For I have given you here a thread of mine own life.--SHAKESPEARE.
Floyd Grandon leans back in the carriage and opens Eugene's letter.
"What idiotic stuff have you in your head? Do you think me a baby in
leading-strings, or a fool? You may work at that invention until the
day of doom, and have fifty experts, and I'll back Wilmarth against you
all. He has been trying it for the last six months, and he's shrewd,
long-headed, something of a genius himself, and he says it never can
succeed, that is, to make money. I am not in the market for matrimonial
speculations, thank you, they are rather too Frenchy and quite too
great a risk where the fortune is not sure. To think of tying one's
self to a little fool brought up in a convent! No, no, no! There, you
have my answer. The whole thing may go to the everlasting smash first!"
Grandon folds it very deliberately and puts it in his pocket. The other
notes are not important; he merely glances them over. Will Eugene
relent when he receives the second appeal? He is not _quite_ sure. But
he has done a brother's full duty, and he is honestly sorry that he has
failed.
Coming round the walk he sees Cecil in the hammock, and Violet is
telling her a fairy story. The doll lies on her arm, and her eyes are
half closed. It is such a lovely picture of content, home happiness,
that he hates to break in upon it.
"Oh, here is your papa!" cries Violet, who seems to have felt the
approach rather than seen it.
"O papa!" There is a long, delightsome kiss, then Cecil sits up
straight, her face full of momentous import. "Papa," she says, "why
can't we come here to live? I like it so much better than at
grandmamma's house. Miss Violet tells prettier stories than Jane, and
Denise is so good to me. She made me a little pie."
Violet gives an embarrassed laugh. "I really have not been putting
treason into her head," she says, and then she retreats ignominiously
to the kitchen.
Denise comes forward with an anxious face.
"The master wishes to see you. Mr. Wilmarth has been here," she adds.
Grandon goes up to the sick-room. Mr. St. Vincent is in a high state of
excitement. Mr. Wilmarth has renewed his offer of marriage; nay,
strongly insisted upon it, and hinted at some mysterious power that
could work much harm if he chose to go out of the business.
"If your friend could have stayed until we were quite certain," St.
Vincent says, weakly. "I am so torn and distracted! My poor, poor
child! Have you heard from your brother?"
"I shall hear on Monday," Grandon replies, evasively.
"And if I cannot live until then?" The eyes are wild, eager; the
complexion is of a gray pallor.
"Whatever happens, I will care for Violet," the visitor says, solemnly.
"Trust her to me. She saved my little child yesterday, and I owe her a
large debt of gratitude. I will be a father to her."
"Mr. Grandon, you are still too young, and--how did she save your
child?" he asks, suddenly.
Grandon repeats the rescue, and if he makes Violet more of a heroine
than madame would approve, it is a pardonable sin.
"My brave little girl! My brave little girl!" he exclaims, with
tremulous delight. Then the eyes of the two men meet in a long glance.
A wordless question is asked, a subtile understanding is vouchsafed.
Floyd Grandon is amazed, and a curious thrill speeds through every
pulse. He is too young for any fatherly relation, and yet--
"It is but fair to wait until Monday," he replies, with a strange
hesitation. "And you must calm yourself."
"But nothing is done," St. Vincent cries, with gasping eagerness. "I
have lain here dreaming, hoping. I never shall be any better! It is
coming with a swift pace, and my darling will be left alone; my sweet,
innocent Violet, who knows nothing of the world, who has not an aunt or
cousin, no one but poor old Denise."
"Trust to me, command me as you would a son," says the firm, reassuring
voice. "And, oh, I beseech you, calm yourself! It will all be well with
her."
A change passes over the face. The hands are stretched out, there is a
gasp; is he really dying? Denise is summoned.
"Oh, my poor master! Mr. Grandon, that man must not see him again! He
will kill him! It was so when he came to Canada. He wants all that my
poor master has, and the child, but it is like putting her in the
clutch of a tiger!"
"Do not think of it, Denise; it will never be," and a shudder of
disgust runs over him.
They bring Mr. St. Vincent back to consciousness, but he lies
motionless, with his eyes half closed.
"Was there much talking?" Floyd asks.
