What is the use of so much talking? Is not the wild rose sweet without
a comment?--HAZZLIT.
Since there is no real alarm about Mrs. Floyd, arrangements go onward.
Madame Lepelletier and Mr. and Mrs. Delancy come up on the appointed
day, and madame is led to the lovely guest chamber where she reigned
before. This is Monday, and on Tuesday the _elite_ of Grandon Park and
a select few of the _crême_ of Westbrook are invited to dinner. Laura
is the star of the occasion, but madame is its grace, its surprise, its
charm. The few who have seen her are delighted to renew the
acquaintance, others are charmed, fascinated.
There has been no little undercurrent of curiosity concerning Mr. Floyd
Grandon's wife. The feeling has gone abroad that there is something
about it "not quite, you know." Mrs. Grandon has not concealed her
chagrin and disappointment; Marcia's descriptions are wavering and
unreliable, as well as her regard. This is such an excellent
opportunity for everybody to see and to judge according to individual
preference or favor, and behold there is nothing to see. Mrs. Floyd has
sprained her ankle and is a prisoner in that queer, lonely little
cottage, where her father lived like a hermit. The impression gains
ground that Mr. St. Vincent was something of an adventurer, and that
his connection with the business has been an immense misfortune for the
Grandons; that his daughter is a wild, hoydenish creature, who climbs
rocks and scales fences, and is quite unpresentable in society, though
she may know how to sit still in church.
Floyd Grandon would very much like to escape this dinner, but he
cannot. His position as head of the house, his own house, too, his
coming fame, his prestige as a traveller, make him too important an
object to be able to consult his own wishes. Then there are old
neighbors, who hold out a hand of cordial welcome, who are interested
in his success, and whom he has no disposition to slight.
He takes madame in to dinner, who is regal in velvet and lace. There is
a little whisper about the old love, a suspicion if something that
cannot quite be explained had not happened with the St. Vincent girl,
the "old love" would be on again. There is a delicate impression that
madame was persuaded into her French marriage very much against her
will. She is charming, fascinating, perfection. She distances other
women so far that she even extinguishes jealousy.
It certainly is a delightful dinner party, and Mrs. Grandon is in her
glory. She almost forgives Violet her existence for the opportuneness
of the accident. She is just as much mistress as ever, and to be
important is Mrs. Grandon's great delight. She hates secondary
positions. To be a dowager without the duchess is the great cross of
her life. If Mr. Grandon could have left her wealthy, the sting of his
death would not be half so bitter.
It is late when the guests disperse. Violet has insisted that he shall
not give her an anxious thought, but he is a man, and he does some
incipient envying on her account. Of course to have her up-stairs, an
invalid, would not better the position, but to have her _here_, bright
and well and joyous, full of quaint little charms, and he has never
known how full, how over-brimming she was with all manner of
fascinating devices until the last few days. If his mother could
realize that under this courteous and attentive exterior, the breeding
of the polished man of the world, he is thinking only of Violet in
white wrappers, with a cluster of flowers at her throat, she would be
more than ever amazed at his idiocy.
There is to be a small company at Mrs. Brade's the next evening, a
reception to "dear Laura."
"You _must_ come," declares Mrs. Brade, emphatically. "We ought to
have a chance at our old friend, and you and the boys grew up together.
Do you remember how you used to roast corn and apples at the kitchen
fire, and go over your Latin? Why, it seems only yesterday, and all my
children are married and gone, save Lucia."
"I shall have to be excused," Floyd Grandon says, in a quiet tone, but
with a smile that is fully as decisive. "I shall owe to-morrow evening
to my wife, who cannot yet leave her room."
"How very sad and unfortunate! Are we never to have a sight of her, Mr.
Grandon, except the glimpses in the carriage and at church?"
"Certainly," he answers. "Circumstances have kept us from society, and
I have really had no time for its claims, but I hope to have more
presently for it, as well as for her."
"We shall be glad to see you, never doubt that. Lucia will be so
disappointed to-morrow evening."
Grandon bows. Is there anything more to say proper to the occasion? He
has heard so much during the last three months that he has grown quite
nervous on the subject of society etiquette.
On the morrow Violet is anxious to hear about the dinner. She is young
and full of interest in gay doings, in spite of her early sorrow. He
makes blunders over the dresses, and they both laugh gayly; he
describes the guests and the old friends, and the complimentary
inquiries about her.
"I wish you could be there on Thursday evening," he says, regretfully.
"That is to be a party with dancing, and plenty of young
people,--Laura's companions."
