But he who says light does not necessarily say joy.--HUGO.
Floyd Grandon strides down the street in a great tumult of thought and
uncertainty, but positive upon one subject. Every possible chance of
fortune shall be so tied up to Violet that no enemy can accuse him of
taking an advantage. Surely he does not need the poor child's money. If
it is _not_ a success,--and this is the point that decides him,--if the
hope is swept away, she will have a home and a protector.
His first matrimonial experiment has not left so sweet a flavor in his
soul that he must hasten to a second draught. He looks at it
philosophically. Violet is a well-trained child, neither exacting nor
coquettish. She will have Cecil for an interest, and he must keep his
time for his own pursuits. He is wiser than in the old days. Violet is
sweet and fresh, and the child loves her.
Mr. Connery listens to the story in a surprise that he hardly conceals.
Grandon feels a little touched. "There really was nothing else to do,"
he cries, "and I like Miss St. Vincent. I'm not the kind of man to be
wildly in love, but I can respect and admire, for all that. Now choose
the man you have the greatest confidence in, and he must be a
trustee,--with you. She is so young, and I think it would be a good
thing for you two men to take charge of her fortune, if it comes to
that, until she is at least twenty-five; then she will know what to do
with it."
Connery ruminates. "Ralph Sherburne is just the man," he exclaims. "He
is honest and firm to a thread, and keen enough to see through a
grindstone if you turn fast or slow. Come along."
They are soon closeted in the invalid's room. Floyd insists that they
shall discuss the first points without him. Violet is walking up and
down a shady garden path, and he joins her. He would like to take her
in his arms and kiss and comfort her as he does Cecil, she looks so
very like a child, but he has a consciousness that it would not be
proper. He links her arm in his and joins in a promenade, yet they are
both silent, constrained. Yesterday he was her friend, the father of
the little girl she loves; to-day he is some one else that she must
respect and honor.
Wilmarth comes and receives his message with deep vexation. Mr. St.
Vincent will admit him at three. He is no worse, but there is nothing
to hope. Ah, if he were to see the two pacing the walk, he would gnash
his teeth. He fancies he has sown distrust, at least.
By noon the contracts, the will, and all legal papers are drawn and
signed. Everything is inviolably Miss St. Vincent's. Mr. Connery
proposes an excellent and trusty nurse, and will send her immediately,
for Denise and Violet must not be left alone. Grandon turns his steps
homeward.
"Really I did not know whether you were coming back," says his mother,
sharply. "I think, considering Madame Lepelletier leaves us to-morrow
morning, you might have a few hours to devote to your own household. It
seems to me Mr. St. Vincent lasts a long while for a man at the point
of death."
"Mother!" Floyd Grandon is really shocked. His mother is nervous and
ill at ease. All night she has been brooding over what she saw in the
carriage. Floyd will follow madame to Newport in a week or two, and the
matter will be settled. She has no objection to her as a daughter-in-law
if Floyd _must_ marry, but it is bitterly hard to be dethroned, to have
nothing, to live on sufferance.
He turns away, remembering what he ought to tell her, and yet, how can
he? After to-morrow, when Madame Lepelletier has really gone,--and yet
has he any true right to freedom as long as that? He ought to marry
Violet this very day. Since he has resolved, why not make the
resolution an absolute pleasure to the dying man?
Grandon feels the position keenly. Never by word or look has he led
madame to expect any warmer feeling than friendship; indeed, until last
night he had not supposed any other state possible. He could not
imagine himself a part of her fashionable life, and he had not the
vanity to suppose she cared for him, but now he cannot shut his eyes.
There is something in her tone, in her mien, as she comes to greet him,
that brings the tint of embarrassment to his cheek. He ought to tell
her that he belongs to another, but he cannot drag his sad-eyed Violet
out for her inspection.
"Mr. St. Vincent?" she questions, delicately.
"He can hardly live through another night. There was a great deal of
business to do this morning, and it has exhausted him completely. It is
so unfortunate,--his having so few friends here."
"What is to become of his poor child?"
"He has been making arrangements for her. I wish he could have lived a
month longer, then we would have been quite sure of the success or
failure of his patent."
Floyd says this in a grave, measured tone.
"There _is_ always a convent," says madame, with a sweet, serious
smile. "I believe in this country, or at least among Protestants, there
is no such refuge for young or old in times of trouble."
He does not wish to pursue the subject.
"I am so sorry Eugene is not at home. You go to-morrow?"
There is not the slightest inhospitable inflection to this, but if he
had said, "Why do you go?" or "You had better wait," her heart would
have throbbed with pleasure. One could announce a delay so easily by
telegram.
