.
"We had to have new help in the factory. I knew so little about it that I was full of fears and anxieties, and all the family inheritance was at stake. But I think now we will be able to pull through without any loss, and if itisa success it will be a profitable one. I have been taking up some claims against the estate, and yours may as well be settled. It is my intention to get everything in proper order to turn over to Eugene as soon as circumstances will allow."
"My claim is so small," and she smiles with charming indifference, "it is quite absurd to distress yourself about it. You are likely to succeed in your new undertaking, Laura tells me. Why, we shall hold you in high esteem as a remarkable genius. Men of letters seldom have a mind for the machinery of business or life."
"My father died at a most unfortunate time for the family, it would seem, and his all was involved in this new experiment. There have been months of bad management, or none at all," with one of the grim smiles that often point a sentence. "My position is one of extreme perplexity, yet I shall endeavor to fulfil my father's hopes and wishes."
"You are very generous. Not every son would place his own aims second."
"I am not doing that," he interrupts, hastily; "I really could not if I would. You must not make me seem heroic, for there is very little of that about me. It is trying to combine the two that makes the severity of the task, but my friend is a host in himself. To him really belongs the credit of our work; still, I have at length discovered that the bent of my mind is toward letters and science, and in another year I hope to do something by myself."
"It is hard to be immersed in family cares at the same time," she answers, with the most fascinating sympathy in her eyes. "Our idea of such men is in the study and the world that they charm with their patient research. I have read of women who wrote poetry and made bread, but certainly both, to be excellent, need an undivided attention. The delicate sense of the poesy and the proper heat of the oven seem naturally to conflict."
He smiles at her conceit, but he has found it sadly true. There is a touch of confident faith in her voice that is delicately encouraging. He has had no sympathy for so long until the professor came, for it would be simply foolish to expect it of his own household, who are not even certain that they can confide in his sense of justice. He has bidden adieu to the old friends and scenes, and is not quite fitted to the new, hence the jarring.
A silvery-toned gong sounds for luncheon. Madame goes to meet her guest and escorts her on the one side, while her son is on the other. It is a charming and deferential attention, and Mrs. Grandon rises in her own estimation, while the dreadful sacrifice her son has made looms dark by contrast.
Afterward, going down the street, Floyd remembers with a twinge of shame that Violet has not once been mentioned. It was his remissness, of course. He could not expect madame to discuss his marriage as one of the ordinary events of life, but he wishes now that he had taken the honorable step. If he only understood the turns and tricks of fashionable life. He has been in wilds and deserts so long, that he has a curious nervous dread of blunders or those inopportune explanations he has occasionally witnessed.
CHAPTER XIV.
To be wise is the first part of happiness.—Antigone.
They are excellently served and complete order reigns at the great house, yet Mrs. Grandon is missed, in ways not altogether complimentary if one put it into words. Marcia delights in playing at mistress. She asks in some of her neighbors to dinner, but Violet, excusing herself, goes over to the cottage. Floyd is not at home to be consulted, and she does not wish to blunder or to annoy him. She wins Marcia's favor to a certain extent, but her favor is the most unreliable gift of the gods. She has no mind of her own, but is continually picking up ready-made characteristics of her neighbors and trying them on as one would a bonnet, and with about the same success. While the rest of her small world is painfully aware of her inconsistency, she prides herself upon a wide range of mental acquirements. She generously allows Violet to try driving Dolly, who is as gentle as a lamb.
Violet draws some delicious breaths, when she feels quite like a bird, but she does not know that it is freedom. She hardly misses Mr. Grandon, who seems to be up at the factory or down to the city nearly all the time. The piano stands open, daring innovation, and she plays for hours, to Cecil's entrancement, and inducts her in the steps of a fascinating little dance. Cecil is growing quite wild and wilful at times, but she is always charming.
They all go up to the cottage one day to a lunch of Denise's preparing. While Gertrude rests, Marcia insists upon visiting the place where Cecil was rescued.
"You dear, brave child!" she cries, kissing Violet with rapture, "I don't wonder Floyd fell in love with you on the spot! If you could only pose just that way to me, and I could paint it! What a picture it would be for exhibition!"
Violet flushes warmly, but by this time she shares the family distrust of Marcia's splendid endeavors.
