I cannot argue, I can only feel.--GOETHE.
Grandon runs carelessly over his mail before the morning meeting at Mr.
Sherburne's. Two letters interest him especially and he lays them
aside. One is from Eugene. That improvident young man is out of money.
He is tired of Lake George and desires to go to Newport. He is sorry
that Floyd is getting himself into such a mess with the business, and
is quite sure the best thing would be to sell out to Wilmarth. He has
had a letter from him in which he, Wilmarth, confesses that matters are
in a very serious strait unless Mr. Floyd Grandon is willing to risk
his private fortune. "Don't do it," counsels the younger. "The new
machinery is a confounded humbug, but if any one _can_ make it work,
Wilmarth is the man. If St. Vincent wants to get his daughter a
husband, why does he not offer her to Wilmarth? If she is as pretty as
you say, she ought not go begging for a mate, but when _I_ marry for a
fortune I want the money in hand, not locked up in a lot of useless
trumpery."
A pang goes through Floyd's soul. If he never had offered her to
Eugene! It seems almost as if he had stabbed her to the heart. He can
see her soft, entreating, velvet eyes, and he covers his face with his
hands to hide the blush of shame. He will make it all up to her a
thousand times. Ah, can mere money ever take out such a sting?
The other letter is from a German professor and dear friend that he
left behind in Egypt, who expects to reach America early in September,
and find that Herr Grandon has improved his time and transcribed and
arranged all the notes, as he has so many more. There will be little
enough time, so the good comrade must not idle. They will have a good
long vacation afterward, when they can climb mountains and shoot
buffaloes, and explore the New World together, but now every day is of
value!
Floyd Grandon gives a smile of dismay. The precious days are flying so
rapidly. And everything has changed, the most important of all, his own
life. How could he?
He is a little late at the lawyer's, and they are all assembled. He
gives a quick glance toward Wilmarth. The impassible face has its usual
half-sneer and the covert politeness so baffling. Lindmeyer has been
explaining something, and stops short with an eager countenance.
The provisions of the will are gone over again. Floyd Grandon is now an
interested party in behalf of his wife. There are the books with a very
bad showing for the six months. They have not paid expenses, and there
is no reserve capital to fall back upon. It looks wonderfully like a
failure. Wilmarth watches Grandon closely. He is aware now that he has
underrated the vigor of his opponent, who by a lucky turn of fate holds
the trump cards. That Floyd Grandon could or would have married Miss
St. Vincent passes him. He knows nothing, of course, of the episode
with Cecil, and thinks the only motive is the chance to get back the
money he has been advancing on every hand. If _he_ only had signed a
marriage contract there in Canada! He could almost subject himself to
the tortures of the rack for his blunder.
"Gentlemen," says Lindmeyer, who is a frank, energetic man of about
Grandon's age, with a keen eye and a resolute way of shutting his
mouth, "I see no reason at present why this should _not_ succeed.
It has been badly handled, not understood. Mr. St. Vincent was not able
to make the workmen see with his eyes, and in his state of health he
was so excitable, confused, and worried that I don't wonder, indeed, I
have this plan to propose. If either of you gentlemen," glancing at
Wilmarth and Grandon, "will advance me sufficient means, and allow me
to choose my own foreman, perhaps a head man in every department, I
will prove to you in a month that the thing is a success, that there is
a fortune in it."
The steady, confident ring in the man's voice inspires them all. He is
no wild enthusiast. They glance at Wilmarth, as being in some sense
head of the business.
He knows, no one better, of all the obstacles that have been placed in
the way, so cunningly that no man could put a finger on the motive. It
has been his persistent resolve to let everything run down, to bring
the business to the very verge of bankruptcy. He did not count on Floyd
Grandon being so ready to part with his money to save it, or of ever
having any personal interest in it, and he _did_ count on his being
disgusted with his brother's selfishness, indolence, and lack of
business capacity; all of which he has sedulously fostered, while
attaching the young man to him by many indulgences. This part of the
game is surely at an end.
Floyd sits silent. How much money will it take? What if he is swallowed
down the throat of the great factory! His father's instructions were to
the effect that if he could _not_ save it without endangering his
private fortune, to let it go. There is still ground that he can sell.
There might be a new vein opened in the quarry. He _must_ risk it.
"If Mr. Grandon," says Mr. Wilmarth, with a slow, irritating intonation
that hardly conceals insolence, "feels able to advance for the three
quarters, I can look after my share. I must confess that I am _not_ an
expert in mechanics, and may have been mistaken in some of my views. My
late partner was very sanguine, while my temperament is of the doubting
order. I am apt to go slowly, but I try to go surely. I am not a rich
man," dryly.
