"The branches cross above our eyes,
The skies are in a net."
The plans have been made without taking Violet into the slightest
account, or Floyd, as master of the house. Laura and madame are to come
up for a week, and there must be a dinner and an evening party. Laura
was compelled to have such a quiet wedding, and it was really shameful
to make so much use of madame and offer her so little in return.
"I really don't know what to do about the rooms," says Mrs. Grandon.
"It was absurd in Floyd to take that elegant spare chamber when he had
two rooms of his own and all the tower; and if one should say a word,
my lady would be in high dudgeon, no doubt."
"Mother," begins Gertrude in a calm tone,--and it seems as if Gertrude
had lost her sickly whine in this bracing autumn weather,--"you do
Violet great injustice. She will give up the room with pleasure the
moment she is asked."
"Oh, I dare say!" with a touch of scorn, meant to wither both speaker
and person spoken of, "if I were to go down on my knees, which I never
have done yet."
"You forget the house is Floyd's."
"No, I do _not_; I am not allowed to," with stately emphasis. "When
Floyd was down to the city he was the tenderest of sons to me. She is
a sly, treacherous little thing; you can see it in her face. I never
would trust a person with red hair, and she sets him up continually.
He is so different when he is away from her; Laura remarked it. How
he ever could have married her!"
"It would be the simplest act of courtesy to speak about the room; just
mention it to Floyd."
Mrs. Grandon draws a long, despairing sigh, as if she had been put upon
to the uttermost.
"We must invite the Brades and the Van Bergens to the dinner, though I
suppose Laura will choose the guests and divide them to her liking;
only at the dinner we shall have no dancing. Laura is to come up
to-morrow."
"If you would like me to speak about the room----" says Gertrude.
"I believe I am still capable of attending to my own affairs," is the
lofty rejoinder.
Marcia, with her head full of coming events, waylays Floyd on his
return that morning.
"I want some money," she says, with a kind of infantile gayety. "I have
bills and bills; their name is legion."
"How much?" he asks, briefly.
"I think--you may as well give me a thousand dollars," in a rather
slow, considering tone.
He looks at her in surprise.
"Well," and she tosses her head, setting the short curls in a flutter,
"is a thousand dollars so large a sum?"
"You had better think before spending it," he answers, gravely. "You
will then have four thousand left."
"It is my own money."
"I know it is. But, Marcia, you all act as if there was to be no end to
it. If you should get all your part, the ten thousand, it would be only
a small sum and easily spent. What do you want to do with so much just
now?"
"I told you I had bills to pay," she says, pettishly, "and dresses to
get." Then she lights upon what seems to her a withering sarcasm. "I
have no one to take me to Madame Vauban's and pay no end of bills. If I
bought dresses like that when I had no need of them and was not in
society----"
"Hush, Marcia!" he commands, "you shall have your money. Spend it as
you like," and he strides through the hall. He has been sorely tried
with Eugene, who will _not_ interest himself in work, and has been
indulging in numerous extravagances; and business has not improved,
though everything in the factory goes smoothly.
Violet is in Cecil's room, teaching her some dainty bits of French. She
looks up with a bright smile and a blush, the color ripples over her
face so quickly. His is so grave. If she only had the courage to go and
put her arms about his neck and inquire into the trouble. She is so
intensely sympathetic, so generous in all her moods.
He has come home to take her to drive. It is such a soft,
Indian-summery day, with the air full of scents and sounds, but all the
pleasure has gone out of it now for him.
"Papa, listen to me," says Cecil, with her pretty imperiousness. "I can
talk to mamma in real French."
He smiles languidly and listens. If a man should lose his all, this
dainty, dimpled little creature playing at motherhood could set a
table, sweep a house, make her children's clothes and perhaps keep
cheerful through it. Was there ever any such woman, or is he dreaming?
He goes to hunt up Marcia's property, and is tempted to hand it over to
her and never trouble his head about it again. But that will not be the
part of prudence, any more than trusting their all to Eugene. Having
accepted the burthen, he must not lay it down at any chance
resting-place. So he hands it to her quietly at luncheon, and that
evening listens courteously to his mother's plans, offering no
objection.
"But he did not evince the slightest interest," she declares to Marcia.
"And you will see that every possible obstacle will be put in the way."
"And he can spend his money upon pony carriages for her!" retorts
Marcia, spitefully.
The pony carriage is indeed a grievance, and when Floyd teaches his
wife to ride, as her pony is accustomed to the saddle, the cup brims
over. He has announced the visitors to her, and she dreads, yet is most
anxious to see Madame Lepelletier.
