"Let the world roll blindly on,
Give me shadow, give me sun,
And a perfumed day as this is."
It is hardly dawn as yet, and the song of countless robins wakes Floyd
Grandon. How they fling their notes back at one another, with a merry
audacity that makes him smile! Then a strange voice, a burst of higher
melody, a warble nearer, farther, fainter, a "sweet jargoning" among
them all, that lifts his soul in unconscious praise. At first there is
a glimmer of mystery, then he remembers,--it is his boyhood's home.
There were just such songs in Aunt Marcia's time, when he slept up
under the eaves of the steeply peaked roof.
The dawn flutters out, faint opal and gray, then rose and yellow, blue
and a sort of silvery haze. It does not burst into sudden glory, but
dallies in translucent seas, changing, fading, growing brighter, and
lo, the world is burnished with a faint, tender gold. The air is sweet
with dewy grasses, the spice of pines, rose, and honeysuckle, and the
scent of clover-blooms, that hint of midsummer. There is the river,
with its picturesque shores, and purple blue peaks opposite; down
below, almost hidden by the grove, the cluster of homes, in every
variety of beauty, that are considered the _par excellence_ of Grandon
Park. Mrs. Grandon would fain destroy the grove, since she loves to be
seen of her neighbors; but Floyd always forbade it, and his father
would not consent, so it still stands, to his delight.
"If this is the home feeling, so eloquently discoursed upon, it has not
been overrated," he says softly to himself. "Home," with a lingering
inflection.
"Papa! papa!" The fleet bare feet reach him almost as soon as the
ringing voice. "I was afraid you were not here. Is this truly home?"
"Truly home, my darling."
He lifts her in his arms, still in her dainty nightdress, and kisses
the scarlet lips, that laugh now for very gladness.
"Can I stay with you always?"
"Why, yes," in half surprise. "You are the nearest and dearest thing in
all the world." Yes, he is quite sure now that he would rather part
with everything than this baby girl he has known only such a little
while.
Then he stands her on the floor. "Run to Jane and get dressed, and we
will go out on the lawn and see the birds and flowers."
While she is engaged, he gives a brush to his flowing beard and
slightly waving hair that is of a rather light brown, and puts on a
summer coat. A fine-looking man, certainly, with a rather long, oval
face, clearly defined brows, and sharply cut nose and mouth; with a
somewhat imperious expression that gives it character. The eyes are a
deep, soft brown, with curious lights rippling through them like the
tints of an agate. Generally they are tranquil to coldness, so far as
mere emotion is concerned, but many things kindle them into interest,
and occasionally to indignation. Health and a peculiar energy are in
every limb, the energy that sets itself to conquer and is never lost in
mere strife or bustle.
"Papa!"
"Yes, dear."
"You will wait for me?" entreatingly.
He comes to the door with a smile. Jane is brushing the fair, shining
hair that is like a sea of ripples, and Cecil stretches out her hand
with pretty eagerness, as if she shall lose him, after all.
"Suppose I tie it so, and curl it after breakfast," proposes Jane.
"Miss Cecil is so impatient."
"Yes, that will do." It is beautiful, any way, he thinks. Then she
dances around on one foot until her dress is put on, when she gives a
glad bound.
"But your pinafore! American children _do_ wear them," says Jane, in a
rather uncertain tone.
"I am a little English girl," is the firm rejoinder.
"Then of course you must," responds papa.
"And your hat! The sun is shining."
Cecil gives a glad spring then, and almost drags her father down the
wide stairs. A young colored lad is brushing off the porch, but the two
go down on the path that is speckless and as hard as a floor. The lawn
slopes slowly toward the river, broken by a few clumps of shrubbery, a
summer-house covered with vines, and another resembling a pagoda, with
a great copper beech beside it. There are some winding paths, and it
all ends with a stone wall, as the shore is very irregular. There is a
boat-house, and a strip of gravelly beach, now that the tide is out.
Grandon turns and looks toward the house. Yes, it _is_ handsome, grand.
Youth and age together did not make any blunder of it. There is the
tower, that was to be his study and library and place of resort
generally. What crude dreams he had in those days! Science and poesy,
art and history, were all a sad jumble in his brain, and now he has
found his life-work. He hopes that he may make the world a little
wiser, raise some few souls up to the heights he has found so
delightful.
Cecil dances about like a fairy. She is at home amid green fields once
more, for the ocean was to her a dreary desert, and the many strange
faces made her uncomfortable. She is oddly exclusive and delicate, even
chary about herself, but alone with her father she is all childish
abandon.
There is a stir about the house presently, and Grandon begins to
retrace his steps.