"Let it be done, then," returns Grandon. He has no more faith in
Wilmarth to-day than he had last week, but he will not work against his
own interest, surely!
There are many points to discuss and settle. Lindmeyer will proceed to
the factory and get everything in good running order for next week, and
hunt up one man who understands this business, an Englishman who is
looking around for a permanent position, whom he has known for some
years.
"Our superintendent holds his engagement by the year," says Wilmarth,
with provoking suavity. "What can we do with him?"
"It is distinctly understood that I am not to be hampered in any way!"
protests Lindmeyer.
"Give your man a holiday," says Connery. "Two lords can never agree to
rule one household."
"The best thing," decides Grandon.
Then they go to the factory, where an explanation is made to the men.
Mr. Brent receives a check for a month's wages in advance, and a
vacation. Mr. Wilmarth looks on with a sardonic suavity, saying little,
and betraying surprise rather than ill-humor, but he hates Floyd
Grandon to the last thread. The man has come between him and all his
plans. No mere money can ever make up to him for being thus baffled.
Floyd Grandon takes his way along to the little eyrie. Down in the
garden there is a glimpse of a white gown, and now he need pause for no
propriety. Violet starts at the step, turns, and colors, but stands
quite still. Denise has been giving her some instructions as to her new
position and its duties, but has only succeeded in confusing her, in
taking away her friend with whom she felt at ease, and giving her a tie
that alarms and perplexes.
She is very pale and her deep eyes are filled with a curious,
deprecating light. A broad black ribbon is fastened about her waist,
and a knot at her throat. She looks so small, so lovely, that he
gathers her in his arms.
"My little darling," he begins, in a voice of infinite tenderness, "I
seem to neglect you sadly, but there are so many things."
"Do not mind," she answers, softly. "I am quite used to being alone. I
missed Cecil very much, though," and her sweet lip quivers. "Oh, are
you quite sure, quite satisfied that I can do my duty toward her? I
never had a mother of my own to remember, but I will be very good and
kind. I love children, and she is so sweet."
"My little girl, you are a child yourself. As the years go on you and
Cecil will be more like sisters, companions; and I hope you will always
be friends. I must take you home," he continues, abruptly. "My mother
and one sister are there; all the rest are away."
She shivers a little. "Am I to live there?" she asks, timidly. She has
been thinking how altogether lovely it would be to have him and Cecil
here.
"Why, of course. You belong to me now."
He means it for a touch of pleasant intimacy, but she seems to shrink
away. In that old time--the brief year--caresses and attention were
continually demanded. This new wife does not even meet him half way,
and he feels awkward. He can be fond enough of Cecil, and is never at a
loss, but this ground is so new that he is inclined to pick his way
carefully, with a feeling that she is not at all like any one he has
ever known.
They are walking back to the house, and when Denise comes to greet them
she sees that the husband has his arm around his young wife's waist.
Her Old World idea is that the wife should respect the husband to a
point of wholesome fear. They are certainly doing very well. She feels
so proud of this great, grave man, with his broad shoulders, his
flowing brown beard, his decisive eye, and general air of command.
"Have you had any dinner or lunch?" Violet says, suddenly, moved with a
new sense of care.
"Yes. But I think we will have a glass of wine and--Have you eaten
anything?"
She colors a little. "No," says Denise. "She doesn't eat enough to keep
a cricket alive."
"Then we must have some dinner. Denise will get it. Would you like to
come up-stairs with me?"
He has brought home a few papers to put in her father's desk. On the
threshold he pauses. The room is in perfect order. The snowy bed, the
spotless toilet-table, the clean towels on the rack, with their curious
monogram in Denise's needle-work, the table, with an orderly litter of
papers, arranged by a woman's hand, and a white saucer filled with
purple heliotrope. The arm-chair is a trifle pushed aside, as if some
one has just risen, and another chair, as if for a guest, stands there.
He understands that she has been busy here. She gives a long sigh.
"My poor darling!"
She is weeping very softly in his arms.
"It is all so sad," she says, "and yet I know he is in heaven with
mamma. He loved her very much. Denise told me so. He would not wish to
come back even if he could, and it would be selfish to want him. He had
to suffer so much, poor papa! But I would like to keep this room just
so, and come now and then, if I might."
"You shall. I must talk to Denise." He wonders now how Lindmeyer would
like to be here for a month. There are so many things to go over.
"Yes," he continues, "this room shall be sacred. No one shall come here
but Denise and you."
"Thank you."
They go through to the study. He remembers the picture he saw here one
day. Then they continue their walk past her plain little nun's room,
with Denise's opening out of it. The house being built on a side-hill
makes this just above the kitchen. Down-stairs there are four more
rooms.