"I meant to see you started on your journey," he begins, and there is a
curious something in his tone. "Briggs had better go and see to your
luggage, and if you will accept my mother's company----"
"You cannot go?" There is a soft pleading, a regret that touches him,
and makes him feel that he is playing false, and yet he surely is not.
There is no reason why he should tell her of the coming step when he
has hardly decided himself.
"No," he answers, briefly. "I ought not leave St. Vincent an hour. My
impression is that he will die at midnight or dawn. I have no one to
whom I can depute any of the arrangements."
It does not enter her mind that a little girl who plays with dolls or
dishes can have anything in common with him. Possibly he may be made
her guardian. She wants to stay, and yet there is no real excuse.
He arranges everything for her journey, but will not bid her good by. A
note can do that more easily, he thinks. Cecil cries and begs to go
with him. Why not take her and Jane? He can send them home again if
need be. Cecil is wild with delight, and madame really envies her.
Violet receives her guest with tears and tender kisses. She has been
sitting with her father, and now he is asleep. Denise has insisted upon
her taking a little walk, and she is so glad to have Cecil, though the
child is awed by the sad face.
St. Vincent's breath is short and comes with difficulty. Whatever
Grandon does must be done quickly. When the dying man stirs he asks him
a question.
"If you would----" with a long, feeble sigh, but the eyes fill and
overflow with a peaceful light.
"Violet," Grandon says, an hour later, "your father wishes for the
marriage now. My child, are you--quite willing?"
She gives him her hand. For a moment he rebels at the sacrifice. She
knows nothing of her own soul, of love. Then he recalls the miserable
ending of more than one love marriage. Was Laura's love to be preferred
to this ignorance?
"Come," he says; "Cecil, too."
"She must be dressed!" cries Denise. "Oh, my lamb, I hope it may not be
ill fortune to have no wedding dress, but you must be fresh and clean."
Cecil looks on in wide-eyed wonder.
"Is she going to be married as Aunt Laura was?" she asks, gravely.
Grandon wonders how she will take it. If it should give her sweet,
childish love a wrench!
They assemble in the sick-room. The two stand close beside the bed, so
near that St. Vincent can take his daughter's hand and give her away.
The vows are uttered solemnly, the bond pronounced, "What God hath
joined together let no man put asunder."
"Cecil," her father says, "I have married Miss Violet. She is to be
your mamma and live with us. I hope you will love her."
Cecil studies her father with the utmost gravity, her eyes growing
larger and more lustrous. Her breath comes with a sigh. "Papa," as if
revolving something in her small mind, "madame cannot be my mamma now?"
"Madame----"
"Grandmamma said when I was just a little naughty this morning that I
could not do so when madame was my mamma, that I would have to obey
her."
"No, she never would have been that," he returns, with a touch of
anger.
"You will love me!" Violet kneels before her and clasps her arms about
the child, gives her the first kisses of her bridehood; and Cecil, awed
by emotions she does not understand, draws a long, sobbing breath, and
cries, "I do love you! I do love you!" hiding her face on Violet's
shoulder.
Floyd Grandon has given his child something else to love. A quick,
sharp pang pierces him.
There is a little momentary confusion, then Violet goes to her own
father and lies many moments with his feeble arms about her, until a
slight spasm stirs the worn frame.
It is as the doctor has predicted. A terrible restlessness ensues, a
pressure for breath, the precursors of the fatal struggle. He begs that
Violet will go out in the air again, she is so pale, but he does not
want her to witness this agony. They have had some brief, fond talks,
and she is safe. All the rest he will meet bravely.
The hours pass on and night comes. Violet kisses him and then takes
Cecil to her own little room, where they fall asleep in each other's
arms. The child is so sweet. She can never be quite forlorn with her.
So much of her life has been passed apart from her father that it seems
now as if he was going on a journey and would come back presently.
But in the morning he goes on the last journey, holding Floyd Grandon's
warm hand in his nerveless grasp. "My son," he sighs, and gives his
fond, fond love to Violet.
They let her go in the room with Denise; she pleads to have it so.
Floyd paces the hall with Cecil in his arms. He cannot explain the
mystery to her and does not attempt it, but she is quite content in the
promise that Miss Violet is to come and live with them.
Jane goes over with a note, and instructions to mention nothing beside
the fact of the death, Mrs. Grandon and madame get off to New York, and
Floyd fortifies himself for the evening's explanation.
Violet is not noisy in her grief. She would like to sit all day and
hold the dead hand in hers, watch the countenance that looks no paler
now, and much more tranquil than it has for days. She is utterly
incredulous in the face of this great mystery. He is asleep. He will
come back.