"Don't go," entreats Cecil.
"My dear, we must have breakfast. Grandmamma and the aunties will be
waiting."
"Are they going to live there always!" with an indication of the fair
head.
"Yes, some of them."
"And are we going to live there for ever and ever?"
He laughs gayly.
"I hope we will live there to a good old age."
"And madame--must she stay there, too?"
"Madame will stay for a little while. And Cecil must be kind and
pleasant----"
"I can't like her!" interrupts the child, petulantly.
He studies her with some curiosity. Why should the gracious, beautiful
woman be distasteful to her?
"I don't really suppose she will care much," he replies, in a rather
teasing spirit.
"But if she doesn't, why should she want me to kiss her?"
"I do not believe she will ask you again. You must not be rude to any
one. And you must kiss grandmamma or the aunties if they ask you."
Cecil sets her lips firmly, but makes no reply. Grandon wonders
suddenly what charm Aunt Dora possessed, and how people, fathers and
mothers, govern children! It is a rather perplexing problem if they
turn naughty.
They walk back to the great porch, where Mrs. Grandon comes out and
wishes her son a really fond good morning. Cecil submits quietly to a
caress with most unchildlike gravity. Marcia comes flying along; she is
always flying or rustling about, with streamers somewhere, and a very
young-girlish air that looks like affectation at twenty-seven, but she
will do the same at forty-seven. She is barely medium height, fair,
with light hair, which by persistent application she makes almost
golden. It is thin and short, and floats about her head in artistic
confusion. Her eyes are a rather pale blue-gray, and near-sighted, her
features small, her voice has still the untrained, childish sound of
extreme youth. She is effusive and full of enthusiasms, rather
unbalanced, Floyd decides in a day or two.
"Good morning!" exclaims the bright voice of Eugene. "Upon my word, you
make quite an imposing _paterfamilias_, and Cecil, I dare say, has
found the weak place and tyrannizes over you. Come to me, little lady,"
pinching her lovely pink cheek.
But Cecil almost hides behind her father, and is proof against the
blandishments of the handsome young man. He is not quite so tall as
Floyd, but grace, from the splendidly shaped head to the foot worthy of
a woman's second glance. A clear, rich complexion, very dark hair and
eyes, and a mustache that looks as if it was pencilled in jet. Laura
has these darker tints as well. Certainly Mrs. Grandon has no cause to
be dissatisfied with her two youngest on the score of good looks.
Floyd lifts Cecil in his arms and admits that she does not make friends
easily. Then with a change in his tone, "How finely the place has been
kept up! Shall I thank you or mother for it, Eugene? Aunt Marcia's old
farm has arrived at great state and dignity. I have seen few places
abroad that I like better, though much, of course, on a far grander
scale."
"Aunt Marcia 'builded better than she knew.' Grandon Park is the seat
of fashion and taste; isn't that right, Marcia? And Floyd, old fellow,
_you_ are to be envied. I wish _I_ had been eldest born."
Floyd smiles, yet something in the tone jars a trifle. Then the
breakfast-bell rings and they move through the hall just as Madame
Lepelletier sweeps down the stairs like a princess in cream cashmere
and lace. Her radiance is not impaired by daylight. Marcia seems to
shrivel up beside her, and Gertrude looks extremely faded, washed out.
They are all bright and gay. Madame Lepelletier is one of the women who
seldom tolerates dulness or that embarrassing awkwardness that
occasionally settles even in well-bred circles. She is charming and
vivacious, she has resolved that they shall all like her, and though
she is not a particularly generous person, she has discerned how she
may be of use to them and win herself gratitude and friendship. She is
too politic ever to make an enemy, and she keeps her friends so well in
hand that their possible defection shall not injure her, but rather
themselves. Young, handsome, fascinating, and with abundant means for
herself, she has been in no hurry to change her state in life. But
Grandon Park and its owner look as tempting this morning as they did in
her twilight revery last evening.
"What will you do, Floyd?" asks Eugene, presently. "Come up to the
factory, or----"
"Oh," returns Laura, with a kind of merry audacity, blushing a little,
"we shall keep him home this morning."
"Well, I must be off. Business, you see. But I shall hold myself free
for this afternoon if any of you ladies will honor me," bowing to
Madame Lepelletier, who acknowledges it with a ravishing smile that
makes every pulse thrill.
Floyd and his mother have the first confidence. There are the sad
particulars of the death, now more than six months old. The will has
been read, but there is a sealed packet of instruction for Floyd, still
in the lawyer's hands. The business seems to be in a rather involved
state, what with partners and a patent that Mr. Grandon felt sure would
make all their fortunes. The main point relating to Laura is this:
While the mother has a yearly income from the business, the girls are
to be paid five thousand dollars down, and five thousand more at the
expiration of three years. Laura needs hers for present emergencies.
