For two enemies the world is too small, for two friends a needle's eye
is large enough.--BULWER.
The brothers spend nearly all of the next morning in the factory. Floyd
has left his substitute with the professor, and sent Cecil to ride, so
that she shall not distract Violet's attention. He tries to explain to
Eugene all that he has done, the money he has advanced, and the future
that seems possible. "It will be a long pull," he says, "but when you
get through, the result will be a handsome business. Three years ought
to do it."
"Three years," Eugene repeats, with a sigh.
For a moment Floyd is provoked. Does Eugene never expect to put his
shoulder to the wheel, to take any real care? Must he fight the matter
through for them all? But then, there is Violet.
"I shall expect you to take some part of the business, Eugene, and keep
to it. Wilmarth is admirable in his department. He is getting out new
patterns, and now that he is really convinced of success he will no
doubt throw all his energies into it. Will you keep the books and look
after the correspondence? I have so much work of my own to do, and we
must economize all we can."
"Well," indolently, "don't expect too much of me."
"How would you like to travel, then?" asks Floyd. "Father, I find, did
a good deal himself."
"The travelling would be jolly, but I may as well be honest. I've no
knack of selling."
"Then begin at the books," returns the elder, decisively. "You ought to
be able to do a man's work somewhere."
"When I made such a blunder about the fortune, eh?" he says, with a
half-smile. "Were you really caught, Floyd?"
Floyd Grandon is sorely tempted to knock down this handsome, insolent
fellow, even if he is a brother. Oh, if he never had offered Violet to
him!
"What I wrote first," he says, "was at her father's desire. Then she
did for me a favor of such magnitude that my whole life will not be
long enough to repay, but honor led me to be fair to you, or I never
should have written a second time. Remember that she is my chosen wife,
and forget all the rest."
There is something in the tone that awes the young man, though long
afterward he recalls the fact that Floyd did not say he loved her. But
he is sobered a little and promises to make himself useful. Floyd has
no faith in him or his word. What a heavy burthen it all is!
Laura comes up again, and is all excitement. They are staying at a
hotel and Madame Lepelletier is with them, but she is going into her
house in a few days, and the Delancys hardly know whether to board or
to have a home of their own. There are her beautiful wedding gifts, and
there is the pleasure of giving dinners and teas! She discusses it with
her mother and Marcia. Eugene, whose advice is not asked, says, "Have a
house of your own by all means. Nothing is so independent as a king in
his castle."
Violet does not grow any nearer to her new relatives, excepting
Gertrude, who has a latent, flabby sense of justice that rouses her now
and then when the talk runs too high. There seems to be a grievance all
around. If Floyd married her for her fortune, then it is a most
shamefully mercenary piece of business; if he married her for a
mistress to his home, madame would have been so much more admirable
every way, especially now that Floyd is likely to become an attractive
and notable member of society.
"Everybody wants to see him," declares Laura, much aggrieved. "Mr.
Latimer was talking yesterday. I think they will give him a dinner. And
this house ought to be a sort of headquarters,--made really celebrated,
you know. I like a good supper and a German, but it _is_ the fashion to
be literary. Everybody travels and writes a book, and just now all
these queer old things have come around. I don't care a penny how long
the world has stood or what people did two thousand years ago; my good
time is _now_, but we must keep in the stream. I count myself a very
fortunate girl. I can have all that is best in fashion through Mrs.
Vandervoort, and all that is intellectual through Mrs. Latimer, so you
see I come in for both. Then if Floyd had married Madame Lepelletier,
there would have been another set here. But that little dowdy, who
doesn't even know how to dress decently! Common respect ought to teach
her about mourning!"
"Her trousseau ought to be right; it was made by Madame Vauban,"
interposes Gertrude.
"Madame Vauban! Never!" ejaculates Laura, in quite a dramatic tone.
"But I tell you it was! And Floyd had all the ordering, I dare say. He
isn't fond of mourning."
"And the paying, too," sneers Laura.
"Well, she has the cottage, and if Floyd is going to make such a
fortune for her, he _could_ pay himself back, granting he did spend
_his_ money, which I very much doubt."
"The fortune is yet to be made," retorts Laura, with a superior air.
"There may never be any. _We_ may not ever get _our_ own."
