There is a ripe season for everything: if you slip that, or anticipate
it, you dim the grace of the matter.--BISHOP HACKETT.
A rather curious lull falls in factory affairs. Mr. Wilmarth is gone
almost a fortnight. Floyd makes the acquaintance of the superintendent,
and finds him an intelligent man, but rather opposed to the new system
of machinery.
"We were making money before," he says. "I like to let well alone, but
Mr. Grandon, your father, was wonderfully taken with St. Vincent's
ideas. They're good enough, but no better than the old. We gain here,
and lose there. Of course if it was all as St. Vincent represents,
there would be a fortune in it,--carpet weaving would be revolutionized.
But I am afraid there is some mistake."
Mr. Lindmeyer comes up and spends two days watching the working. He is
very much impressed with some of the ideas. If _he_ could see Mr. St.
Vincent.
Mr. St. Vincent is ill, but expects to be sufficiently recovered to
return soon.
All these matters occupy a good deal of Floyd Grandon's time. Cecil
learns to do without him and allow herself to be amused by Jane and
Auntie Gertrude, who is her favorite. Marcia teases her by well-meant
but very injudicious attention. Guests and friends come and go, wedding
gifts begin to be sent in, and that absorbing air of half-mystery
pervades every place.
They have all come to adore Madame Lepelletier. Even Mrs. Grandon is
slowly admitting to herself that Floyd could not do better, and half
resigns herself to the inevitable second place. Laura takes up the idea
with the utmost enthusiasm. Gertrude does not share in this general
worship; she is too listless, and there is a feeling of being distanced
so very far that it is uncomfortable.
Strange to say, with all her irresistible tenderness she has not won
Cecil. She feels curiously jealous of this little rival, who, wrapped
in a shawl, often falls asleep on her father's knee in the evening. He
always takes her to drive, whoever else goes; and it comes to be a
matter of course that Cecil has the sole right to him when he is in the
house and not writing.
There has been so much summer planning. Laura wants madame to come to
Newport for a month, and partly extorts a promise from Floyd that he
will give her at least a week. Marcia's "hermits" come up to talk over
Maine and the Adirondacks and Lake George, and finally settle upon the
latter. Their nearest neighbors, the Brades, own a cottage in the
vicinity, and beg Mrs. Grandon and madame and Eugene to bestow upon
them a week or two. Miss Lucia Brade is extremely sweet upon Eugene,
who thrives upon admiration, but has a fancy for laying his own at
madame's feet.
"Why did you not escort that pretty Miss Brade home?" she says one
evening, when Lucia has been sent in the carriage.
"Why? because my charm was here," he answers audaciously, imprinting a
kiss upon her fair hand.
"You foolish boy. And I am too tired to remain. I should be dull
company unless you want to walk."
There is the wandering scent of a cigar in the shrubbery, and they may
meet Floyd, who has absented himself since dinner.
Eugene goes for her shawl and they take a little ramble. He is very
averse to finding his brother, and madame tires even of the gentle
promenade.
But the next morning her star is surely in the ascendant. Cecil sleeps
late. Floyd is down on the porch, reading and smoking, when the flutter
of a diaphanous robe, with billowy laces, attracts his eyes and he
smiles an invitation.
"Shall I intrude?" The voice is soft, with a half-entreaty almost as
beguiling as Cecil's.
"Indeed, no." There is something wistful in her face, and he gives a
graceful invitation with his hand to a seat beside him. She is so
royally beautiful this morning, with her fresh, clear skin, the
rose-tint on her cheek, her deep, dewy eyes, that still have a
slumbrous light in them, the exquisite turn of the throat, and the
alluring smile.
"Do you know," she begins, in the seductive tone to which one can but
choose to listen,--"do you know that if you had not the burden of Atlas
upon your shoulders, I should feel tempted to add just a very little to
a smaller burthen."
"My shoulders are broad, you see," and he laughs with an unusual
lightness. Somehow he feels happy this morning, as if it was to be a
fortunate day. "You have been so kind to Laura, that if we could do
anything in return----"
"Oh, women take naturally to weddings, you know! And Laura is such a
sweet girl, but so young! I seem ages older. And, shall I come to the
point,--I want to establish myself. I cannot always be accepting the
hospitality of my dearest friends, and I have a longing for a home. You
see American ways have spoiled me already." And she raises her deep,
languorous eyes.