"Oh," Cecil whispers, clinging tightly to her hand and shuddering with awe, "if I had fallen down over all those jagged rocks! I shall always, always love you dearly; papa said I must."
How like a dream that far-off day appears!
There is a bit of wood fire burning on the hearth when they return, for Violet remembers that Gertrude is always cold. The table is simple and yet exquisite. Marcia is crazed with the china and some silver spoons that date to antiquity or the first silversmiths.
"If I had money," she begins, when her appetite is a little sated,—"if I had money I should have a house of my own, kept just to my fancy, with an old French servant like Denise, only"—glancing around—"it must be severely artistic. It is so hard that women cannot make fortunes!" with a long sigh.
"I should enjoy one made for me quite as well," rejoins Gertrude, who is always annoyed by Marcia's assumptions of or longings for manhood.
"What a lucky girl you are, or will be if Floyd's plans come out right," and Marcia nods to Violet. "Only I should hate all that wretched waiting!"
"How long must I wait?" There is a lurking smile in Violet's brown eyes.
"How long?—don'tyouknow?" accenting the words with surprise. "Why this is quite a mystery. I have heard of heiresses being kept in the dark for evil purposes," and Marcia gives her head an airy toss. "Have you never seen your father's will? Until you are twenty-five—but I shouldn't feel at all obliged to Floyd for tying it up so securely. I dare say he could have persuaded your father differently!"
Violet colors with a curious sense of displeasure. Gertrude gives a warning look, and for fear of that failing in its mission, touches Marcia's foot under the table.
"I suppose he—they both did what they thought best," Violet says, hurt somehow at the signal and a consciousness of some secrecy.
"Oh, of course, of course! Men always do take their own way; they think they are so much wiser than women, selfish beings!" exclaims Marcia, on another tack. Gertrude bestirs herself to make a diversion, but a latent wonder lingers in Violet's mind. She does not really care about any knowledge being kept away from her, and she has known all along that she was something of an heiress. Did not Mr. Grandon admit that when they talked about the trousseau? A sense of mystery comes up about her like a thick, gray mist, and she shivers. She cannot tell why, but the joy of the day is over.
When they reach home there is company for Marcia, two especial guests, that she takes up to her sanctum, and is seen no more until the dinner-bell summons her. Eugene is in an uncomfortable mood and teases Cecil. Violet seems always a little afraid of this handsome young man, who has a way of making inscrutable remarks. Her music is melancholy this evening, and Cecil is difficult to please, so she is glad when bedtime comes and with it arésuméof the times of the wonderful Haroun al Raschid. But when Cecil falls asleep an intense feeling of loneliness seizes her. It seems as if she was somewhere in a wide desert waste.
Mr. Grandon is to spend the night in the city. She wonders where he is! There was the reception to the professor, there was a grand dinner for gentlemen only, at the house of some famous person, there has been business. She would like to imagine the scene for her own interest. How strange, she thinks, to sit three or four hours over a dinner, and yet, if the professor talked, she could listen forever. Does Mr. Grandon ever talk in that manner? A fine thrill speeds along her nerves, a sort of pride in him, a secret joy that he is hers.
Oh, it is only nine o'clock! Violet tries to interest herself in a novel, but it is stupid work. There are voices down-stairs and she catches Marcia's inane little laugh. They never ask her down, because she is in deep mourning, and Gertrude has kindly told her that people do not go in society for at least six months when they have lost a near relative. She has been married only two months, and it has seemed as long as any other six months in her whole life.
Then she wonders why the marriages of books are so different from the marriages of real life. There was Linda Radford, one of her schoolmates, who went away last year to be married to an Englishman and live at Montreal. Linda had a fortune, and the gentleman was a distant cousin. They had always been engaged. Linda had written two letters afterward, about her handsome house and elegant clothes. Then little Jeanne Davray had a lover come from France, who married her in the convent chapel and took her away. Once she wrote back to Sister Catharine. There was a bright, wilful girl, a Protestant, placed in the convent, who ran away with a married man and shocked the small community so much that the mention of her name was forbidden. Right here are Laura and Mr. Delancy, who are not story-book lovers, either. Oh, which is true? She hides a blushing longing face on Cecil's pillow, and sighs softly, secretly, for what she has not. Denise would call it a sin, for she thinks every word and act of Mr. Grandon's exactly right. Then, somehow,shemust be wrong. Are the books and poems all wrong? She prays to be kept from all sin, not to desire or covet what may not be meant for her. Oh, what a long, long evening!