"Then," says Gertrude, poising her weapon steadily, "he bought _your_
wedding clothes as well."
"He is _my_ brother. I should look well asking Arthur to pay such
bills."
"Do let them alone," exclaims Gertrude, angrily. "You married to please
yourself, and so did he."
"_If_ he did. I only hope there may be enough in it to keep him
pleased. The marriage is utterly incongruous every way."
Gertrude relapses into silence and her book. Why can they not be
peaceable and let each other alone? It was so pleasant before they all
came home.
Marcia soon nurses up a grievance. Why is a mere child like Violet to
be allowed to spend hours with this wonderful professor, pretending to
translate or copy, while she, who has actually translated poems for
publication, is kept outside of the charmed circle? How delightful it
would be to say, "My dear, I am so busy translating with Prof.
Freilgrath for his new book that I have not a moment for calls." She
does not cordially like the professor. He has very little appreciation
of art, _her_ art, and when one evening she took great pains to explain
an ambitious scheme, he said, "O Miss Marcia, such a thing would be
quite impossible! You would want years of thorough training before you
could attempt it. I should advise something less arduous and better
suited to a young lady's desultory pursuits. You have no idea of
intense study."
"Floyd," she says, one morning, "why cannot I help with copying or
translating? I should be glad to do something."
"Oh," he answers, carelessly, "Violet is able to do all, and satisfies
the professor perfectly."
The professor has come to feel the flurry of unrest in the air. These
ladies of fashion cannot understand he is here now to work, not to be
entertained.
"Mrs. Grandon," he says, one afternoon, as Violet folds the notes she
has been making and puts them in their place,--she is so orderly and
exact it is a pleasure to watch her,--"Mrs. Grandon, I have been
thinking of a plan, and your husband allows me to consult you. I should
like to take your cottage for the autumn. It is so charmingly situated,
so quiet, and your old housekeeper is a treasure. The ground floor
would be sufficient, and nothing would need be disturbed. Some time I
might ask up a friend or two, and you could come over; the exercise
would be beneficial. You grow quite too pale with so much work."
"Why, yes," replies Violet, with a rift of pleasure. She would like
having him there, and it would be pleasant for Denise to prepare meals
and keep house regularly. And the change for her, the absolute getting
away from this unfriendly atmosphere. "You may have it, certainly."
"Thank you. Can you go over and make arrangements? We both need a
little exercise, and we have been beautifully industrious. I do not
know what I should do without your swift fingers. Will I order the
carriage?"
As Violet is dressing herself, an uncomfortable wonder enters her mind.
She hears a good deal of talk about propriety, and she does not know
whether she ought to do this alone. Even Cecil is out with Jane. She
must ask Denise, but alas, she cannot get at her now. Gertrude is kind
to her, and she might--
Violet runs down stairs and relates her perplexity.
"Of course you can," says Gertrude. "Married women go anywhere."
"But if you only would!" beseechingly. "And you have never seen the
cottage. Oh, please do!" And she kneels down, taking the nerveless
hands in hers.
Gertrude considers. She hates to be disturbed, but her book is
unusually stupid, and Violet's eager, winsome face is irresistible. How
can they say she is not pretty? And if there is the slightest question
they will find no end of fault. She groans.
"I know it is asking a good deal, but it would make me so happy, so
comfortable."
"And you are such a dear little thing!"
"Do you really think so? Oh, if you could care about me," and the
entreaty in the voice touches the heart of the elder as nothing has in
a long while.
"I will go," returns Gertrude, with unwonted decision. "I will be quick
about changing my dress. There is the carriage."
Gertrude is not much improved by her mourning. She looks less deathly
and washed out in the soft white gowns, but there is a languid grace
about her that, after all, moves the professor's sympathy. "It is a
better face than the other one," he thinks; "not so silly and
self-sufficient." He is ever entertaining, unless deeply preoccupied,
and now he addresses most of his conversation to her, and is friendly
solicitous about her comfort and her health. "There are such delightful
baths in Germany. Is there nothing like them in America?" he asks.
"They are really so," Gertrude answers. "We were in Germany once, when
my health first began to break."