"He seemed to get very angry." Then she comes nearer and says in a
whisper, "He is no true friend to you, if he is fair to your face. He
said that in six months you would ruin everything, and there would not
be a penny left for Miss Violet. He spoke ill of your brother. I am not
one to carry tales or make trouble, but----" And she wipes her furrowed
face.
"I understand."
They sit and watch him, Grandon holding the feeble wrist. It will not
be safe to leave him alone to-night, to leave _them_. There is a duty
here he cannot evade.
"I will take my little girl home," he says, presently, "and then I will
come back and remain all night. Was the doctor here to-day?"
"Yes. He seemed better then. He was better until--You are a very good
friend," she goes on, abruptly. "It is a trusty face--an honest
voice----"
"You _can_ trust me," he says, much moved. He goes softly down the
stairs, and with a few words to Cecil persuades her to leave this
enchanted realm. Violet kisses her fondly and clings to her; they have
had such a happy day, there has not been a lonely moment in it. The
wistful face haunts Grandon through the homeward ride, and he hardly
hears Cecil's prattle.
He makes a brief explanation to his mother and leaves excuses for
madame, who is lying down in order to be fresh and enchanting for
evening. His orders for Jane are rather more lengthy, and she is to
comfort Cecil if he should not be home for breakfast.
He has a simple supper in the little nest among the cliffs. Violet
pours the tea with a serene unconsciousness. She is nothing but a
child. Her life and education have been so by rule, emotions repressed,
bits of character trimmed and trained, though they have not taken all
out, he is sure. She is very proper and precise now, a little afraid
she shall blunder somewhere, and with a rare delicacy will not mention
the child, lest its father should think she has coaxed it from some
duty or love. He almost smiles to himself as he speculates upon her.
Once there was just such another,--no, the other was unlike her in all
but youth and beauty, with a hundred coquettish ways where this one is
honest, simple, and sincere. Could _she_ have served a table gravely
like this, and made no vain use of lovely eyes or dimpled mouth?
He goes up-stairs and takes his place as a watcher. There is nothing to
do but administer a few drops of medicine every half-hour. The evening
is warm and he sits by the open window, trying _not_ to think, telling
himself that in honor he has no right to for the next forty hours, and
then the decision must come. He could fight her battle so much better
if--if he had the one right, but does he want it? He has counted on
many other things in his life. For his dead father's sake he is willing
to make some sacrifice, but why should this come to him?
The stars shine out in the wide blue heavens, the wind whispers softly
among the leaves, the water ripples in the distance. The mysterious
noises of night grow shriller for a while, then fainter, until at
midnight there is scarcely a sound. How strangely solemn to sit here by
this lapsing soul, that but a little while ago was the veriest stranger
to him! He has sent Denise to bed, Violet is sleeping with childhood's
ease and unconsciousness. A week hence and everything will be changed
for her; she will never be a child again.
There is a pale bit of moon towards morning, then faint streaks raying
up in the east, and sounds of life once more. A sacred Sunday morning.
He feels unusually reverent and grave, and breathes a prayer. He wants
guidance so much, and yet--does one pray about secular affairs? he
wonders.
Denise taps lightly at the door. She looks refreshed, but the awe will
not soon go out of her old face. Mr. St. Vincent has rested quietly,
his pulse is no weaker; how could it be to live? He stirs and opens his
eyes. They feed him some broth and a little wine, and he drops off
drowsily again.
"You are so good," says the grateful old creature, who studies him with
wistful eyes. Has she any unspoken hope?
While she waits he goes down to stretch his cramped limbs. The doctor
can do no good and will not come to-day. There is no one else to call
upon. He must stay; it would be brutal to leave them alone.
Denise has a lovely little breakfast spread for him, but Violet is not
present. Denise, too, has her Old World ideas. He goes up again to the
invalid, and after an hour or two walks down home. His mother and
madame are at church, as he supposed they would be. He talks a little
to Gertrude, who is nervous and shocked at the thought of any one
dying, and wonders if it can make any difference to the business. He
takes a walk with Cecil, who coaxes to go back with him to her dear
Miss Violet, but he convinces her that it cannot be to-day; to-morrow,
perhaps.