"Was not this room hers when she was here in the summer?" asks Violet,
standing by the window.
"Yes," answers her husband, but he makes no further comment. It looks
like crowding Violet out, and he is not sure he wants that. He will
have her treated with the utmost respect during this visit, and it will
prove an opportunity to establish her in her proper standing as his
wife.
It all comes about quite differently. Violet is at the cottage, and has
gone up to take a look at papa's room and put some flowers on the
table. All is so lovely and peaceful. There is no place in the world
like it, for it is not the chamber of death, but rather that of
resurrection.
"Violet," calls her husband.
She turns to run down the stairs. It is a trifle dark, and how it
happens she cannot tell, but she lands on the floor almost at her
husband's feet, and one sharp little cry is all.
He picks her up and carries her to the kitchen, laying her on Denise's
cane-seat settee, where she shudders and opens her eyes, then faints
again.
"I wonder if any bones are broken!" And while Denise is bathing her
forehead, he tries her arms, which are safe. Then as he takes one small
foot in his hand she utters a piercing exclamation of pain. Prof.
Freilgrath is away; there is nothing but for Floyd to go for a
physician. He looks lingeringly, tenderly at the sweet child face, and
kisses the cold lips. Yes, she _is_ very dear to him.
He brings back the doctor speedily. One ankle is badly sprained, and
there seems a wrench of some kind in her back. She must be undressed
and put to bed, and her ankle bandaged. He makes her draw a dozen long
respirations.
"I do not believe it can be anything serious," he says, kindly, "but we
will keep good watch. I will be in again early in the morning. There is
no present cause for anxiety," studying Grandon's perturbed face.
"I hope there is none at all," the husband responds, gravely.
"And--would it be possible to move her in a day or two?"
"She had better lie there on her back for the next week. You see, it is
a great shock to both nerves and muscles: we are not quite birds of the
air," and he laughs cheerily. "We will see how it goes with her
to-morrow."
Floyd returns to the chamber. Violet has a bright spot on either cheek,
and her eyes have a frightened, restless expression.
"It was so careless of me," she begins, in her soft tone that ought to
disarm and conquer any prejudice. "I should have looked, but I have
grown so used to running up and down."
"Accidents happen to the best of people." Then he has to laugh at the
platitude, and she laughs, too. "I mean--" he begins--"well, you are
not to worry or blame yourself, or to take the slightest trouble. I am
sorry it should happen just now, or at any time, for that matter, and
my only desire is that you shall get perfectly well and strong. It
might have been worse, my little darling," and he kisses her tenderly.
Then suddenly he realizes how very much worse it might have been, if
she had been left maimed and helpless; and bending over, folds her in
such an ardent embrace that every pulse quivers, and her first impulse
is to run away from something she cannot understand, yet is vaguely
delicious when the fear has ceased.
"I must go down to the park, but I will be back soon and stay all
night. Denise will bring you up a cup of tea." Then he kisses her again
and leaves her trembling with a strange, secret joy.
Rapidly as he drives home, he finds them all at dinner. "You are late,"
his mother exclaims sharply, but makes no further comment. Eugene
stares a little at the space behind him, and wonders momentarily. But
when he seats himself and is helped, he remarks that Cecil is not
present and inquires the reason.
"She was very naughty," explains Mrs. Grandon, severely. "Floyd, the
best thing you can do is to send that child back to England. She is
completely spoiled, and no one can manage her. If you keep on this way
she will become unendurable."
Floyd Grandon makes no answer. If Marcia and Eugene would not tease her
so continually, and laugh at the quick and sometimes insolent retorts!
"Where is Violet?" inquires Gertrude.
"She is at the cottage. She has met with an accident," he replies,
gravely.
"Oh!" Gertrude is really alarmed. The rest are curious, indifferent.
"What is it, what has happened?"
"She slipped and fell down-stairs, and has sprained her ankle; beside
the shock, we trust there are no more serious hurts."
"Those poky little stairs!" says Marcia. "I wonder some one's neck has
not been broken before this. Why do you not tear them out, Floyd, and
have the place altered. It has some extremely picturesque points and
would make over beautifully."
"It wouldn't be worth the expense," says Eugene, decisively, "on that
bit of cross road with no real street anywhere. I wonder at St. Vincent
putting money in such a cubby as that."
"The situation is exquisite," declares Marcia. "It seems to just hang
on the side of the cliff, and the terraced lawn and gardens would look
lovely in a sketch; on an autumn day it would be at its best, with the
trees in flaming gold and scarlet, and the intense green of the pines.