"In Germany?" With that he brightens up and questions her, and Violet
is pleased that she answers with interest. She so pities poor Gertrude,
with her broken-off love story, and she helps the conversation with now
and then a trenchant bit of her own that does not lead it away. She is
so generous in this respect. She has not come to the time of life when
one wishes to amass, or is it that she has not seen anything she
covets?
The professor is satisfied with every room. If they can put in a bed he
will sleep here, and take this for his workroom. The parlor is still
left for the entertainment of guests. Here is a porch and a rather
steep flight of steps, where he can run up and down when he wants a
whiff of the cool river breeze or a stroll along the shore. Violet
explains to Denise that Prof. Freilgrath will want some meals. "You
know all about those odd foreign soups and dishes," she says, with her
pretty air. "And I shall come over every day to write or to read. You
can't think what a business woman I have become."
Denise raises her eyebrows a little. "And Mr. Grandon?" she asks.
"Oh, I expect he will never want to come back home! Denise, wouldn't it
be lovely if we lived here, with Cecil? I wish he might want to," in
her incoherent eagerness. "It will be another home to us, you see,
where I shall feel quite free. Why, I could even come in the kitchen
and cook a dish!"
With that she laughs delightedly, her sweet young face in a glow.
The visitors go up-stairs to see the prospect, which is lovely from the
upper windows. "This is--this was papa's room," correcting herself. She
does not think of him any more as in the grave, but in that other
wonderful country with the one he loves so dearly.
"Denise," she says, one day, shocking the old woman, "why should I wear
black clothes when papa is so happy? It is almost as if he had gone to
Europe to meet mamma. Sometimes I long to have him back, then it seems
as if I envied her, when she only had him three years, so long ago. Why
should any one be miserable if I went to them both?"
"You talk wildly, child," answers Denise, quite at loss for an
argument.
But now, when they come down, Denise has a cup of tea, some delicious
bread and butter, cream cheese that she can make to perfection, and a
dish of peaches. Violet is as surprised as they, and rejoices to play
hostess. They are in the midst of this impromptu picnic when Grandon
looks in the doorway, and laughs with the light heart of a boy.
"I was coming to talk with Denise," he says.
"I have made my bargain," the professor answers, in a tone of elation.
"It is delightful. I shall be so charmed that I shall lose the zest of
the traveller and become a hermit. I shall invite my friends to royal
feasts."
Violet has poured a cup of tea and motions to Floyd, who comes to sit
beside her. She is so alluring in her youth and freshness that he
sometimes wishes there was no marriage tie between them, and they could
begin over again.
"Whatever happened to you, Gertrude?" he asks. "I am amazed that
tea-drinking has such a tempting power."
"The fraulein is to come often," says Freilgrath, lapsing into his
native idiom. "It has done her good already; her eyes have brightened.
She stays within doors too much."
Gertrude's wan face flushes delicately.
When they reach home the dinner-bell rings, and they all feel like
truants who have been out feasting on forbidden fruit.
The next day the professor moves, but he promises to come down every
evening. Marcia is intensely surprised, and Mrs. Grandon rather
displeased. It is some plot of Violet's she is quite sure, especially
as Floyd takes his wife over nearly every day. Curiously enough
Gertrude rouses herself to accompany them frequently. They shall not
find unnecessary fault with Violet. Denise enjoys it all wonderfully,
and when the professor sits out on the kitchen porch and smokes, her
cup of happiness is full.
Then he goes to the city for several days. There is the club reception
to the noted traveller, and though Laura would enjoy a German much
more, she does not care to miss this. Madame Lepelletier is invited
also, but she is arranging her house and getting settled, and this
evening has a convenient headache. There are several reasons why she
does not care to go, although she is planning to make herself one of
the stars for the coming winter.
She has had occasion to write two or three business notes to Floyd
Grandon since she said farewell to him, and they have been models in
their way. In his first reply, almost at the end, he had said, "Laura,
I suppose, has informed you of my marriage. It was rather an unexpected
step, and would not have occurred so suddenly but for Mr. St. Vincent's
fatal illness."