He walks back, rambling down to the spot where Cecil came so near
destruction. The land-slide is clearly visible, the young tree, torn up
by the roots, is a ghost, with brown, withered leaves, and there are
the jagged rocks going steeply down to the shore. If no hand had been
there to save! If no steady foot had dared climb from point to point!
He wonders now how she did it! It seems a greater miracle than before.
And how strange that Cecil should evince such an unwonted partiality
for Miss St. Vincent! Does it all point one way to a certain ending?
It is well that Floyd Grandon has taken this path. He goes up through
the garden and hears a voice at the hall door.
"You cannot see him," Denise is saying. "He is scarcely conscious, and
cannot be disturbed. Your call of yesterday made him much worse."
"But I must see him, my good woman!" in an imperative tone. "If he is
going to die, it is so much the more necessary."
"It is Sunday," she replies. "You can talk no business, you can do him
no good."
"Who is here with him?"
"No one," she answers, "but his daughter and myself. Go away and leave
us to our quiet. If you must see him, come to-morrow."
He takes out a pencil and writes a rather lengthy message. "Give this
to him, and to no one else," he says, sharply, turning away with
evident reluctance.
"Oh!" Denise cries as she espies Mr. Grandon, "if I had known you were
here; I was afraid he would force his way in."
"I am glad you did not: I shall see that there is some one here all the
time now."
"He is much better. He has asked for you, and eaten a little."
A white figure like a ghost stands beside them. Every bit of color has
gone out of the blossom-tinted face, and the eyes look large and
desperate in their frightened depths.
"What is it?" she says. "Mr. Grandon, Denise, what is it the man said
about papa? Is he--dying? Oh, it cannot be! Is this why you do not want
me to see him?"
They start like a couple of conspirators, speechless.
"Oh!" with a wild, piercing cry. "Will he die? And I have just come
home to stay, to comfort him, to make him happy. Oh, what shall I do?
To be left all alone! Let me go to him."
Denise catches her in the fond old arms, where she sobs as if her heart
would break. Grandon turns away, then says brokenly, "I will go up to
him. Some one must tell him. She ought to be with him."
St. Vincent is awake and quite revived. Grandon touches carefully on
this little scene, and proposes that Violet shall be allowed in the
sick-room, since the sad secret has been betrayed.
"Oh, how can I leave her?" he groans, in anguish, "alone, unprotected,
to fight her way through strife and turmoil, to learn the world's
coldness and cruelty! or perhaps be made a prey through her very
innocence that has been so sedulously guarded. Heaven help us both!"
"It will all be right, believe me," says the strong, firm voice. "And
the shock would be terrible to her if there were no sweet last words to
remember afterward. Comfort her a little with your dying love."
He signs with his hand. Grandon goes down-stairs again.
"Violet, my child," he says, with a tenderness no one but Cecil has
ever heard in his voice, "listen to me. You must control your grief a
little or it will be so much harder for your father. You know the sad
secret now. Can you comfort him these few days, and trust to God for
your solace afterward? Nothing can so soothe these hours as a
daughter's love,--if you can trust yourself not to add to his pangs."
The sobs shake her slender figure as she lies on Denise's sorrowing
heart. Oh, what can he say to lighten her grief? His inmost soul aches
for her.
"Violet!" He takes her hand in his.
"I will try," she responds, brokenly. "But he is all I have; all,"
drearily.
"Do you want to see him?"
She makes an effort to repress her sobs. "Denise," she says, "walk in
the garden awhile with me. It was so sudden. I shall always shudder at
the sound of that man's voice, as if he had indeed announced papa's
death warrant."
If Floyd Grandon had not resolved before, he resolves now. He goes
back, taking with him the scrap of paper. After reading it, St. Vincent
hands it to him. The gist of it all is that to-morrow at ten Wilmarth
will come with a lawyer to sign the contracts he spoke of yesterday,
and hopes to find Miss Violet prepared.
"There was no agreement," says St. Vincent, feebly. "I cannot give him
my darling unless she consents. It is not that we love our children
less, Mr. Grandon, that we endeavor to establish their future, but
because we know how hard the world is. And of the two, I will trust
you."