But just now there are notes coming due and no money.
"I can easily arrange that," says Floyd, "by advancing Laura's money.
How odd this should be the first marriage in the family, and Laura the
youngest!"
"You forget your own," remarks his mother, in surprise.
"Why, so I did." And a flush is visible under the bronze. "It is so
like a dream to me, over in one short year."
"And you were very much in love, doubtless? It must have been
terrible!"
"It was a most unexpected death," ignoring the first remark. "She was
so young, a mere child."
Not even to his mother can he express his manhood's views of the whole
occurrence. But he knows that he did not love her deeply, and the
consciousness will always give him a little shock. At the same time he
settles that he is not the kind of man to be swept off his feet by the
passion of love.
Then they call Laura in and Floyd explains the ease with which the
matter can be settled. "I shall pay you and take your claim against the
estate. What kind of a wedding are you to have? You see I must be
posted in these matters, so that I shall do myself honor and credit as
the head of the family."
"Of course it will have to be rather quiet, as we are still in
mourning, and so many of Arthur's family are out of town. He will be up
to lunch to-day: I asked him to meet you. But he thought--early in
July," and she colors a little, smiling, too. "We are to go to Newport,
that is, you know, we really could plan nothing until you came. And,
oh, Floyd, it will be so delightful to have Madame Lepelletier! We have
been talking it over, and she will help me do my shopping. She is just
as good as she is lovely. But if you only could have ordered me some
things in Paris!"
"Why, I never bought any such thing in my life," says Floyd,
laughingly. "But I have some trinkets among my luggage that you may
like, gems and cameos, and some curious bracelets. I did remember that
I had some sisters at home."
"Oh, you are really charming! You cannot imagine how doleful we have
been. Eugene could not do anything about the money, and he has been in
a worry with Mr. Wilmarth and cross if any one said a word."
Floyd laughs at this. The idea of Eugene being cross is amusing.
Laura flits out of the room much elated. She and Arthur can settle
everything to-day, and the shopping will be so delightful, for Madame
Lepelletier is quite as good as a Frenchwoman.
Mrs. Grandon sighs, and Floyd looks at her questioningly.
"You are so good, Floyd. It is such a relief to have you. I only hope
the business will not weary you out, and that--there will be no real
trouble."
He kisses Cecil's little hand that is wandering through his beard, and
presses her closer as she sits quietly on his knee. "I shall think
nothing a trouble," he says. "It is father's trust to me. Come, you
must be gay and happy, and not cloud Laura's wedding with forebodings.
Let us take a tour through the house now. I am quite curious to know if
I have remembered it rightly."
"I wonder if you can find your way. I must look after the luncheon."
"Oh, yes," he replies. "I think there is no labyrinth."
On one side of the hall there is the long drawing-room, and a smaller
apartment that might be a conservatory it is so full of windows, or a
library, but it is a sort of sitting-room at present. Then the tower,
that has a large entrance, and might be the façade, if one pleased. An
oaken stairway winds a little to the room above, which is empty but for
a few chairs and a bamboo settee. Up again to another lovely room, and
then it is crowned by an observatory. From here the prospect is
magnificent. The towns above, that dot the river's edge, and the long
stretch below, are like a panorama. How wonderfully changed! How busy
and thriving this new world is! He thinks of the leagues and leagues he
has traversed where a mill or a factory would be an unknown problem,
and the listless stupor of content is over all. Yet buried in the sand
or under ruins is the history of ages as prosperous, as intellectual,
and as wise. How strange a thing the world of life really is!
Cecil breaks into his thoughts with her tender chatter. She is not an
obtrusive child, and, though bright, has grave moods and strange spells
of thought. She is delighted to be so high up and able to look down
over everything.
They return at length, and he carries her down-stairs. On the second
floor there is a connecting passage to the main house, and two
beautiful rooms that he planned for himself because they were retired.
Feminine belongings are scattered about,--satchels and fans and queer
bottles of perfumery. He guesses rightly that Laura is domiciled here,
and in the adjoining chamber Gertrude lies on the bed with a novel.
"Oh, Floyd!"
"Pardon me."
"Come in," she says, raising herself on one elbow. "I am up here a good
deal, because I like quiet and my health is so wretched. Everybody else
is busy about something, and I bore them, so I keep out of their way."
"You do look poorly," he answers, sympathetically. She is not only
pale, but sallow, and there are hollows in her cheeks. Her hands, which
were once very pretty, are thin as birds' claws. There is a fretful
little crease in her forehead, and her eyes have a look of utter
weariness.