In her next note she spoke of it in the same grave manner, hoping he
would find it for his happiness, and since then no reference has been
made to it. From Laura she has heard all the family dissatisfactions
and numberless descriptions of Violet. From Eugene she has learned that
Miss Violet was offered to him, and there is no doubt in her mind but
that she was forced upon Floyd. She cannot forgive him for his
reticence those last few days, but her patience is infinite. The wheel
of fate revolves, happily; it can never remain at one event, but must
go on to the next. The Ascotts' house is a perfect godsend to her, and
her intimacy with Mrs. Latimer a wise dispensation. They are all
charmed with her; it could not be otherwise, since she is a perfect
product of society. She hires her servants and arranges her house,
which is certainly a model of taste and beauty, but she wishes to give
it her own individuality.
Mrs. Grandon has written to invite her up to the park, and Laura has
begged her to accompany her and see the idiotic thing Floyd has made
his wife. She is gratified to know they had all thought of her and feel
disappointed, but she means they shall all come to her first, and this
is why she will not meet Floyd Grandon at his friend's reception. There
is another cause of offence in the fact that through a two months'
acquaintance he should never have mentioned his own aims and plans and
achievements. If she could only have guessed this! She is mortified at
her own lack of discernment.
Laura is in the next morning. Madame has chosen a gown that throws a
pallid shade over her complexion, and she has just the right degree of
languor.
"Oh," she declares, "you have come to make me wretched, I see it in
your blooming, triumphant face! You had a positively grand evening with
all your _savants_ and people of culture. Is your German a real lion in
society, or only in his native wilds?"
"Well, I think he is a real lion," with a fashionable amount of
hesitation. "You positively do look ill, you darling, and I was not at
all sure about the headache last night."
"Did you suppose--why, I could have sent an excuse if I had not wanted
to go," and madame opens her eyes with a tint of amaze. "Everybody else
was there, of course. Did your brother bring his wife? A reception is
not a party."
"He had better taste than that, my dear. He would not even bring
Marcia, though she was dying to come. It was for the very _crême_,
you know. I'm not frantically in love with such things, only the name
of having gone. Do you know that Floyd is rather of the leonine order?
Isn't it abominable that he should have made such a social blunder? The
only comfort is, she is or ought to be in deep mourning, and cannot go
out anywhere. Why, we gave up all invitations last winter."
"I wonder, Laura dear, if I would dare ask a favor of your mother? It
might be a little rest and change, and yet--I am just selfish enough to
consider my own pleasure; I should like to invite her down for a
fortnight, and give two or three little spreads, don't you young people
call them? You see I am not quite up in slang. A dinner and one or two
little teas, and an at home evening, something to say to people that I
am really here, though there have been several cards left, and I _must_
get well for Thursday. How stupid to indulge in such an inane freak
when I have uninterruptedly good health."
"Oh, I am sure mamma would be delighted! Why, it is lovely in you to
think of it, instead of taking in some poky old companion."
"I am not very fond of companions. I like visitors best. I dare say I
am fickle. And I want some one able to correct any foreign ignorance
that may linger about me."
"As if you did not know you were perfect and altogether charming, and
that your little foreign airs and graces are the things we all fall
down and worship!" laughs Laura. "I could almost find it in my heart to
wish I were a dowager."
"You can come without the added dignity of years. I have a motherly
interest in you. If you were not married I dare say I should 'ransack
the ages' for some one fit and proper, and turn into a match-maker."
"You had better take Marcia in hand; I think of doing it myself. Gert
is past hope."
"Marcia is not so bad," says madame, reflectively, "if only she would
not set up for a genius. It is the great fault of young American women.
Abroad everything is done, even studying music, under an assumed name,
but one does not go on the stage."
"Marcia is a fool," says Laura, with most unsisterly decision.
"Well, about your mother. You think I may write. I trespassed upon your
hospitality so long----"
"Oh, whatever should I have done without you! And there is another
funny thing," says Laura irrelevantly. "Mrs. Floyd has taken up
literature. She copies and translates and does no end of work for the
professor; and he has hired her cottage, where they all do some
Bohemianish housekeeping, I believe."
Madame raises her delicate eyebrows a trifle. "She must be well
trained, then," she makes answer. "She may do admirably for your
brother, after all."
"Hem!" retorts Laura, "what does a little writing amount to? Only it
_is_ queer."
Madame never indulges in any strictures on the new wife, rather she
treats the matter as an untoward accident to be made the best of; she
is not so short-sighted as to show the slightest malice.
