To be wise is the first part of happiness.--ANTIGONE.
They are excellently served and complete order reigns at the great
house, yet Mrs. Grandon is missed, in ways not altogether complimentary
if one put it into words. Marcia delights in playing at mistress. She
asks in some of her neighbors to dinner, but Violet, excusing herself,
goes over to the cottage. Floyd is not at home to be consulted, and she
does not wish to blunder or to annoy him. She wins Marcia's favor to a
certain extent, but her favor is the most unreliable gift of the gods.
She has no mind of her own, but is continually picking up ready-made
characteristics of her neighbors and trying them on as one would a
bonnet, and with about the same success. While the rest of her small
world is painfully aware of her inconsistency, she prides herself upon
a wide range of mental acquirements. She generously allows Violet to
try driving Dolly, who is as gentle as a lamb.
Violet draws some delicious breaths, when she feels quite like a bird,
but she does not know that it is freedom. She hardly misses Mr.
Grandon, who seems to be up at the factory or down to the city nearly
all the time. The piano stands open, daring innovation, and she plays
for hours, to Cecil's entrancement, and inducts her in the steps of a
fascinating little dance. Cecil is growing quite wild and wilful at
times, but she is always charming.
They all go up to the cottage one day to a lunch of Denise's preparing.
While Gertrude rests, Marcia insists upon visiting the place where
Cecil was rescued.
"You dear, brave child!" she cries, kissing Violet with rapture, "I
don't wonder Floyd fell in love with you on the spot! If you could only
pose just that way to me, and I could paint it! What a picture it would
be for exhibition!"
Violet flushes warmly, but by this time she shares the family distrust
of Marcia's splendid endeavors.
"Oh," Cecil whispers, clinging tightly to her hand and shuddering with
awe, "if I had fallen down over all those jagged rocks! I shall always,
always love you dearly; papa said I must."
How like a dream that far-off day appears!
There is a bit of wood fire burning on the hearth when they return, for
Violet remembers that Gertrude is always cold. The table is simple and
yet exquisite. Marcia is crazed with the china and some silver spoons
that date to antiquity or the first silversmiths.
"If I had money," she begins, when her appetite is a little sated,--"if
I had money I should have a house of my own, kept just to my fancy,
with an old French servant like Denise, only"--glancing around--"it
must be severely artistic. It is so hard that women cannot make
fortunes!" with a long sigh.
"I should enjoy one made for me quite as well," rejoins Gertrude, who
is always annoyed by Marcia's assumptions of or longings for manhood.
"What a lucky girl you are, or will be if Floyd's plans come out
right," and Marcia nods to Violet. "Only I should hate all that
wretched waiting!"
"How long must I wait?" There is a lurking smile in Violet's brown
eyes.
"How long?--don't _you_ know?" accenting the words with surprise. "Why
this is quite a mystery. I have heard of heiresses being kept in the
dark for evil purposes," and Marcia gives her head an airy toss. "Have
you never seen your father's will? Until you are twenty-five--but I
shouldn't feel at all obliged to Floyd for tying it up so securely. I
dare say he could have persuaded your father differently!"
Violet colors with a curious sense of displeasure. Gertrude gives a
warning look, and for fear of that failing in its mission, touches
Marcia's foot under the table.
"I suppose he--they both did what they thought best," Violet says, hurt
somehow at the signal and a consciousness of some secrecy.
"Oh, of course, of course! Men always do take their own way; they think
they are so much wiser than women, selfish beings!" exclaims Marcia, on
another tack. Gertrude bestirs herself to make a diversion, but a
latent wonder lingers in Violet's mind. She does not really care about
any knowledge being kept away from her, and she has known all along
that she was something of an heiress. Did not Mr. Grandon admit that
when they talked about the trousseau? A sense of mystery comes up about
her like a thick, gray mist, and she shivers. She cannot tell why, but
the joy of the day is over.
When they reach home there is company for Marcia, two especial guests,
that she takes up to her sanctum, and is seen no more until the
dinner-bell summons her. Eugene is in an uncomfortable mood and teases
Cecil. Violet seems always a little afraid of this handsome young man,
who has a way of making inscrutable remarks. Her music is melancholy
this evening, and Cecil is difficult to please, so she is glad when
bedtime comes and with it a _résumé_ of the times of the wonderful
Haroun al Raschid. But when Cecil falls asleep an intense feeling of
loneliness seizes her. It seems as if she was somewhere in a wide
desert waste.
Mr. Grandon is to spend the night in the city. She wonders where he is!