"Violet," Grandon says, at length. Is he going to love and cherish her
as some irksome duty? He has never proffered love. In that old time all
was demanded and given. Violet will demand nothing and be content. He
draws her to him, the round, quivering chin rests in the palm of his
hand, the eyes are tearful, entreating. He kisses the red, tremulous
lips, not with a man's passionate fervor, but he feels them quiver
beneath his, and he sees a pale pink tint creep up to the brow. She is
very sweet, and she is his, not his ward, but his wife.
"I hope we shall be happy," he says. "I shall try to do everything----"
"You have been so good, so kind. Denise worships you," she says,
simply.
He wonders if she will ever worship him? He thought he should not care
about it, but some feeling stirs within him now that makes cold
possession seem a mockery.
If they two could go away somewhere with Cecil, and live a quiet,
comfortable life, with no thought of what any one will say. But
explanations rise mountain high. It looks now as though he must give an
account to everybody of what he has done.
A brief note announces it to Wilmarth. There was no friendship before,
but he knows there will be bitter enmity now. As business is dull, he
suggests that the factory be closed for the whole week. After Mr.
Vincent's burial, he, Grandon would like to have a business interview
at the office of Mr. Ralph Sherburne, who has all the important papers.
That is done. Cecil is quite willing to stay with Violet, and is really
enchanted with Denise, so he goes home, where dinner is served in its
usual lavish manner. His mother is tired, Gertrude ennuied, of course.
The atmosphere is trying in the extreme.
"I have something to tell you," he says, cutting the Gordian knot at a
clean stroke. "I could not make the proper explanation this morning,
but now, you must pardon what has been done in haste." And he tells the
story briefly, leaving out whatever he deems advisable.
"Married!" Mrs. Grandon almost shrieks.
Gertrude looks at him in amaze. In her secret heart she is glad that
madame is not to reign here in all her state and beauty, shining every
one down, but she wonders how he has escaped the fascination.
"Married!" his mother says again. "I did think, Floyd, you had more
sense! A child like that,--a silly little thing who plays with dolls!
If you wanted a _wife_," with withering contempt, "there was one of
whom we should all have been proud! And you have behaved shamefully,
after leading her to think----"
"I never gave Madame Lepelletier the slightest reason to think that I
cared for her beyond mere friendliness," he says, his face flushing
scarlet. "I doubt if she would wish to share the kind of life I shall
elect when I get through with this business. She is an elegant society
woman, and I shall always admire her, as I have done. I doubt if she
would care for me," he adds, but his conscience gives a little twinge.
"When is this new mistress to come home?" asks his mother, in a bitter
tone.
"I shall bring her in a few days, and I hope she will be made welcome.
This----"
"I am aware this house is yours," she interrupts.
Floyd is shocked. "I was not going to say that: it was the furthest
from my thoughts," he answers, indignantly. "Do not let us quarrel or
have any words. You are all welcome to a home."
"It is so pleasant to be reminded of one's dependence." And Mrs.
Grandon begins to weep.
"Mother," Floyd says, deliberately, "I am going to bend every energy to
make the business the success that my father hoped it would be, and to
provide an independence for you all, as he would have done had his life
been spared. In this I shall have very little help from Eugene, and
trouble with Wilmarth, but I shall do my whole duty."
"I wish your father had never taken up with that St. Vincent; there has
been nothing but annoyance, there never will be."
"If there is trouble with my wife I hope I shall have the courage and
manliness to endure it," he returns, resolutely. "But I trust no one
will try to bring it about," he says, in a tone that implies it would
not be a safe undertaking.
Mrs. Grandon rises and sails out of the room. Floyd goes on with his
dessert, though he does not want a mouthful.
"Floyd," Gertrude says, timidly, "you must not mind mother. She will
come around right after a while. I don't believe she would have been
happy if you had married madame, and I am glad, yes, positively glad.
Cecil cannot endure her. I will try to like your wife. Is she such a
mere child?"
Floyd is really grateful. "She is seventeen," he answers, "and quite
pretty, but small. She has been educated at a convent, and knows very
little about the world, but Cecil loves her. I hope we shall all get
along well," and he sighs. Life is so much harder than he could have
imagined it three months ago. He is so weary, so troubled, that he
feels like throwing up everything and going abroad, but, ah, he cannot.
He is chained fast in the interest of others. "Talk to mother a
little," he adds, "and try to make her comfortable. You see I couldn't
have done any differently. I never _could_ have endured all the talk
beforehand."