"And I have never been to a real party in all my life!" she cries. "I
suppose I couldn't dance, but I could look on, and there is my lovely
dress!"
"You shall have a party for your own self, and all the dancing you
want," he answers.
"Can _you_ waltz, Mr. Grandon?" she asks, after a moment's thought.
He laughs. The idea of Floyd Grandon, traveller and explorer, whirling
round in a giddy waltz!
"It isn't so ridiculous," she says, her face full of lovely, girlish
resentment. "At school we learned to waltz, but it was with girls,
and--I couldn't ever waltz with any one but you, because--because----"
and her eyes fill up with tears.
"No," he answers, quickly, "I shouldn't ever want you to. I will--I
mean we will both practise up. I did waltz when I was first in India,
but my dancing days came to an end."
She remembers. There was the long sea-voyage and the death of Cecil's
mother.
"My darling," he says, distressed at her grave face and not dreaming of
what is in her thoughts, "when you are well once again, and the right
time comes, you shall dance to your heart's content. I will take you to
a ball,--to dozens of them,--for you have had no real young-girl life.
And now, as soon as you can endure the fatigue, we will go to the city
to operas and theatres. I was thinking, that first night you were hurt,
what a little hermit you had been, and that we would give the
proprieties the go-by for once."
He is leaning over her reclining chair, looking down into her velvety
eyes and watching the restless sweep of the long bronze lashes. The
whole face is electrified with delicious rapture, and she stretches up
her arms to clasp him about the neck.
"Oh, you thought of me, then!" she cries, with a tremulous joy. "You
were planning pleasures for me, and I just laid and slept,"
remorsefully.
"But if you had not slept I should have been ill at ease, and could
have planned no pleasures. It was your bounden duty."
He kisses her fondly. It is quite a new delight. Is he really falling
in love with her? as the phrase goes. It will be delightful to have
duty and inclination join.
"I shall be _so_ careful," she says, when they come back to a
reasonable composure. "Dr. Hendricks said if I was very careful and not
impatient to get about, my ankle would be just as strong as ever. I
want it to be--perfect, so I can dance all night; people do sometimes.
Oh, if I had hurt myself so that I never could get well!" and her face
is pale with terror.
"Don't think of it, my darling."
Cecil comes up, full of importance and in a Holland apron that covers
her from chin almost to ankles. "I have made a cake," she announces,
"and we have just put it in the oven. It is for lunch. You will surely
stay, papa!"
"Surely, surely! Who dressed you up, Cecil?" and he smiles.
"This used to be mamma's," she says, with great dignity. "Denise made
it when she lived with her and used to help her work. There is another
one, trimmed with red, and I am going to have that also."
Violet smiles and holds out her hand; Cecil takes that and slips on her
father's knee, and the love-making is interrupted. But there is a
strange stir and tumult in the young wife's soul and a shyness comes
over her; she feels her husband's eyes upon her, and they seem to go
through every pulse. What is it that so stops her breath, that sends a
sudden heat to her face and then a vague shiver that is not coldness or
terror?
Then he wonders when the professor, who has gone on a brief lecturing
experience, will be back; they are counting on him for the party, and
will be extremely disappointed if he should not reach Grandon Park in
time.
"And he will be surprised to find that some one else has come in and
taken possession," says Violet.
"He is so nice!" remarks Cecil, gravely. "I like him so much better
than I do Uncle Eugene. What makes him my uncle?" with a puzzled frown
on the bright face and a resentful inflection in her voice.
"Fate," answers her father, which proves a still more difficult enigma
to her and keeps her silent many moments.
The lunch is up-stairs, for Violet is not allowed to leave the room,
though all bruises and strains are well and the ankle is gaining every
day. The father, mother, and child get on without any trouble, though
Cecil is rather imperious at times. Denise will not have any one to
help her, and she is in a little heaven of delight as she watches the
two. Floyd Grandon loves his wife, as is meet and right, and she is
learning to love him in a modest, careful way, as a young wife should.
Such a bride as Laura would shock Denise.
Floyd absents himself from the great house, and sends Eugene, who is
nothing loth, to wait upon the ladies and perform their behests. Laura
does not care so much, and Mrs. Grandon is in her element, but madame
feels that as the child was her _bête noire_ in the summer, so is the
wife now,--a something that keeps him preoccupied. She is very anxious
to see the husband and wife together, but every hour seems so filled,
and she cannot ask Floyd to take her. "After the party," says Laura,
"there will be plenty of time. She is nothing to see, but, of course,
we will pay her the compliment."