Floyd Grandon is a guest at Madame Lepelletier's table. There are three rooms, divided by silken portières, which are now partially swung aside. The lamps in the other rooms are burning low, there is a sweet, faint perfume, a lovely suggestiveness, a background fit for a picture, and this cosey apartment, hung with shimmering silk, and lighted from a cluster of intense, velvety tropical flowers, soften the glare and add curious tints of their own, suggestive of sunlight through a garden. It is not the dining-room proper. Madame has ways quite different from other people, surprises, delicate, delicious, and dares to defy fashion when she chooses, though most people would consider her a scrupulous observer. The four would not be half so effective in the large apartment. There is a handful of fire in the low grate, and the windows are open to temper the air through the silken curtains. Mrs. Grandon is looking her best, a handsome, middle-aged woman. Madame Lepelletier is in an exquisite shade of bluish velvet that brings out every line and tint in a sumptuous manner. The square-cut corsage and elbow sleeves are trimmed with almost priceless ivory-tinted lace; and except the solitaire diamonds in her ears, she wears no jewels. There are two or three yellow rose-buds low down in her shining black hair, and two half hidden in the lace on her bosom. The skirt of her dress is long and plain, and makes crested billows about her as she sits there.
The dinner is over, and it was perfect; the dessert has been taken out, the wine, fruit, and nuts remain; the waiter is dismissed, the chairs are pushed back just to a degree of informality and comfort, and they have reached that crowning delight, an after-dinner chat.
Madame has been posting herself on antiquities and discoveries. There seems nothing particularly new about her knowledge; she is at home in it, and in no haste to air it; she keeps pace with them in a leisurely way, as if not straying out of her usual course. Floyd Grandon feels conscience-smitten that he once believed her wholly immersed in wedding-clothes and fashions. What a remarkable, many-sided woman she is! a perfect queen ofallsociety, and an admirable one at that. Everything she says is fresh and crisp, and her little jest well told and well chosen. The professor beams and smiles, though he is no great lady's man. She might be abon camarade, so free is she from the airy little nothings of society that puzzle scholarly men. There is something charming, too, in the way Mrs. Grandon is made one of the circle,—a part of them, not merely an outside propriety. Every moment she grudges that fascinating woman for her son; she is almost jealous when the professor listens with such rapt deference and admiration. That Floyd's own unwisdom should have placed the bar between himself and this magnificent woman is almost more than she can endure.
He has dropped in one morning and accompanied them to amatinée. A foreign friend has sent madame tickets, and he had an hour or two on his hands while waiting for proofs. In all these interviews Violet's name has not been mentioned. His marriage is a matter of course, he is not sailing under any false colors, he has made no protestations of friendship, still he has an uneasy feeling. If Violet only could go into society, yet he knows intuitively the two women never could be friends, though he has no great faith in the friendship of women for women; it is seldom the sort of a stand-up affair for all time that pins a man's faith to another. He wonders, too, what Violet is doing. How she would enjoy these lovely rooms! She could not sit at the head of a table a queen, but then she is young yet. Madame was not perfection at seventeen, and he strongly suspects that he was a prig. Could he take Violet to amatinée? If there was someone he dared ask.
It is midnight when the two men walk home to their hotel. Grandon feels as if he has taken too much wine, though he is always extremely moderate.
"She is perfection!" declares the professor, enthusiastically. "You have many charming women, but I have seen none as superb as she. There is an atmosphere of courts about her, and so well informed, so delicate with her knowledge, not thrusting it at you with a shout. You have given me the greatest of pleasure. If I were not an old tramp, with a knapsack on my shoulder, I do not know what would happen! I might be the fly in the flame!"
Floyd laughs amusedly. There is about as much danger of Freilgrath falling in love with her as there is of himself. Would he have, he wonders, if other events had not crowded in and almost taken the right of choice from him? It would not have been a bad match if Cecil had loved her, and shedoeslove Violet. His heart gives a great throb as he thinks of the two in each other's arms, sleeping sweetly. All the passion of his soul is still centred in Cecil.
Yet he feels a trifle curious about himself. Is he stock or stone? He has known of strong men being swept from their moorings when duty, honor, and all that was most sacred held them elsewhere; nay, he has even seen them throw away the world and consider it well lost for a woman's love. If he should never see madame again he would not grieve deeply, but being here he will see her often, and there is no danger.