Then she takes Laura back to the reception and is interested in hearing
who was there and what was done, who was a bore, who is worth inviting,
and so on, until Laura finds she has stayed unconscionably. After her
visitor is gone she writes the daintiest of epistles, quite as a loving
daughter might. She means to sap all the outer fortifications; she even
considers if it will not be wise to invite Marcia some time.
To say that Mrs. Grandon is delighted is a weak word. Nothing has ever
so taken her by storm since Laura's engagement. She carries the letter
to Floyd. Had madame foreseen this?
"Of course you will go." His eyes are on the letter, where every stroke
of the pen, every turn of the sentence, are so delicate. The faint
perfume, which is of no decided scent, touches him, too; he has never
known any one quite so perfect in all the accessories, quite so
harmonious.
"How can I?" she says, fretfully. "There is no one to look after the
house."
Floyd laughs at that.
"I should suppose the servants might be trusted, and surely Marcia
knows enough to order a meal. You do need a holiday. Come, just think
you can go. I shall be in the city a good deal the next month, and as
Freilgrath has a domicile of his own--yes, you must answer this
immediately."
She has a few other flimsy objections, but Floyd demolishes everything,
and almost threatens to write for her. There is no reason why they
should not all be good friends, even if he has married another person;
and he has a real desire to see Madame Lepelletier. He wants to smooth
out some little roughnesses that rather annoy him when he thinks of
them.
So Mrs. Grandon writes that Floyd will bring her down at the required
date. Then madame has not miscalculated.
She goes to a reception at the Vandervoorts', to a charming tea at the
Latimers'. People are talking about Freilgrath and Mr. Grandon, and
some new discoveries, as well as the general improvement in science and
literature. There is an "air" about the "house Latimer" very charming,
very refined, and madame fits into it like the frontispiece to a book,
without which it would not be quite perfect. "What an extremely
fascinating woman!" is the general comment.
Mrs. Grandon has been flurried and worried up to the last moment. She
is afraid her gowns are _passé_, that she looks old for her years, and
that her prestige as Mrs. James Grandon is over forever. But the
instant she steps into the hall at madame's the nervousness falls away
like an uncomfortable wrap. The air is warm and fragrant, but not
close, the aspect of everything is lovely, cosey, restful. A figure in
soft array comes floating down the stairs.
"I am delighted," madame says, in the most seductive tone of welcome.
Then she holds out her hand to Floyd; looks at the waiter, and orders
the trunk to be taken up stairs. "I was afraid you would repent at the
last moment, or that something untoward might happen," she continues.
"Will you sit down a moment," to Floyd, "and excuse us, just for the
briefest space?"
She waves him to the nearest of the suite of rooms with her slender
hand, and escorts Mrs. Grandon up to her chamber adjoining her own, and
begins to take off her wraps as a daughter might, as Mrs. Grandon's
daughters never have done. The attention is so delicate and graceful.
Floyd meanwhile marches around the room in an idle man fashion. It is
in itself a fascination, perhaps not altogether of her choosing, but
the fact of her taking it at all presupposes her being in some degree
pleased. The art was all there, doubtless, but madame has left her
impress as well in the little added touches, the vase where no one
expected it, the flowers that suggested themselves, played a kind of
hide-and-seek game with you through their fragrance, the picture at a
seductive angle of light, the social grouping of the chairs, the tables
with their open portfolios. He half wishes some one could do this for
the great house up at the park, give it the air of grace and interest
and human life.
Madame Lepelletier comes down in the midst of these musings, alone.
They might have parted yesterday, the best and most commonplace
friends, for anything in her face. He has an uneasy feeling, as if an
explanation was due, and yet he knows explanations are often blunders.
"It was very kind of you to think of taking mother out of her petty
daily round," he says. "Let me thank you!"
"Oh!" she answers, "do not compel me to apologize for a bit of selfish
motive at the bottom. And I am glad to see you. You are in the list of
those who achieve greatness, I believe," with a most fascinating smile.
"Or have it fall upon them as a shadow from some other source! I am not
quite sure of my own prowess. That will be when I attempt something
alone."
"I was so sorry not to meet your friend the other evening, though I
hope it is only a pleasure deferred. Do you feel at home in your native
land? Was it not a little strange after all these years?"