"Yes, I am never strong. I cannot bear excitement. Marcia's life would
exhaust me in a month, and Laura's fuss would drive me crazy. Have they
said anything about her marriage?"
"It is all settled, or will be when her lover comes to-day. Do you like
him, Gertrude?"
"He is well enough, I suppose, and rich. You couldn't imagine Laura
marrying a poor man."
Floyd Grandon is not at all sure that he understands the hidden or
manifest purposes of love, but he has a secret clinging to the orthodox
belief that it is a necessary ingredient in marriages.
"You are cynical," he says, with a pleasant laugh. "You do not have
enough fresh air."
"But I see Laura." Then, after a pause, "Do not imagine I have the
slightest objection. There will be only two of us left, and it does
seem as if Marcia might pick up some one. Floyd----"
"Well," as she makes a long pause.
"Do you know anything about the business? Eugene is so--so
unsatisfactory. Where is Laura going to get her money?"
"I shall attend to that. Gertrude, what has been said about affairs
that makes you all so desponding?"
Floyd Grandon asks a question as if he expected an answer. Gertrude
gives a little twist to her long, slender figure, and pushes one
shoulder forward.
"Well, there has been no money, and Eugene cannot get any. And all you
hear about is notes to pay."
The house certainly does not look as if there was any lack. The table
is bountiful, and he has seen four servants, he is quite sure.
"My not being here has delayed the settlement, no doubt," he answers,
cheerfully. "It will all come right."
"You quite put courage into one. I suppose you always feel well and
strong; you have grown handsome, Floyd, and there is nothing to make
you desponding."
"Yes, I am always well. Do you stay in-doors all the time and read? You
must have a change, something to stir your nerves and brain, and infuse
a new spirit in you."
"I am too weak for exercise. Even carriage-riding tires me dreadfully.
And my nerves cannot bear the least thing. I dread this wedding and all
the tumult, only it will be excellent to have it finished up and off
one's mind." Then she sighs and turns to her book again.
"We are on a tour of discovery," says Floyd, rather gayly, as he moves
forward. "The house seems quite new to me, and extremely interesting."
She makes no effort to detain him. They turn into the hall, and a voice
from above calls Floyd.
"Oh, are you up here, Marcia?" beginning to ascend.
"Yes. Here is my eyrie, my den, my study, or whatever name fits it
best. I have a fancy for being high up. Nothing disturbs me. I have
never been able, though, to decide which I really liked best, this or
the tower. Only here I have three connecting rooms. Cecil, you little
darling, come and kiss me! Floyd, I must paint that heavenly child! I
have been doing a little at portraits. I want to take some lessons as
soon as the ships come in. I hope you have brought fair weather,
and--is it a high tide that floats the barque in successfully?"
She utters all this in a breath, and makes a dash at Cecil, who buries
her face in her father's coat-sleeve.
"Cecil's kisses do not seem to be very plentiful," he remarks. "But how
quaint and pretty you are up here!"
The sleeping chamber is done up in white, gold, and blue, and in very
tolerable order. This middle room is characteristic. The floor is of
hard wood and oiled, and rugs of every description are scattered about.
Easels with and without pictures, studies, paintings in oil and
water-colors, bric-à-brac of every shape and kind, from pretty to ugly,
a cabinet, some book-shelves, a wide, tempting lounge in faded raw
silk, with immense, loose cushions, two tables full of litter, and
several lounging chairs. Evidently Marcia is not of the severe order.
The third room really beggars description. An easel stands before the
window, with a pretentious canvas on which a winding river has made its
appearance, but the dry land has not yet emerged from chaos.
"You paint"--he begins, when she interrupts,--
"And now that you have come, Floyd, you can give me some advice. I
was such a young idiot when I ran over Europe, but you have done it
leisurely. Did you devote much time to French art? I can't decide which
to make a specialty. The French are certainly better teachers, but why,
then, do so many go to Rome? It is my dream." And she clasps her hands
in a melodramatic manner.
"What have you been doing?" he asks, as she pauses for breath.
"I took up those things first," nodding to some flower pieces. "But
every school-girl paints them."
"These are exceedingly well done," he says, examining them closely.
"There is nothing distinctive about them. Who remembers a rose or a
bunch of field flowers? Half a dozen women have honorable mention and
one cannot be told from the other. But a landscape or a story or a
striking portrait,--you really must let me try Cecil," glancing at her
with rapture. "Oh, there is an article here in the _Art Journal_ on
which you must give me an opinion." And flying up, she begins a
confusing search. "It is so good to find a kindred soul----"
A light tap at the door breaks up the call. It is Jane, who with a true
English courtesy says,--
"If you please, Mr. Grandon, Miss Laura sent me to say that Mr. Delancy
has come."