This evening reception is really a great thing to Laura, who feels that
it is particularly for her glory, as the dinner was an honor to her
mother. It is not cold weather yet, and the lawn is to be hung with
colored lanterns, the rooms are to put on all their bravery; she wants
to say to the world, her little world, "This is the house Arthur
Delancy took me from, even if I had no great fortune. I can vie with
the rest of you."
Gertrude comes up to the cottage in the morning for a little quiet and
rest. She is the only one who has paid Violet the compliment of a call.
"And I don't at all care for the fuss and crowd," she says. "I shall be
so glad when it is over and one isn't routed from room to room. Oh, how
lovely and cosey you are here!"
"Mr. Grandon," Violet begins, with entreaty in tone and eyes, "couldn't
we have the professor's chair up to-day, just for Gertrude; it is so
deliciously restful. It is shocking for me to indulge in comfort and
see other people sitting in uneasy chairs."
Floyd brings it up. Gertrude is so tall that it seems made for her. The
soft, thick silk of the cushions, with a curious Eastern fragrance, the
springs to raise and to lower, to sleep and to lounge, are perfection.
Gertrude sinks into it with her graceful languor, and for once looks
neither old nor faded, but delicate and high-bred. Her complexion has
certainly improved,--it is less sallow and has lost the sodden look;
and her eyes are pensive when she smiles.
She proves very entertaining. Perhaps a little cynicism is mixed with
her descriptions of the guests and their raiment, but it adds a
piquancy in which Floyd has been utterly deficient. Silks and satins,
and point and Venetian seem real laces when a woman talks about them.
And the prospect for to-night is like a bit of enchantment.
"Oh, I should like to see it!" Violet cries, eagerly. "I wonder if it
will ever look so lovely again. And the orchestra! I wish I could be
down in the pretty summer-house looking and listening. Will they dance
any out of doors, think?"
"We used to waltz on the long balconies. I dare say they will again.
Laura had a delightful ball just before papa was taken ill, when she
and Arthur were first engaged. Why, it is just about a year ago, but it
seems so long since then," and Gertrude sighs. "Floyd ought to give you
a ball when you begin to go into society. Marcia and I had balls when
we were eighteen."
"I shall not be eighteen until next June," says Violet.
"Oh, how young you are! Why, I must seem--And think how much older
Floyd is!"
"You seem pleasant and lovely to me. What does a few years signify?"
protests Violet.
Gertrude watches her curiously for some seconds. "I hope you will
always be very happy, and that Floyd will be fond of you."
"Of course he will," returns Violet, with a sudden flush. He is fond of
her now, she is quite sure. She can remember so many deliciously sweet
moments that she could tell to no one, and her heart beats with quick
bounds.
Gertrude knows more of the world and is silent. What if some day Floyd
should become suddenly blinded by madame's fascinations? It is always
so in novels.
Somewhere about mid-afternoon there is a breezy voice in the house, and
a step comes up the stair which is not Grandon's. A light tap, and the
partly open door is pushed wider.
"Mr. Grandon allows me the privilege of making a call of condolence,"
the professor says, with his cheery smile, that wrinkles his face in
good-humored lines. "My dear Mrs. Grandon, did you really forget you
had no wings when you attempted to fly? Accept my sympathies, my very
warmest, for I was once laid up in the same way, without the excuse of
the stairs. Ah, Miss Grandon," and he holds out his hand to her, "have
you given up the pleasure at the park?"
"I wouldn't let her give up the reception," interrupts Violet. "No one
is to give it up for me," and she remembers suddenly that no one has
offered.
"I should be a great deal happier and better pleased to remain here,"
responds Gertrude, "but Laura would be vexed. After all, it is a good
deal to her and madame. Mrs. Floyd Grandon will take her turn next
year, when she arrives at legal age. She is yet a mere child."
"It is so, _mignonne_, and you could not dance with a lame foot."
"You are going?" Violet says.
"Yes, I hurried back. Mrs. Delancy was so kind as to send a note. And I
had a desire to see my friend's house on this occasion. But why were
you not moved?" and he turns his questioning eyes on Violet.
"The doctor forbade it," answers Violet. "And I want to get thoroughly
well, so I obey."
"That is good, that is good," replies the professor, in a tone of the
utmost commendation.
They have a most agreeable chat until Mr. Grandon comes in, when Denise
sends up some tea and wafer biscuits that would tempt an anchorite. The
carriage is at the door for Gertrude, and an urgent note for Floyd, who
has been deep in business all the afternoon, making up Eugene's
shortcomings.
"You must go," Violet says, but it is half questioningly.
"Yes. Gertrude, I shall be very glad to have you keep me in
countenance. We will discourse cynically upon the follies of the day
and young people in general."