I really must undertake it before it is too late. Or as 'Desolation' in
midwinter it would be wonderfully effective."
"The most effective, I think."
Eugene is angry with Floyd for being the real master of the situation
and not allowing him to draw on the firm name for debts. He takes a
special delight in showing ill-temper to the elder.
"I am so glad," says Gertrude to Floyd, as soon as there is sufficient
lull to be heard. "Broken limbs are sometimes extremely troublesome.
But she will not be able to walk for some weeks if it is bad."
"It was dreadfully swollen by the time Dr. Hendricks came. I am very
thankful it was no worse, though that will be bad enough just when I
wanted her well," he says, with an energetic ring to his voice that
causes his mother to glance up.
"It is extremely unfortunate," she comments, with sympathy plainly
ironical. "What had we better do? Our dinner invitations are out."
"Everything will go on just the same," he answers, briefly, but he is
sick at heart. His life seems sacrificed to petty dissensions and the
selfish aims of others. The great, beautiful house is his, but he has
no home. The wife that should be a joy and pleasure is turned by them
into a thorn to prick him here and there. Even his little child--
"Jane, what was the trouble?" he asks, a few minutes later, as he
enters Cecil's room, where she is having a cosy dinner with her small
dishes.
"O papa--and I don't mind at all! It's just splendid up here."
"Hush, Cecil," rather peremptorily.
"Mrs. Grandon was--I _do_ think she was cross," says Jane. "Miss Cecil
said she would wait for her mamma, and Mrs. Grandon said----" Jane
hesitates.
"Isn't it your house, papa? Grandmamma shook me because I said so," and
Cecil glances up defiantly.
"What did Mrs. Grandon say?" he asks, quietly, of Jane; for intensely
as he dislikes servants' gossip, he will know what provocation was
given to his child.
"She said that Miss Cecil wasn't mistress here nor any one else, and
that she would not have dinner kept waiting for people who chose to be
continually on the go. She took Miss Cecil's hand, and the child jerked
away, and she scolded, and Miss Cecil said that about the house."
"Very well, I understand all that is necessary." He has not the heart
to scold Cecil, the one being in the house devoted to Violet, and looks
at her with sad eyes as he says,--
"Mamma has had a bad fall, and is ill in bed. You must be a good girl
to-night and not make trouble for Jane."
"Oh, let me go to her!" Cecil is down from her dainty table, clinging
to her father. "Let me go, I will be so good and quiet, and not tease
her for stories, but just smooth her pretty hair as I did when her head
ached. Oh, you will let me go?"
He raises her in his arms and kisses the rosy, beseeching lips, while
the earnest heart beats against his own. "My darling," there is a
little tremble in his voice, "my dear darling, I cannot take you
to-night, but if you will be brave and quiet you shall go to-morrow.
See if you cannot earn the indulgence, and not give papa any trouble,
because you love him."
A long, quivering breath and dropping tears answer him. He is much
moved by her effort and comforts her, puts her back in her chair, and
utters a tender good night. Gertrude waylays him in the hall for a
second assurance that matters are not serious with Violet, and sends
her love. He sees no one else, and goes out in the darkness with a step
that rings on the walk. It seems to him that he has never been so angry
in all his life, and never so helpless.
"She has had her tea and fallen asleep," announces Denise, in a low
tone, as if loud talking was not permissible, even at the kitchen door.
"I think the powder was an anodyne. There is another for her in the
night if she is restless."
He goes up over the winding stairs with a curious sensation. She lies
there asleep, one arm thrown partly over her head, the soft white
sleeve framing in the fair hair that glitters as if powdered with
diamond-dust. The face is so piquant, so brave, daring, seductive, with
its dimples and its smiling mouth, albeit rather pale. His stern, tense
look softens. She is sweet enough for any man to love: she has ten
times the sense of Marcia, the strength and spirit of Gertrude, and
none of the selfishness of Laura. She is pretty, too, the kind of
prettiness that does not awe or stir deeply or _command_ worship. What
is it--and an old couplet half evades him--
"A creature not too bright and good
For human nature's daily food."
That just expresses her. What with the writing and the business, he has
had so little time for her, but henceforth she shall be his delight. He
will devote himself to her pleasure. Proper or not, she shall go to the
city and see the gayety, hear concerts and operas and plays, even if
they have to go in disguise. But how to give her her true position at
home puzzles him sorely. He had meant to introduce her at these coming
parties, but of course that is quite out of the question.