Never was man more at a loss for some of the kindly commonplaces of
society. She seems sacred in her grief, and he cannot offer the stern
comfort wherewith a man solaces himself; he is too new for the little
nothings of love, and so they walk gravely on, down the stairs again,
and out on the porch that hangs over the slope. But she likes him the
better for his silence, and the air of strength seems to stir her
languid pulses.
Denise summons them to their meal. He pours a trifle of wine for her in
the daintiest, thinnest glass, she pours tea for him in a cup that
would make a hunter of rare old china thrill to the finger-ends. He
puts a bit of the cold chicken on her plate, and insists that she shall
try the toast and the creamed potatoes. She has such a meek little
habit of obedience that he almost smiles.
When the dessert has been eaten and they rise, Denise says, with kindly
authority, "Go take a walk in the garden, Miss Violet, while I talk to
Mr. Grandon. Pardon me; madame, I mean."
Grandon smiles, and Violet, looking at him, smiles also, but goes with
her light movement, so full of grace.
"It is about the child's clothes, monsieur," Denise begins, her
wrinkled face flushing. "She has no trousseau, there has been no time,
and I am an old woman, but it is all mourning, and she does not like
black. It is too gloomy for the child, but what is to be done?"
Floyd Grandon is much puzzled. If madame,--but no, he would not want
madame's wisdom in this case, even if he could have it. There is his
mother; well, he cannot ask her. Gertrude would not feel able to
bother.
"She wore a dress to the funeral," he says, with the vaguest idea of
what it was.
"Her father would have her buy some pretty light things when she was in
the city, but her other dresses are what she had at school, gray and
black. They are not suitable for madame. Some are still short----"
"You will have to go with her," Grandon says. "I can take you both into
the city some day."
"But I do not know----"
"I will find out what is wanted. Yes, you will go with her; she would
feel more at home with you," he says, in his authoritative manner.
Denise courtesies meekly.
"I am going to keep the house just as it is," announces Grandon. "She
will like to come every day until she gets a little settled in her new
home. I hope she will be happy."
"She could not fail to be happy with you and your little girl." Denise
answers, with confident simplicity.
Floyd bethinks himself. Mrs. Grandon must be taken home in the
carriage. He will begin by paying her all honor. There is no one to
send, so he must e'en but go himself. He finds Violet in the garden and
tells her to make herself ready against his coming.
She would like to go in her white dress, just as she is, but Denise
overrules so great a blunder, and when Grandon returns he finds a pale
little nun in black, with a close bonnet and long veil. Cecil has come
with him, and is shocked at this strange metamorphosis. She draws back
in dismay.
"Cecil!" The voice is so longingly, so entreatingly sweet that Floyd
Grandon stands transfixed. "You have not forgotten that you loved me!"
"But--you are not pretty in that bonnet. It is just like grandmamma's,
and the long veil----"
"Never mind, my dear," says her father, and inwardly he anathematizes
fashion. Violet is not as pretty as she was an hour ago. The black
makes her sunshiny hair look almost red, and her face is so very grave.
They have a nice long ride first. Cecil presently thaws into the
mistress of ceremonies in a very amusing manner.
"My doll is not as large as yours," she confesses, "but I will let you
play with it. Can't you bring yours, too, and then we will each have
one. You are going to live always at papa's house, you know, and you
can tell me stories. Jane said I would have to learn lessons, will I?"
"Oh, I should so like to teach you," says Violet, flushing.
"But you must not scold me! Papa never lets any one scold me," she
announces, with a positive air.
"I never should," and Violet wipes away some tears. "I shall always
love you."
"Oh, don't cry!" Cecil is deeply moved now, and her own lovely eyes
fill. Grandon winks his hard and turns his face aside. They are two
children comforting one another.
Violet is quite amazed as they drive around the wide sweep of gravelled
way. Floyd hands her out. "This is your home henceforth," he says. "You
and Cecil are the two treasures I have brought to it, and I hope
neither of you will take wings and fly away. I shall look for you both
to make me very happy."
He has touched the right chord. She glances up and smiles, and is
transfigured in spite of the dismal mourning gear. If she _can_ do
anything for him! If the benefits will not always lie on his side!
He takes her straight through to the elegant drawing-room. She shall be
paid the honors in her own proper sphere. While he is waiting he unties
the ugly little bonnet and takes her out of her crape shroud, as it
looks to him.
"Mrs. Grandon has gone out to drive," announces Mary, who has been
instructed to say just this, without a bit of apology.