"A home?"
"Yes." She laughs a little now. "And I need some sort of banking
arrangement, as well as security for valuable papers. I am quite a
stranger, you know, and have no relatives."
"Well, you must take us," he answers, in a frank way. "You do not mean
a home quite by yourself?"
"Why not? I am tired of hotels and rooms. I want a pretty place, with
some congenial friend, where I can call together choice spirits,
musical, literary, and artistic, where I can be gay or quiet, read the
livelong day if I like." And she smiles again, with an enchanting
grace. "I suppose New York would be better for winter. I should have
dear Laura to commence with, and not feel quite so lonely. You see,
now, I really do want to be anchored to some sort of steadfastness, to
do something with my life and my means, even if it is only making a
pretty and congenial place in the world where some tired wayfarer may
come in and rest. We are so prodigal in youth," and she sighs with
seductive regret, while her beautiful eyes droop; "we scatter or throw
away the pearls offered us, and later we are glad to go over the way
and gather them up, if haply no other traveller has been before us."
He is thinking,--not of the past, as she hopes,--but of her gifts for
making an elegant home. His sisters seem crude and untrained beside
her. He can imagine such a lovely place with her in the centre, the Old
World refinement grafted on the new vigor and earnest purpose.
"Yes," he answers, rousing himself. She sees the effort, and allows a
thrill to speed along her pulses. "But--there is no haste, surely? You
would not want to go to the city until cool weather. I hope to be there
a good deal myself this winter. I have some plans,--if I can ever get
this business off my mind."
There is a curious little exultation in her heart now, but her moods
and features are well trained. Her face is full of sympathy as she
raises her beguiling eyes.
"It is a difficult place to fill, to give satisfaction," she says, "and
you are so new to business. As I remember, you did not like it in the
old days."
"No." He gives a short laugh. "And, thinking of myself, I find more
excuse for Eugene's distaste. Yet if I were to let it go, the family
fortunes would go with it, and I might justly be blamed. I must keep it
for the year, at all events."
"Is it--very bad?" she asks, timidly.
"I cannot seem to get any true understanding of the case. When Mr. St.
Vincent comes back we shall go at it in real earnest. And, in any
event, your portion shall be made safe."
"Oh, do not think of that, it is such a mere trifle! I supposed mamma
had drawn it all out until I looked over her papers. Then I had a
notice of the settlement, but I should have come home in any event.
I had grown tired of Europe, very tired. I dare say you think me
_ennuied_, whimsical."
"Indeed, I do not," warmly. "Home is to a woman what the setting is to
a diamond. And though the advice of such a rambler may not be worth
much, still, whatever I can do----"
He pauses and his eye rests upon her, takes in her exceeding beauty,
grace, and repose; the admirable fitness for every little exigency that
society training gives. She seems a part of the morning picture, and
akin to the fresh, odorous air, the soft yet glowing sun, the rippling
river, the changeful melody of flitting birds. He is fresh now, not
vexed and nervous with the cares of the day; he has been reading an old
poet, too, which has softened him.
An oriole perches on the tree near him and begins an enchanting song.
Both turn, and she leans over the railing, still in range of his eyes.
He remembers like a sudden flash that they were here years ago,
planning, dreaming, hoping, she his promised wife. Does it stir his
soul? Was that merely a young man's fancy for a pretty girl, engendered
by friendly companionship? She glances up so quickly that he flushes
and is half ashamed of speculating upon her.
"It is delightful! Ah, I do not wonder you love this morning hour, when
beauty reigns supreme, before the toil and moil of the world has begun.
It stirs one's heart to worship. And yet we, senseless creatures, dance
through starry midnights in hot rooms, and waste such heavenly hours in
stupid slumber. Do you wonder that I am tired of it all?"