By some curious cross-light of mental retrospect he also knows that if Violet were the beloved wife of any other man—the large-hearted professor, for instance—he could see her daily without one covetous pang. He likes her very, very much, she is dear to him, but he is not in love, and he rather exults in being so cool-headed. Is it anything but a wild dream, soon burned out to ashes?
Madame Lepelletier, in the solitude of her room, studies her superb figure, with its rich and affluent lines. No mere beauty of pink cheeks, dimples, of seventeen, can compare with it, and she understands the art of keeping it fresh and perfect for some years to come at least. Floyd Grandon is just beginning a career that will delight and satisfy him beyond anything he dreams of to-night. He is not in love with his wife; he did not want her fortune, there were others already made at hand. A foolish pity, the remnant of youth, moved him, and some day he will look back in amazement at his folly. But all the same he has put a slight upon her preference, shown to him, but not in any wise confessed. She has no silly sentiment, neither would she cloud her position for a prince of the blood royal, or what is saying more, for the man shecouldlove, but society has devious turns and varying latitudes. One need not run squarely against the small fences it puts up, to gain satisfaction.
Prof. Freilgrath comes up home with his friend the next morning. There are some dates to verify, some designs to decide upon, but he will not remain to luncheon. Grandon steps out to greet Denise, when the opposite door opens, and two quaint laughing figures appear. Violet is wrapped in her shepherd's plaid, the corner twisted into a bewitching hood and surmounted by a cluster of black ribbon bows. She holds Cecil by the hand, who looks a veritable Red Ridinghood, tempting enough to ensnare any wolf. Both are bright and vivid, and have a fresh, blown-about look that walking in the wind invariably imparts. Cecil springs into his arms, and still holding her he bends to kiss Violet.
"You have not walked up?" he asks, in surprise.
"It was not very far, and it is such a lovely, glowing morning," Violet says, with a touch of deprecation.
"We ran," cries Cecil, with her exuberant spirits in her tone. "We ran races, and I beat! And we played a wolf was coming. Mamma has seen real wolves in Canada. But if we had a pony carriage,—because Aunt Marcia is stingy sometimes——"
"O Cecil!" interposes Violet, in distress.
"Would you like one, Violet? You could soon learn to drive," and he glances into her deep, dewy eyes, her face that is a glow of delight.
"Marcia has been very kind, and has let me drive Dolly a little. I should not be afraid, and it would be so delightful."
"You quite deserve it, I have to leave you so much to entertain yourselves. Now rest a little and I will walk back with you."
The professor comes out. "They will stay for lunch, good Denise," he announces, quite peremptorily. "Good morning, Mrs. Grandon; good morning, little one! We have been sadly dissipated fellows, going around on what you call 'larks,' and you ought to scold us both."
"I don't know why!" she rejoins, with a bright smile. She is suddenly very happy; it tingles along every nerve.
"What a pretty—hood, do you call it?" says Grandon, rather awkwardly, trying to unfasten Violet's wrap.
"And the little one is a picture!" adds the professor, glancing from one to the other.
"Mamma made mine," cries Cecil. "She had one when she was a little girl, and her papa brought it from Paris."
Grandon laughs. They go to look at the designs, and Violet makes business-like little comments that surprise them both. She is so eager to have the book done, to see it in proper shape with her own eyes. "I shall really feel famous," she declares, with a pretty air of consequence, archly assumed.
The lunch is delightful, and Violet confesses that yesterday they all entered with felonious intent, and did eat and drink, and surreptitiously waste and destroy.
"You didn't get Gertrude here?" asks Floyd. "What magic did you use?"
"And Denise made such a lovely fire for her," says Cecil. "She wasn't a bit cold. I wish we could live here, it is so little and nice."
That seems to amuse the professor greatly. He feeds Cecil grapes, and plans how it shall be. Grandon, too, seems in unusual spirits; and presently they have an enchanting walk home. The October day is gorgeous, and they find some chestnuts. The pony carriage is talked over again, and Floyd promises to look it up immediately.
That evening at dinner Marcia says, suddenly, "Did you and the professor dine with madame last night? Mother's letter came this morning, in which she spoke of expecting you. Of course madame looked like a queen in