Gertrude stands in the doorway. She nearly always wears long white
woollen wrappers that cling to her figure and trail on the ground, and
intensify the appearance of attenuation. A pale lavender Shetland shawl
is wrapped about her. She has had quite a discussion with her mother,
in which she had evinced unwonted spirit. Floyd has been good to them,
and it will be dreadfully ungenerous to begin by treating his wife
badly.
Her brother's face is flashed with indignation. "I am glad you had the
grace to come, Gertrude," he exclaims, pointedly, and takes her over to
Violet, who looks up entreatingly at the tall figure.
"Oh," she says, confusedly, "what a little dot you are! And Violet is
such a pretty name for you."
"I hope you will like me. I hope----"
"If you can put up with me," is the rejoinder. "I am in wretched health
and scarcely stir from my sofa, but I am sure I _shall_ like you"; and
Gertrude resolves bravely that she will be on the side of the new wife,
if it does not cost her too much exertion.
"What a lovely house!" and Violet draws a long, satisfied breath. "And
the river is so near."
"You must never go without Jane," annotates Cecil; "must she, papa?"
They all smile at this. "I should not like to have her lost," says
papa, gravely.
"Do you ever go out rowing or sailing?"
"I never do," and Gertrude shudders. "I cannot bear the heat of the sun
or the chill of evening. But we have boats."
"And I am a crack oarsman," says Grandon. "I shall practise up for a
match."
They begin to ramble about presently. It really is better than if Mrs.
Grandon was at home. Out on the wide porches, through the library, up
the tower, and Violet is in ecstasies with the view. Then they come
down through the chambers, and the young wife feels as if she had been
inspecting a palace. How very rich Mr. Grandon must be! If papa had
lived he might have made the fortune he used to study over.
Violet is quite bright and flushed when the dinner-bell rings, and is
introduced to her husband's mother at the head of the elegantly
appointed table. She is in rich black silk, with crape folds, and very
handsome jet ornaments, and Violet shrinks into herself as the sharp
eyes glance her over. Why should they be so unfriendly? All
conversation languishes, as Cecil is trained not to talk at the table.
Violet returns to the drawing-room and walks wistfully about the grand
piano. Floyd opens it for her and begs her to amuse herself whenever
she feels so inclined. "Is he quite certain no one will be annoyed?"
"Quite." Then she seats herself. She has had no piano at the eyrie.
This is delicious. She runs her fingers lightly over the keys and
evokes the softest magic music, the sweetest, saddest strains. They
stir Floyd's very soul as he sits with Cecil on his knee, who is
large-eyed and wondering.
Mrs. Grandon saunters in presently. "How close it is," she exclaims,
"and I have such an excruciating headache!"
"Ah," says Violet, sympathetically. "I had better not continue playing,
it might distress you."
"Oh, no, you need not mind." The tone is that of a martyr, and Violet
stops with a last tender strain. Floyd Grandon is so angry that he dare
not trust his voice to speak. Violet stands for a moment undecided,
then he stretches out his hand, and she is so glad of the warm clasp in
that great lonely room.
"Let us go out to walk. It is not quite dark yet. Cecil, ask Jane to
bring some shawls."
Cecil slips down. Floyd draws his wife nearer. He would like to hold
the slight little thing, but his mother is opposite, and he must not
make Violet seem a baby.
"I have put an end to that!" exclaims Mrs. Grandon, vindictively, going
back to Gertrude. "That is Laura's piano, and it shall not be drummed
on by school-girls. What Floyd could see in that silly little
red-haired thing to bring her to a place like this, when he could have
had a lady----"
"After all, if he is satisfied," begins Gertrude, deprecatingly.
"He wanted her fortune! He doesn't care a sixpence for her. It was to
get the business in his hands, and now we can all tramp as soon as we
please."
"Mother, you _are_ unjust."
"And you are a poor, spiritless fool, who can never see anything beyond
the page of a novel!" is the stinging retort.
She goes to her own room, and the morning's mail carries the news to
Eugene and Laura.
Floyd has letters to write this evening, and when Cecil's bedtime
comes, Violet goes up with her. They have a pretty romp that quite
scandalizes Jane, who is not at all sure how much respect she owes this
new mistress.
"O you sweet little darling!" Violet cries for the twentieth time. "You
are the one thing I can have for mine."
"I am papa's first," says Cecil, with great dignity. "He loves me best
of anything in the wide world,--he has told me so, oh, a hundred times!
And I love him best, and then you. Oh, what makes you cry so often,
because your papa is dead?"
No one but poor old Denise will ever love her "best of all." She has
had her day of being first. Even in heaven papa has found the one he so
long lost and is happy. She can never be first with him again. He
hardly misses her, Violet; he has had her only at such long intervals,
such brief whiles.
In the silence she cries herself to sleep the first night in her new
home.