"Papa, papa!" Cecil comes dancing like a sprite of the morning, and
clasping his hand, springs upon his knee, burying her face in his
beard, her soft lips sweet with kisses. Then as if remembering, turns,
says, "Good morning, madame," with a grave inclination of the head, and
nestles down on his lap. Madame could strangle her, but she smiles
sweetly, and speaks with subtle tenderness in which there is a touch of
longing. Floyd wonders again how it is that Cecil is blind to all this
attraction.
Then the conversation drops to commonplaces, and the breakfast-bell
rings. There is so much to do. To-morrow is the wedding morning, and
the guests will begin to come to-day. Floyd will give up one of his
rooms and take Cecil. Eugene is in his glory, and is really much more
master of ceremonies than Floyd can be. There is nothing but flurry and
excitement, but madame keeps cool as an angel. Mrs. Vandervoort and
Mrs. Latimer, the bridegroom's sisters, both elegant society women, do
not in the least shine her down, and are completely captivated by her.
"Of course she must come to Newport, Laura," says Mrs. Vandervoort.
"She is trained to enjoy just such society. And next winter she will be
the social success of the city. I delight in American belles," says
this patriotic woman, who has been at nearly every court in Europe, and
can still appreciate her own countrywomen, "but they do need judicious
foreign training."
The wedding morning dawns auspiciously. The house is sweet with
flowers. Gertrude is roused from her apathy, and looks an interesting
invalid. Marcia is airy and childish, Madame Lepelletier simply
magnificent, and the bride extremely handsome in dead white silk and
tulle, with clusters of natural rosebuds.
Floyd gives the bride away, and, much moved, breathes a prayer for her
happiness. The vows are said; they come home to an elegant wedding
breakfast, managed by colored waiters who know their business
perfectly. There are some friendly, informal neighborhood calls, and
all is very gay and bright. Eugene, Marcia, and the Brades are going up
the river with them; Mr. and Mrs. Delancy will travel leisurely through
Canada and come down to Newport to be Mrs. Vandervoort's guests for the
remainder of the summer. Madame Lepelletier has some business to
settle, and will rejoin them as soon as possible.
There is very great confusion afterwards, but by dusk matters get
pretty well settled in their olden channel. Madame declares it an
extremely pretty wedding, and praises Laura's self-command, which,
after all, was largely compounded of perfect satisfaction.
And now there will be a lull, and it shall go hard indeed if Madame
Lepelletier cannot use some charm to draw this indifferent man towards
her. She is beginning to hate the child who always rivals her; but
certainly she can circumvent the little thing when she has all her time
to herself and can use her eyes for her own advantage.
It seems odd to have such a small, quiet breakfast-table, to see his
mother in her black gown again, and Gertrude's morning dress tied with
black ribbons. They all talk rather languidly, when an interruption
occurs. Briggs brings in a note for Mr. Grandon.
"An old woman brought it," he announces, "and she is waiting outside
for an answer. She would not come in."
Floyd remarks that it is unsealed. Its contents are brief, but written
in a fine, irregular hand.
"_Will Mr. Grandon come at once to Mr. St. Vincent, who is ill in
bed?_"
* * * * *
Grandon rises suddenly and goes out. On the wide step of the porch sits
the old housekeeper, but she glances up with dark, bright eyes.
"You will come?" she begins, eagerly.
"Yes. When did Mr. St. Vincent return?"
"Last night. He is very ill." Her wrinkled lips quiver and she picks
nervously at her shawl. "They came to New York, but the journey was too
much. He has been there two days with no one but the child, my poor
ma'm'selle."
"Yes. I shall be glad enough to see him. Wait a moment," as she rises.
"I shall drive over immediately, and it will save you a long walk."
"Oh, no, sir. I can walk."
"You will wait," he says. "Briggs, order the buggy at once. Jane," as
the girl comes out on the porch, "take good care of Miss Cecil to-day.
Do not let her annoy any one, for everybody is tired." Then he goes in
and makes a brief explanation, kisses Cecil, and is off to the waiting
vehicle, into which he hands the old woman with the politeness he would
show to a queen.
Madame Lepelletier is extremely annoyed. She has counted on a long,
idle morning. She has papers for him to overlook, plans to discuss, and
now she must spend the time alone.
"Is Mr. St. Vincent's complaint serious?" Floyd asks of the quaint
figure beside him.