Floyd has been so amused with Marcia that he goes rather reluctantly,
and finds his sister's betrothed in the drawing-room, quite at home
with Madame Lepelletier, though possibly a little dazzled. Arthur
Delancy is a blond young man of five or six and twenty, well looking,
well dressed, and up in all the usages of "the best society." He greets
Mr. Grandon with just the right shade of deference as the elder and a
sort of guardian to his _financé_. He pays his respects to Miss Cecil
with an air that completely satisfies the little lady, it has the
distance about it so congenial to her.
"Floyd," Laura says, with a laugh, "that child is intensely English.
She has the 'insular pride' we hear so much about."
"And English hair and complexion," continues Mr. Delancy; while madame
adds her graceful little meed.
A very pleasant general conversation ensues, followed by an elegant
luncheon, to which Eugene adds a measure of gayety. Afterward the two
gentlemen discuss business, and with several references to Laura the
bridal day is appointed six weeks hence. The marriage they decide will
be in church, and a wedding breakfast at home, quiet, with only a few
friends and relatives, and after a week in Canada they will go to
Newport.
"But how can I ever get ready?" cries Laura in dismay to madame. "Why,
I haven't anything! I shall actually wear you out with questions and
decisions. Oh, do you realize that you are a perfect godsend?" and she
kisses her enthusiastically.
"Yes," says Madame Lepelletier, so softly and sweetly that it is like a
breath of musical accord. "I will settle myself in the city and you
must come to me----"
"In the city!" interrupts Laura, with both dismay and incredulity in
her tone. "My dearest dear, you will not be allowed to leave Grandon
Park, except with myself for keeper, to return as soon as may be."
"But I cannot trespass on your hospitality."
"Mamma, Floyd, will you come and invite Madame Lepelletier to make a
two months' visit? I want her for six full weeks, and then she must
have a little rest."
They overrule all her delicate scruples, though Mrs. Grandon does it
rather against her will. Is it bringing temptation to Floyd's hand,
that perhaps might not reach out otherwise!
That is settled. Floyd's boxes and trunks make their appearance, Eugene
orders the horses, and the four go to drive on this magnificent
afternoon.
"I think," Floyd says to his mother when the sound of wheels has
subsided, "this luggage may as well go to the tower room. I wish----"
Will he not seem ungracious to declare his preferences so soon?
"What?" she asks, a little nervously.
"It would make too much fuss at this crisis to change rooms with the
girls, I suppose?"
"Let Laura take the larger front room? She did have it until we heard
you were coming. Oh, she wouldn't mind. But you----"
"I should be out of the way there by myself," he pleads. "All my traps
would be handy, and if I wanted to sit up at night I should disturb no
one."
"It shall be just as you like. Yes, it would be more convenient for
you. Why, we could go at it this very afternoon."
"But Gertrude----"
"Give Gertrude a book and she would sit in the débris of Mount
Vesuvius," says her mother.
Mary, the housemaid, is called upon, and cook generously offers her
services. Gertrude comes down-stairs grumbling a little. The two rooms
are speedily dismantled of feminine belongings, but the quaint old
mahogany bedroom suite is taken over because Floyd prefers it to the
light ash with its fancy adornments. James, the coachman, and Briggs,
the young lad, carry up the luggage. There is a little sweeping and
dusting, and Floyd settles his rooms as he has often settled a tent or
a cabin or a cottage. He has grown to be as handy as a woman.
He feels more at home over here, not so much like a guest. His room is
not so large, but he has all the tower and the wide prospect on both
sides. He can read and smoke and sit up at his pleasure without
disturbing a soul. The "girls" and the wedding finery will all be
together.
"Laura will be delighted," declares Mrs. Grandon again. In her secret
heart she feels this arrangement will take Floyd a little out of
madame's reach. Beside the tower there is a back stairway leading to a
side entrance, quite convenient to Eugene's room. It is admirable
altogether.
Floyd begins to unpack with hearty energy. Only the most necessary
articles, the rest will keep till a day of leisure. To-morrow he must
look into the business, and he hopes he will not find matters very
troublesome. He has a good deal of his own work to do, and he sighs a
little, wishing the wedding were well over.
Laura leaves her lover at the station, and is not a whit disconcerted
by the change in affairs.
She and Madame Lepelletier are going to the city to-morrow to spend
several days in shopping, and this evening they must devote to a
discussion of apparel. They scarcely miss Floyd, who goes to bed at
last with the utmost satisfaction.