There was the reception to the professor, there was a grand dinner for
gentlemen only, at the house of some famous person, there has been
business. She would like to imagine the scene for her own interest. How
strange, she thinks, to sit three or four hours over a dinner, and yet,
if the professor talked, she could listen forever. Does Mr. Grandon
ever talk in that manner? A fine thrill speeds along her nerves, a sort
of pride in him, a secret joy that he is hers.
Oh, it is only nine o'clock! Violet tries to interest herself in a
novel, but it is stupid work. There are voices down-stairs and she
catches Marcia's inane little laugh. They never ask her down, because
she is in deep mourning, and Gertrude has kindly told her that people
do not go in society for at least six months when they have lost a near
relative. She has been married only two months, and it has seemed as
long as any other six months in her whole life.
Then she wonders why the marriages of books are so different from
the marriages of real life. There was Linda Radford, one of her
schoolmates, who went away last year to be married to an Englishman and
live at Montreal. Linda had a fortune, and the gentleman was a distant
cousin. They had always been engaged. Linda had written two letters
afterward, about her handsome house and elegant clothes. Then little
Jeanne Davray had a lover come from France, who married her in the
convent chapel and took her away. Once she wrote back to Sister
Catharine. There was a bright, wilful girl, a Protestant, placed in
the convent, who ran away with a married man and shocked the small
community so much that the mention of her name was forbidden. Right
here are Laura and Mr. Delancy, who are not story-book lovers, either.
Oh, which is true? She hides a blushing longing face on Cecil's pillow,
and sighs softly, secretly, for what she has not. Denise would call
it a sin, for she thinks every word and act of Mr. Grandon's exactly
right. Then, somehow, _she_ must be wrong. Are the books and poems all
wrong? She prays to be kept from all sin, not to desire or covet what
may not be meant for her. Oh, what a long, long evening!
Floyd Grandon is a guest at Madame Lepelletier's table. There are three
rooms, divided by silken portières, which are now partially swung
aside. The lamps in the other rooms are burning low, there is a sweet,
faint perfume, a lovely suggestiveness, a background fit for a picture,
and this cosey apartment, hung with shimmering silk, and lighted from a
cluster of intense, velvety tropical flowers, soften the glare and add
curious tints of their own, suggestive of sunlight through a garden. It
is not the dining-room proper. Madame has ways quite different from
other people, surprises, delicate, delicious, and dares to defy fashion
when she chooses, though most people would consider her a scrupulous
observer. The four would not be half so effective in the large
apartment. There is a handful of fire in the low grate, and the windows
are open to temper the air through the silken curtains. Mrs. Grandon is
looking her best, a handsome, middle-aged woman. Madame Lepelletier is
in an exquisite shade of bluish velvet that brings out every line and
tint in a sumptuous manner. The square-cut corsage and elbow sleeves
are trimmed with almost priceless ivory-tinted lace; and except the
solitaire diamonds in her ears, she wears no jewels. There are two or
three yellow rose-buds low down in her shining black hair, and two half
hidden in the lace on her bosom. The skirt of her dress is long and
plain, and makes crested billows about her as she sits there.
The dinner is over, and it was perfect; the dessert has been taken out,
the wine, fruit, and nuts remain; the waiter is dismissed, the chairs
are pushed back just to a degree of informality and comfort, and they
have reached that crowning delight, an after-dinner chat.
Madame has been posting herself on antiquities and discoveries. There
seems nothing particularly new about her knowledge; she is at home in
it, and in no haste to air it; she keeps pace with them in a leisurely
way, as if not straying out of her usual course. Floyd Grandon feels
conscience-smitten that he once believed her wholly immersed in
wedding-clothes and fashions. What a remarkable, many-sided woman she
is! a perfect queen of _all_ society, and an admirable one at that.
Everything she says is fresh and crisp, and her little jest well told
and well chosen. The professor beams and smiles, though he is no great
lady's man. She might be a _bon camarade_, so free is she from the airy
little nothings of society that puzzle scholarly men. There is
something charming, too, in the way Mrs. Grandon is made one of the
circle,--a part of them, not merely an outside propriety. Every moment
she grudges that fascinating woman for her son; she is almost jealous
when the professor listens with such rapt deference and admiration.
That Floyd's own unwisdom should have placed the bar between himself
and this magnificent woman is almost more than she can endure.