A tremor runs over her and the bright eyes fill with tears. "It is his
heart," she says, with her formal pronunciation. "It has been bad a
long, long while, but never like this. You see he never rested here,"
tapping her forehead. "Day and night, day and night, always working and
studying, and letting his bouillon and tea get cold, and forgetting
all. I made the house bright and cheerful for ma'm'selle, and I thought
he might be happy, a little more at rest; but oh, kind Heaven! it is
not the rest I hoped."
Grandon is quite shocked. St. Vincent's death may complicate matters
still more. Then he checks his own selfish thought.
"Can I drive in?" he asks.
"Oh, yes, there is a little stable. Master meant to get ma'm'selle a
pony. Poor girl!"
They both alight. Floyd fastens the horse and follows his guide.
"Monsieur will please walk up stairs,--this way."
The hall is small, square, and dark. He treads upon a rich Smyrna rug
that is like velvet. The stairs are winding and of some dark wood. A
door stands open and she waves him thither with her hand. In this very
room he has watched a student working. Here was the table, as if it had
only been left yesterday.
He hears voices in the adjoining room and presently the door opens. The
furniture is dark and antique, brightened by a few rugs and one glowing
picture of sunset that seems to irradiate the whole apartment. The
occupant of the bed appears almost in a sitting position, propped up by
pillows, marble pale, and thin to attenuation. One wasted hand lies
over the spread, handsome enough for a woman, and not showing the
thinness as much as the face. The eyes are deeply sunken, but with a
feverish brightness.
"Mr. Grandon, I thank you most kindly for your quick response. Sit down
here.--Now you can leave us, Denise. I shall want nothing but my
drops."
"I am afraid you are hardly able----"
"Mr. Grandon, when a man's life comes to be told off by days, he must
do his work quickly, not daring to count on any future. I had
hoped--but we must to business. Come nearer. Sit there in the light.
No, you are not much like your father, and yet totally unlike your
brother. I think I can trust you. I must, for there is nothing left,
nothing!"
"You can trust me," Floyd Grandon says, in a tone that at once
establishes confidence.
"And one could trust your father to the uttermost. If he had but
lived!"
"No one regrets that more bitterly than I, and I thank you for the
kindly praise."
"A good man, a just man. And now he has left all to you, and it is a
strange, tangled mass. I meant to help, but alas, I shall soon be
beyond help." And the brow knits itself in anxious lines, while the
eyes question with a vague fear.
"If you could explain a little of the trouble. I am no mechanic, and
yet I have dabbled into scientific matters. But you are too ill."
A spasm passes over his face, leaving it blue and pinched, and St.
Vincent makes a gasp for breath.
"No. I shall never be better. Do not be alarmed, that was only a
trifle. You have seen Wilmarth, and he has told you; but the thing is
_not_ a failure, it cannot be! There were some slight miscalculations
which I have remedied. If I could find some one to whom I could explain
my plans----"
"I know a man. I have had him at the factory and he would be glad to
see you. He does not quite understand, but he believes it can be made a
success. Wilmarth seems doubtful and strange in some ways----"
"He is working against me,--no need to tell me that! But why?" And the
eager eyes study Grandon painfully. "There is some plan in the man's
brain. He came to Canada. Do you know what for?"
Grandon looks up in surprise.
"I was amazed. The man may have a better heart or more faith than I
credit him with. He was so different in your father's time. It is as if
some project or temptation had seized him." Then, after a pause, "He
asked my daughter in marriage."
"I thought she was--a child," says Grandon, in amaze.
"So she is. In my country, Mr. Grandon, they manage their daughters
differently; not always better, perhaps, but they do not leave them
unprotected to the world, to beg their bit of bread, maybe. I have put
everything in my invention. It is her dowry."
"And he wished to be the sole master of it?"
"Exactly. She saw him once." And a bitter smile wreaths the deathly
face.
"And she does not like him! How could any woman?" Floyd Grandon gives a
shiver of disgust.
"I have not told her. Yet a man cannot leave a young girl to make a
tiger's fight with the world! She, poor lamb, would soon be rent in
pieces."
"Leave her to my care," says Floyd Grandon. "I have a mother and
sisters, and a little girl of my own whom I love as my life. Let me
take her and do the best I can with her fortune."