His breath is all gone. Floyd fans him and gives him the drops again.
Half an hour afterward Violet comes into the room, so wan and changed
that yesterday seems a month ago. It is a scene of heart-breaking
pathos at first, but she nerves herself and summons all her fortitude.
It must be so, if she is to stay there.
St. Vincent dozes off again when the passion is a little spent. He
grows frailer, the skin is waxen white, and the eyes more deeply
sunken. All that is to be of any avail must be done quickly, if St.
Vincent is to die in peace as regards his child.
What if he and Cecil were at just this pass! What if he lay dying and
her future not assured? These people are not kith and kin of his that
he need feel so anxious, neither are they friends of long standing.
Then he sees the lithe figure again, stepping from crag to crag,
holding out its girlish arms, with a brave, undoubting faith, and
clasping Cecil. Yes, it is through her endeavor that his child is not
marred and crushed, even if the great question of life is put aside.
Does he not owe _her_ something?
She raises her head presently. Denise is sitting over by the window,
Grandon nearer. "Is it true?" she asks, tearless now and sadly
bewildered, all the pathos of desolation in her young voice,--"is it
true? He has always been so pale and thin, and how could I dream--oh,
he _will_ get well again! He was so ill in Canada, you know, Denise?"
And yet she realizes now that he has never recovered since that time.
How can they answer her? Grandon is moved with infinite pity, yet words
are utterly futile. Nothing can comfort her with this awful reality
staring her in the face.
She buries her woe-stricken face in the pillow again. There is a long,
long silence. Then Denise bethinks herself of some homely household
duties. It is not right to leave her young mistress alone with this
gentleman, and yet,--but etiquette is so different here. Ah, if the
other one was like this, if she could go to such a husband; and
Denise's old heart swells at the thought of what cannot be, but is
tempting, nevertheless.
Towards evening Grandon feels that he must return for a brief while.
St. Vincent has rallied wonderfully again, and the pulse has gained
strength that is deceptive to all but Grandon.
"I will come back for the night," he says. "You must not be alone any
more. There ought to be some good woman to call upon."
Denise knows of none save the washerwoman, who will be here Tuesday
morning, but she is not certain such a body would be either comfort or
help. "And he could not bear strange faces about him; he is peculiar, I
think you call it. But it is hardly right to take all your time."
"Do not think of that for a moment," he returns, with hearty sympathy.
At home he finds Cecil asleep. "She was so lonely," explains Jane. "I
read to her and took her walking, but I never let her go out of my
sight an instant now," the girl says with a tremble in her voice. "She
talked of Miss Violet constantly, and her beautiful doll, and the tea
they had together, but she wouldn't go to madame nor to her Aunt
Gertrude."
Floyd kisses the sweet rosy mouth, and his first desire is to awaken
her, but he sits on the side of the bed and thinks if Violet were here
what happy days the child would have. She is still so near to her own
childhood; the secret is that so far she has never been considered
anything but a child. Her womanly life is all to come at its proper
time. There is everything for her to learn. The selfishness, the
deceit, the wretched hollowness and satiety of life,--will it ever be
hers, or is there a spring of perennial freshness in her soul? She
might as well come here as his ward. In time Eugene might fancy her.
There would be his mother and the two girls. Why does he shrink a
little and understand at once that they are not the kind of women to
train Violet? Better a hundred times honest, old-fashioned, formal
Denise.
An accident has made dinner an hour late, so he is in abundant time.
Mrs. Grandon has been dull all day. Laura and Marcia had this excellent
effect, they kept the mental atmosphere of the house astir, and now it
is stagnant. She complains of headache.