He has dropped in one morning and accompanied them to a _matinée_. A
foreign friend has sent madame tickets, and he had an hour or two on
his hands while waiting for proofs. In all these interviews Violet's
name has not been mentioned. His marriage is a matter of course, he is
not sailing under any false colors, he has made no protestations of
friendship, still he has an uneasy feeling. If Violet only could go
into society, yet he knows intuitively the two women never could be
friends, though he has no great faith in the friendship of women for
women; it is seldom the sort of a stand-up affair for all time that
pins a man's faith to another. He wonders, too, what Violet is doing.
How she would enjoy these lovely rooms! She could not sit at the head
of a table a queen, but then she is young yet. Madame was not
perfection at seventeen, and he strongly suspects that he was a prig.
Could he take Violet to a _matinée_? If there was someone he dared ask.
It is midnight when the two men walk home to their hotel. Grandon feels
as if he has taken too much wine, though he is always extremely
moderate.
"She is perfection!" declares the professor, enthusiastically. "You
have many charming women, but I have seen none as superb as she. There
is an atmosphere of courts about her, and so well informed, so delicate
with her knowledge, not thrusting it at you with a shout. You have
given me the greatest of pleasure. If I were not an old tramp, with a
knapsack on my shoulder, I do not know what would happen! I might be
the fly in the flame!"
Floyd laughs amusedly. There is about as much danger of Freilgrath
falling in love with her as there is of himself. Would he have, he
wonders, if other events had not crowded in and almost taken the right
of choice from him? It would not have been a bad match if Cecil had
loved her, and she _does_ love Violet. His heart gives a great throb as
he thinks of the two in each other's arms, sleeping sweetly. All the
passion of his soul is still centred in Cecil.
Yet he feels a trifle curious about himself. Is he stock or stone? He
has known of strong men being swept from their moorings when duty,
honor, and all that was most sacred held them elsewhere; nay, he has
even seen them throw away the world and consider it well lost for a
woman's love. If he should never see madame again he would not grieve
deeply, but being here he will see her often, and there is no danger.
By some curious cross-light of mental retrospect he also knows that if
Violet were the beloved wife of any other man--the large-hearted
professor, for instance--he could see her daily without one covetous
pang. He likes her very, very much, she is dear to him, but he is not
in love, and he rather exults in being so cool-headed. Is it anything
but a wild dream, soon burned out to ashes?
Madame Lepelletier, in the solitude of her room, studies her superb
figure, with its rich and affluent lines. No mere beauty of pink
cheeks, dimples, of seventeen, can compare with it, and she understands
the art of keeping it fresh and perfect for some years to come at
least. Floyd Grandon is just beginning a career that will delight and
satisfy him beyond anything he dreams of to-night. He is not in love
with his wife; he did not want her fortune, there were others already
made at hand. A foolish pity, the remnant of youth, moved him, and some
day he will look back in amazement at his folly. But all the same he
has put a slight upon her preference, shown to him, but not in any wise
confessed. She has no silly sentiment, neither would she cloud her
position for a prince of the blood royal, or what is saying more, for
the man she _could_ love, but society has devious turns and varying
latitudes. One need not run squarely against the small fences it puts
up, to gain satisfaction.
Prof. Freilgrath comes up home with his friend the next morning. There
are some dates to verify, some designs to decide upon, but he will not
remain to luncheon. Grandon steps out to greet Denise, when the
opposite door opens, and two quaint laughing figures appear. Violet is
wrapped in her shepherd's plaid, the corner twisted into a bewitching
hood and surmounted by a cluster of black ribbon bows. She holds Cecil
by the hand, who looks a veritable Red Ridinghood, tempting enough to
ensnare any wolf. Both are bright and vivid, and have a fresh,
blown-about look that walking in the wind invariably imparts. Cecil
springs into his arms, and still holding her he bends to kiss Violet.
"You have not walked up?" he asks, in surprise.
"It was not very far, and it is such a lovely, glowing morning," Violet
says, with a touch of deprecation.
"We ran," cries Cecil, with her exuberant spirits in her tone. "We ran
races, and I beat! And we played a wolf was coming. Mamma has seen real
wolves in Canada. But if we had a pony carriage,--because Aunt Marcia
is stingy sometimes----"
"O Cecil!" interposes Violet, in distress.
"Would you like one, Violet? You could soon learn to drive," and he
glances into her deep, dewy eyes, her face that is a glow of delight.
"Marcia has been very kind, and has let me drive Dolly a little. I
should not be afraid, and it would be so delightful."
"You quite deserve it, I have to leave you so much to entertain
yourselves. Now rest a little and I will walk back with you."