Denise comes up presently, the kindly friend, the respectful domestic,
and takes a low seat when Mr. Grandon insists upon her remaining
awhile. Something in her curious Old World reverence always touches
him. He asks about Violet's childhood, whatever she remembers. The
mother she never saw; but she has been with the St. Vincents thirteen
years. They lived in Quebec for more than half that time; then Mr. St.
Vincent was abroad for two years, and Miss Violet went to the convent.
Denise is a faithful Romanist, but she has always honored her master's
faith,--perhaps because he has been so generous to hers.
There is some tea on the kitchen stove keeping warm, she tells him with
her good night, some biscuits and crackers, and a bottle of wine, if he
likes better. Then he is left alone, and presently the great clock in
the hall tells off slowly and reverently the midnight hour.
Violet stirs and opens her eyes. There is a light, and Mr. Grandon is
sitting here. What does it all mean? Her face flushes and she gives a
sudden start, half rising, and then drops back on the pillow, many
shades paler.
"I know now," she cries. "You came back to stay with me?"
There is a thrill of exultant joy in her tone. Does such a simple act
of duty give her pleasure, gratify her to the very soul? He is touched,
flattered, and then almost pained.
"You do not suppose I would leave you alone all night, my little
Violet?"
"It was good of you to come," she insists. "But are you going to sit
up? I am not really ill."
"Your back hurt you, though, when you stirred. I saw it in your face."
"It hurt only a little. I shall have to keep quiet, now," with a bright
smile.
"And your ankle must be bathed. I should have done it before but you
were sleeping so sweetly. Does your head ache, or is there any pain?"
"Only that in my back; but when I am still it goes away. My ankle feels
so tight. If the bandage could be loosened----"
"I think it best not." Then he bathes it with the gentlest handling,
until the thick layers have been penetrated. Will she have anything to
eat or to drink? Had she better take the second powder?
"Not unless I am restless, and I am not--very, am I?" with a soft
little inquiry.
"Not at all, I think," holding her wrist attentively.
"Are you going to sit up all night?" she asks.
"I am going to sit here awhile and put my head on your pillow, so,
unless you send me away."
"Send you away!" she echoes, in a tone that confesses unwittingly how
glad she is to have him.
Her hand is still in his, and he buries it in his soft beard, or bites
the fingers playfully. Her warm cheek is against his on the pillow, and
he can feel the flush come and go, the curious little heat that
bespeaks agitation. It is an odd, new knowledge, pleasing withal, and
though he is in some doubt about the wisdom, he hates even to move.
"You are quite sure you are comfortable?" he asks again.
"Oh, delightful!" There is a lingering cadence in her voice, as if
there might be more to say if she dared.
"You must go to sleep again, like a good child," he counsels, with a
sense of duty uppermost.
She breathes very regularly, but she is awake long after he fancies her
oblivious. She feels the kisses on her cheek and on her prisoned
fingers, and is very, very happy, so happy that the pain in her ankle
is as nothing to bear.
Dr. Hendricks makes a very good report in the morning. The patient's
back has been strained, and the ankle is bad enough, but good care will
soon overcome that. She must lie perfectly still for several days.
"When can she be moved?" Mr. Grandon asks.
"Moved? Why, she can't be moved at all! She is better off here than she
would be with a crowd around her bothering and wanting to wait on her,
as mothers and sisters invariably do," with a half-laughing nod at
Grandon. "Her back must get perfectly strong before she even sits up.
The diseases and accidents of life are not half as bad as the under or
over care, often most injudicious."
"Oh, do let me stay!" pleads Violet, with large, soft, beseeching eyes.
He has been planning how she shall be honored and cared for in her own
home, and does not like to yield. To have her out of the way here will
gratify all the others too much.
"Of course you will stay," the doctor says. "When a woman promises to
obey at the marriage altar, there is always an exception in the case of
that privileged and tyrannical person, the doctor."
Violet smiles, and is glad of the tyranny.
"She may see one or two guests and have a book to read, but she is not
to sit up."
The guest to-day is Cecil, but Denise makes the kitchen so altogether
attractive that Cecil's heart is very much divided. Mr. Grandon spends
part of the afternoon reading aloud, but his mellow, finely modulated
voice is so charming that Violet quite forgets the subject in the
delight of listening to him. Cecil would fain stay and wishes they
could all live with Denise.
Yes, there could be more real happiness in that little nest than in the
great house. Aunt Marcia's gift has not brought him very good luck,
even from the first.