When he returns to the eyrie he finds Denise holding Cecil and telling
her some marvellous story. Violet is in the room with her father. "She
would go," Denise says. "It is only such a little while that she can
see him."
Cecil and Jane are sent home the following day. There is a very quiet
funeral, but the few mourners are sincere. Violet begs to stay with
Denise in the cottage, and Floyd cannot refuse. Lindmeyer returns to
town and is shocked by the tidings. Grandon appoints a meeting with him
the next morning at Sherburne's office. Briggs and the nurse are at the
cottage, so Floyd goes home to arrange matters for the advent of
Violet.
His mother has settled to a mood of sullen indignation. Why could not
Floyd have become guardian for this girl, and between them all they
might have brought about a marriage with Eugene, who needs the fortune?
If the patent should prove a success, the interest of these two young
people would become identical. Floyd has made himself his brother's
greatest rival, instead of best friend. Through Violet he has a
quarter-share of the business and control of the patent. She is sure
this must have been the deciding weight in the scale, for he is not
romantic, and not easily caught by woman's wiles. She understands
self-interest, but a generous denial of self for another person is
quite beyond her appreciation.
Yet she knows in her secret heart that if Floyd gave up, they would go
to ruin, and Wilmarth would be possessor of all. She does not fly out
in a temper now, but makes the interview unpleasant to her son, though
she is really afraid to confess her true view of the matter, little
imagining how soon he could have resolved her doubts. She hints at
other steps which might have been taken, and he supposes it refers to
his marriage with Madame Lepelletier. Tired at length of skirmishing
about with no decisive result, Floyd boldly makes a proposal. It is
best perhaps that he should be master in his own house, since of course
he must provide for all expenses. The furniture he would like to keep
as it is, if his mother chooses to sell it to him, and the money would
be better for her. He would like her to remain and take charge, since
Violet is so young, and he wants her to feel that her home is always
here, that he considers her and his sisters a part of the heritage
bequeathed by his father, and that independent of the business he shall
have enough for all. "Do not forget," he cries, "that I am your son!"
He is her son, but she would like to be entirely independent. The most
bitter thing, she tells herself, is to ask favors of children. And yet
she cannot say that Floyd has taken the family substance; he has cost
his father nothing since early boyhood. They have had his beautiful
house, and since his return he has spent his own money freely. She
wishes, or thinks she does, that she could pay back every penny of it,
and yet she is not willing to give of that which costs her
nothing,--tenderness, appreciation. She takes because she must, and
nurses her defiant pride which has been aroused by no fault of his.
"I shall expect the girls to make their home with me until they are
married," he continues. "I think that old English custom of having one
home centre is right, and as I am the elder it is my place to provide
it. I do not know as I shall be able to keep up the lavish scale of my
father's day," and he sighs.
Mrs. Grandon remembers well that there was a great complaint of bills
in her husband's time, and that Eugene has been frightfully extravagant
since. He is off pleasuring, and the other is here planning and
toiling. There is a small sense of injustice, but she salves her
conscience with the idea that it is an executor's bounden duty, and
that Floyd has had nothing but pleasure and idleness in his time.
It is late when he goes to his room to toss and tumble about
restlessly, and feel dissatisfied with the result of his work. Has he
been unfilial, unbrotherly? Surely every man has some rights in his own
life, his own aims. But has he done the best with his? Was it wise to
marry Violet? In a certain way she _is_ dear to him; she has saved his
child for him,--his whole heart swells in gratitude. As for the love,
the love that is talked of and written about, or the overmastering
passion a man might experience for Madame Lepelletier, neither tempts
him. A quiet, friendly regard that will allow him to go his own way,
choose his own pursuits, command his own time, if a man must have a
wife; and he knows in his secret heart of hearts that he really does
not care to have a wife, that it will not materially add to his
happiness.
"I ought not to have married her," he admits to himself in a
conscience-stricken way, "but there was nothing else to do. And I
surely can make her happy, she is satisfied with such a little."
His conscience pricks him there. Is he to turn niggard and dole out to
her a few crumbs of regard and tenderness? to let her take from the
child what the husband ought to give? If there were no contrasting
memory, no secret sense of weariness amid kisses and caresses and
caprices pretty enough for occasional use, the dessert of love's
feasts, but never really touching the man's deeper life.
"It must be that some important elements have been left out of my
composition," he ruminates, grimly. Could even madame have moved him to
a headlong passion? Would there not come satiety even with her?
Certainly Cecil's welfare was to be considered in a second marriage,
and he has done that. If he has blundered again for himself he will
make the best of it in the certainty that there is now another and
absorbing interest to his life.