"Suppose we go to drive," he proposes, and the two ladies agree. Madame
is in something white and soft, a mass of lace and a marvel of
fineness. She has the rare art of harmonious adjustment, of being used
to her clothes. She is never afraid to crumple them, to trail them over
floors, to _use_ them, and yet she is always dainty, delicate, never
rough or prodigal. She is superlatively lovely to-night. As she sits in
the carriage, with just the right poise of languor, just the faint
tints of enthusiasm that seem a part of twilight, she is a very
dangerous siren, in that, without the definite purpose being at all
tangible, she impresses herself upon him with that delicious sense of
being something that his whole life would be the poorer without. A
subtile knowledge steals over him that he cannot analyze or define, but
in his soul he knows this magnificent woman could love him now with a
passion that would almost sweep the very soul out of him. He has no
grudge against her that she did not love him before,--it was not her
time any more than his; neither is he affronted at the French
marriage,--it was what she desired then. But now she has come to
something else. Of what use would life be if one had always to keep to
sweet cake and marmalade? There are fruits and flavors and wines, there
is knowledge sweet and bitter.
Very little is said. He glances at her now and then, and she reads in
his face that the tide is coming in. She has seen this questioning
softness in other eyes. If she could have him an hour or two on the
porch after their return!
That is the bitter of it. He feels that he has stayed away from sorrow
too long. His mother makes some fretful comment, she gives him a glance
that he carries with him in the darkness.
A quiet night follows. The doctor is up in the morning. "Comfortable,"
he says. "You may as well go on with the anodynes. There will be great
restlessness at the last, no doubt, unless some mood of excitement
should carry him off. Three days will be the utmost."
Briggs comes with Mr. Grandon's mail. There is a postal from Eugene,
who considers the subject unworthy of the compliment of a sealed
letter.
"No, a thousand times _no_! Bore me no more with the folly!"
Floyd's face burns as he thrusts it in Denise's stove to consume.
"Have you heard?" St. Vincent asks, as he enters the room.
"Yes." The tone acknowledges the rest.
"It is all vain, useless, then! Young people are not trained to pay
heed to the advice of their elders. My poor, poor Violet!"
The utter despair touches Grandon. He has ceased to fight even for his
child.
What impulse governs Grandon he cannot tell then or ever. It may be
pity, sympathy, the knowledge that he can fight Violet's battle, insure
her prosperity in any case, protect her, and give her happiness, and
smooth the way for the dying. Of himself he does not think at all,
strangely enough, and he forgets madame as entirely as if she never
existed.
"Will you give her to me as my wife?" he asks, in a slow, distinct
tone. "I am older, graver, and have a child."
The light that overflows the dying eyes is his reward. It is something
greater than joy; it is trust, relief, satisfaction, gratitude intense
and heartfelt. Then it slowly changes.
"It is taking an advantage of your generosity," he answers, with a
voice in which the anguish cannot be hidden. "No, I will not be so
selfish when you have been all that is manly, a friend since the first
moment----"
A light tap is heard and the door opens. Violet comes in, dressed in
clinging white, her eyes heavy, her sweet face filled with awe.
Grandon takes her cold hand in his and leads her to the bed. "Violet,"
he begins, with unsmiling tenderness, "will you take me for your
husband, your friend, your protector?"
Violet has been instructed in some of the duties of womanhood. Marriage
is a holy sacrament to be entered into with her father's consent and
approval. She looks at him gravely, questioningly.
"I am much older than you, I have many cares and duties to occupy and
perplex me, and I have a little girl----"
Violet's face blooms with a sudden radiance as she lifts her innocent
eyes, lovely with hope.
"I like her so much," she says. "I am not very wise, but I could train
her and take care of her if you would trust me."
He smiles then. "I trust you in that and in all things," he makes
answer. It is as if he were adopting her.
She carries his hand gravely to her lips without considering the
propriety. She feels so peaceful, so entirely at rest.
"Heaven will bless you," St. Vincent cries. "It must, it must! Violet,
all your life long you must honor and obey this man. There are few like
him."
Grandon kisses the flushed forehead. It is a very simple betrothal. He
has given away his manhood's freedom without a thought of what it may
be worth to him, she has signed away her girlhood's soul. Secretly, she
feels proud of such a master; that is what her training bids her accept
in him. She is to learn the lessons of honor and obedience. No one has
ever told her about love, except that it is the natural outcome of the
other duties.
"I think," Mr. Grandon says, "you must see a lawyer now, and have all
your business properly attended to. There will be nothing to discuss
when Mr. Wilmarth comes."
St. Vincent bows feebly. He, Grandon, must go and put these matters in
train.