The professor comes out. "They will stay for lunch, good Denise," he
announces, quite peremptorily. "Good morning, Mrs. Grandon; good
morning, little one! We have been sadly dissipated fellows, going
around on what you call 'larks,' and you ought to scold us both."
"I don't know why!" she rejoins, with a bright smile. She is suddenly
very happy; it tingles along every nerve.
"What a pretty--hood, do you call it?" says Grandon, rather awkwardly,
trying to unfasten Violet's wrap.
"And the little one is a picture!" adds the professor, glancing from
one to the other.
"Mamma made mine," cries Cecil. "She had one when she was a little
girl, and her papa brought it from Paris."
Grandon laughs. They go to look at the designs, and Violet makes
business-like little comments that surprise them both. She is so eager
to have the book done, to see it in proper shape with her own eyes. "I
shall really feel famous," she declares, with a pretty air of
consequence, archly assumed.
The lunch is delightful, and Violet confesses that yesterday they all
entered with felonious intent, and did eat and drink, and surreptitiously
waste and destroy.
"You didn't get Gertrude here?" asks Floyd. "What magic did you use?"
"And Denise made such a lovely fire for her," says Cecil. "She wasn't a
bit cold. I wish we could live here, it is so little and nice."
That seems to amuse the professor greatly. He feeds Cecil grapes, and
plans how it shall be. Grandon, too, seems in unusual spirits; and
presently they have an enchanting walk home. The October day is
gorgeous, and they find some chestnuts. The pony carriage is talked
over again, and Floyd promises to look it up immediately.
That evening at dinner Marcia says, suddenly, "Did you and the
professor dine with madame last night? Mother's letter came this
morning, in which she spoke of expecting you. Of course madame looked
like a queen in
"'The folds of her wine-dark velvet dress.'"
"It was--blue or green or something, only _not_ wine-color," says
Floyd.
"Was any one else there?"
"No, it was just for the professor."
"She might have had the goodness to remember there were more in the
family. Mrs. Grandon and myself," declares Eugene, almost in a tone of
vexation.
"What was the opera? I think you _are_ getting very----"
"'Martha,'" he interrupts, quickly. "An acquaintance of madame's sang
as _Plunkett_, and did extremely well; a young Italian who only a year
or two ago lost his fortune."
"Brignoli used to be divine as _Lionel_," says Marcia. "I don't believe
I should like another person in that _rôle_. Of course madame is making
a great sensation in New York. What a wonderfully handsome woman she
is, and--do you remember, Gertrude, whether any one ever made any great
fuss about her in her youth?"
Gertrude colors at this thrust of ancient memory.
"She is the handsomest woman I ever saw," begins Eugene, and his glance
falls upon Violet. "Of course she was handsome always, and you need not
hint enviously of a lost youth, Marcia. She looks younger than any of
you girls to-day. There wasn't one at Newport who could hold a candle
to her. The men were mowed down 'n swaths. Not one could stand before
her."
"Then _I_ say she is a coquette," is Marcia's decisive reply. "I dare
say there will be no end of dinners and Germans and lovers. It's
fearfully mean in Laura not to take a house for the winter and invite a
body down. It is horrid dull here! Floyd, do _you_ mean to stay up all
winter?"
"Why not? I have not spent a winter here since I was a boy, in the old
farm-house with Aunt Marcia."
"What an awful place it was!" Marcia is quite forgetting her _rôle_ of
severe high art. "I believe she always chose the coldest days in winter
and the warmest days in summer to invite us. I don't see how you
endured it!"
"I not only endured it," says Floyd, meditatively, "but I liked it."
"Well, one _might_ like it with a fortune in the background," Eugene
rejoins, with covert insolence.
The dessert is being brought in, which causes a lull in the family
strictures. Floyd frowns and is silent. When they rise, Cecil runs to
the drawing-room, and the two follow her.
"Play a little," says her husband; and Violet sits down, thinking of
the handsome woman she has never yet seen, but who seems to have
bewitched all the family.
Floyd is down twice again before the day on which he escorts his mother
home. On one of these occasions he buys the pony. Violet and Cecil are
both filled with delight, and Floyd gives his wife a little driving
practice. He is so good to her, she thinks, but she sometimes wishes he
would talk to her about madame.
They are quite enthusiastic at Mrs. Grandon's return, but her distance
and elegance chill Violet to the very soul. She has no part in the
general cordiality, and Floyd finds himself helpless to mend matters.
For the first time since he has come home he regrets that this great
house is his portion, and that half, at least, had not gone to the
rest. He has a desperate desire to take Violet and live in the cottage,
as Cecil has proposed.