"I could hardly feel strange after the cordial greeting," he says. "It
was delightful; I am sorry you missed it. Will you allow me to present
my friend, Prof. Freilgrath, to you?"
"If you will be so kind after my apparent incivility. You know I am so
generally well that it seems any excuse on the point of health must be
a----"
"You shall not use harsh terms," and he smiles. She is the beautiful,
brilliant incarnation of health, a picture good to look upon. He cannot
but study her, as he has times before. The splendor of her dark eyes
falls softly upon him, her breath comes and goes in waves that would
sweep over a less abundant vitality, but it is the food on which she
thrives, like some wonderful tropical blossom.
"Then I am pardoned," she replies. "Now, when will you bring him? Shall
I make a little feast and ask in the neighbors, shall I swell out into
a grand dinner, or, let me see--covers for four while your mother is
here? You shall choose."
"Then I will choose the covers for four," he replies, to her
satisfaction.
"The time also. You know your engagements best. Will you stay and take
luncheon with us? I have ordered it immediately, for Mrs. Grandon ought
to have some refreshment."
Her tone is gently persuasive. Grandon studies his watch,--he has just
an hour on his hands.
"Thank you; I will remain." Then, after a pause, "I am really glad of
the opportunity. I have been so much engaged that I fear I have behaved
badly to my friends. You know we always think we can apologize to
them," and he indulges in a grave little smile. "Circumstances
prevented my half-promised trip to Newport."
If she would only make some reference to his marriage, but she sits
with her face full of interest, silent and handsome.
"We had to have new help in the factory. I knew so little about it that
I was full of fears and anxieties, and all the family inheritance was
at stake. But I think now we will be able to pull through without any
loss, and if it _is_ a success it will be a profitable one. I have
been taking up some claims against the estate, and yours may as well be
settled. It is my intention to get everything in proper order to turn
over to Eugene as soon as circumstances will allow."
"My claim is so small," and she smiles with charming indifference, "it
is quite absurd to distress yourself about it. You are likely to
succeed in your new undertaking, Laura tells me. Why, we shall hold you
in high esteem as a remarkable genius. Men of letters seldom have a
mind for the machinery of business or life."
"My father died at a most unfortunate time for the family, it would
seem, and his all was involved in this new experiment. There have been
months of bad management, or none at all," with one of the grim smiles
that often point a sentence. "My position is one of extreme perplexity,
yet I shall endeavor to fulfil my father's hopes and wishes."
"You are very generous. Not every son would place his own aims second."
"I am not doing that," he interrupts, hastily; "I really could not if I
would. You must not make me seem heroic, for there is very little of
that about me. It is trying to combine the two that makes the severity
of the task, but my friend is a host in himself. To him really belongs
the credit of our work; still, I have at length discovered that the
bent of my mind is toward letters and science, and in another year I
hope to do something by myself."
"It is hard to be immersed in family cares at the same time," she
answers, with the most fascinating sympathy in her eyes. "Our idea of
such men is in the study and the world that they charm with their
patient research. I have read of women who wrote poetry and made bread,
but certainly both, to be excellent, need an undivided attention. The
delicate sense of the poesy and the proper heat of the oven seem
naturally to conflict."
He smiles at her conceit, but he has found it sadly true. There is a
touch of confident faith in her voice that is delicately encouraging.
He has had no sympathy for so long until the professor came, for it
would be simply foolish to expect it of his own household, who are not
even certain that they can confide in his sense of justice. He has
bidden adieu to the old friends and scenes, and is not quite fitted to
the new, hence the jarring.
A silvery-toned gong sounds for luncheon. Madame goes to meet her guest
and escorts her on the one side, while her son is on the other. It is a
charming and deferential attention, and Mrs. Grandon rises in her own
estimation, while the dreadful sacrifice her son has made looms dark by
contrast.
Afterward, going down the street, Floyd remembers with a twinge of
shame that Violet has not once been mentioned. It was his remissness,
of course. He could not expect madame to discuss his marriage as one of
the ordinary events of life, but he wishes now that he had taken the
honorable step. If he only understood the turns and tricks of
fashionable life. He has been in wilds and deserts so long, that he has
a curious nervous dread of blunders or those inopportune explanations
he has occasionally witnessed.