"You are very kind. There is one other way. Is your brother at home?"
"He went away yesterday." Floyd almost guesses at what will follow.
"I have a proposal to make. Let him marry my daughter. You are head of
the house now, and have the welfare of your family at heart. She is
sweet, accomplished, pretty. He will listen to you, and you see it will
be to his interest. You can fight Wilmarth then; you will have the best
in your own hands."
Floyd Grandon sits in stupid amaze. It might be for Eugene's interest,
but the young man would never consent. And a mere business marriage
without love--no, he cannot approve.
"This surprises you, no doubt. When I reached New York I was very ill
again. I made the physician tell me the truth. I cannot live a month; I
may die any day, but it would be horrible to leave my child to battle
with poverty, unsuccess. If he was to make a fortune he might go into
it with a better heart, you know. And your brother is so young. He
would be good to her. Not that I fancy Jasper Wilmarth could be cruel
to a pretty young girl who would bring him a fortune."
Floyd Grandon rises and begins to pace the floor. Then he stops as
suddenly. "Pardon me, I annoy you, but----"
"You think it all strange. It is not your way of doing things. When I
saw the young girl I made my wife, I had no word for her delicate ear
until her parents had consented and betrothed her. And I loved her--God
only knows how dearly. She died in my arms, loath to go. But your young
people, they love to-day and marry with no consultation, they quarrel
and are divorced. Is it any better?"
"No," Floyd Grandon answers honestly. "But--I do not know my brother's
views----"
"You will write to him. You will explain. Your father, it is said, left
all things in your hands. He had confidence, trust. I trust you as
well."
"I will do the best I can, and we may find some other way if this
fails."
"And you spoke of some person----"
"My lawyer found a young man, a foreigner, Lindmeyer by name. He seems
very ingenious. If you will let me bring him?"
"I shall be most glad."
Even as he speaks he throws up his arms with a sudden gasp and motions
to the bell. Denise answers the summons. Her master has fainted, and
after some moments she restores him.
"I have talked too long," exclaims Grandon, remorsefully.
"No. Some one must know all this before I can die at peace. Find your
man and bring him here. And if you should see Wilmarth, do not mention
that I have returned. I must have some quiet. Thank you again for
coming. And may I hope to see you to-morrow?"
"Yes," answers Floyd, taking the feeble hand. Then he turns to the
door, bids the old housekeeper good day, and finds his way out alone,
with a strange feeling, as if he were taking a part in a play, almost a
tragedy.
He drives straight to Connery and learns that Lindmeyer's address is
New York. He will not wait for a letter to reach him, and just pausing
at the stable to take in Briggs, goes at once to the station.
It is a long, bothersome quest. The young man does not come home at
noon, so he waits awhile and then sets off in search of him, making two
calls just after he has left the places, but at last success crowns his
efforts. But Lindmeyer cannot come up the next day. There is an expert
trial of some machinery for which he is engaged at ten. It may take two
or three hours, it may hold him all day.
"Come back with me, then," says Floyd. "You can go over a little this
evening, and keep it in your mind, then you can return when you are
through. I want the matter settled, and the man's life hangs on a mere
thread."
Lindmeyer consents, and they travel up together. The day is at its
close as they reach the little nest on the cliffs, but Denise gives
Grandon a more than friendly welcome.
"He is better," she says. "He will be so glad. Go right up to him."
He does not look better, but his voice is stronger. "And I had such a
nice sleep this afternoon," he says. "I feel quite like a new being,
and able to entertain your friend. How good you are to a dying man, Mr.
Grandon."
Quite in the evening Floyd leaves them together and returns home. Cecil
has cried herself to sleep in the vain effort to keep awake. Madame
Lepelletier assumes her most beguiling smile, and counts on an hour or
two, but he excuses himself briefly. The letter to Eugene must be
written this evening, though he knows as well what the result will be
as if he held the answer in his hand.
A little later he lights a cigar and muses over the young girl whose
fate has thus strangely been placed in his hands. He is not anxious to
marry her to Eugene; but, oh, the horrible sacrifice of such a man as
Wilmarth! No, it shall not be.