"No," Violet says, with pretty peremptoriness. "Gertrude is going to be
young to-night. Oh, what will you wear?"
"There is nothing but black silk," answers Gertrude, "and that never
was especially becoming, as I can indulge in no accessories. But
Laura's dress is perfection. The palest, loveliest pink you can
imagine, and no end of lace. Luckily, Mr. Delancy has not his fortune
to make."
Floyd kisses his wife tenderly and whispers some hurried words of
comfort. When they are gone the professor drops into his own luxurious
chair and does not allow Mrs. Grandon time for despondency. He has an
Old World charm; he has, too, the other charm of a young and fresh
heart when he is not digging into antiquities.
Some way the talk comes around to Gertrude. She is so delicate, so
melancholy, she shrinks so away from all the happy confusion that most
women love. "Is it her grief for her father?" he asks.
"I don't think it all that," says Violet, with a most beguiling flush.
"There was another sorrow in her life, a--she loved some one very much.
If he had died it would not have been as bad, but--oh, I wonder if I
_ought_ to tell?" and she finds so much encouragement in his eyes that
she goes on. "He was--very unworthy."
"Ah!" The professor strokes and fondles his long, sunny beard. "But she
should cast him out, she should not keep pale and thin, and in ill
health, and brood over the trouble."
"I do not believe her life is--well, you see they all have other
pursuits and are fond of society, and she stays too much alone,"
explains Violet, with a perplexed brow. "She is so good to me, I like
her."
"Who could help being good to thee, _mignonne_?" and the look with
which he studies the flower-like face brings a soft flush to it.
Torture would not make her complain, but she feels in her inmost soul
that Gertrude, alone, has been even kind. And she wishes somehow she
could make him like her better than any of the others, even the
beautiful madame, about whom he is enthusiastic.
"Bah!" he says. "Why should one go mourning for an unworthy love? When
it is done and over there is the end. When you are once disenchanted,
how can you believe?"
"But you are not disenchanted," says Violet, stoutly. "You have
believed and loved, you have made a little world of your own, and even
if it does go down in the great ocean you can never quite forget it was
there."
"But there are other worlds. See, Mrs. Grandon, when I was
two-and-twenty I loved to madness. She was eighteen and adorable, but
her mother would not hear to a betrothment. I had all my fortune yet to
make. I threw up my hopes and aims and took to commercial pursuits,
which I hated. We exchanged vows and promised to wait, and the end of
it was that she married a handsome young fellow with a fortune. I went
back to my books. A few years afterward I saw her, stout, rosy, and
happy, with her two children, and then--well, I did not want her. The
life she delighted in would have been ashes in my mouth. It was better,
much better. People are not all wise at two-and-twenty."
"If Gertrude had something to do," says Violet, "and that is where men
are fortunate. They can try so many things."
The professor goes on stroking his head, and drops into a revery. "Yes,
it is hard," he says, "it is hard." And he wonders not at the colorless
life.
But he must smoke his pipe and then dress for the party, so he bids
Violet a cordial good evening. She feels a little tired after all the
excitements of the day, and is glad to have Denise put her in bed,
where she lies dreamily and wonders what love is like.
Meanwhile the reception is at its height, and it is certainly a
success. Laura has discriminated in this affair, like a shrewd woman of
the world that she is already. The dinner had to satisfy the _amour
propre_ of old friends; this was allowed a wider latitude. The rooms
are brilliantly lighted, and glow with autumn flowers; the wide out of
doors with its rich fragrance shows in colored tones and blended tints,
sending long rays over the river. Floyd Grandon may well be proud of
his home, and to-night, in spite of some discomforts, he feels that he
would not exchange it for anything he has seen that it was possible for
him to possess. If Violet were only here! How she would enjoy the
lights, the music, the throngs of beautifully dressed women! Floyd
Grandon is no cynic. He admires beauty and grace and refinement, and it
is here at its best, its finest. Not mere youthfulness. There are
distinguished people, who would have gone twice the distance to meet
Mr. Grandon and Prof. Freilgrath. The Latimers are really enchanted,
and Mrs. Delancy rises in the esteem of many who have looked upon her
as simply a bright and pretty girl who has made a good marriage.
Indirectly this is of immense benefit to the business, though that was
farthest from Laura's thoughts. There have been rumors that "Grandon &
Co." have not prospered of late, and there is a curiously indefinite
feeling about them in business circles. The rumor gains credence from
this on, that Floyd Grandon's private fortune is something fabulous,
and that for family reasons he stands back of all possible mishap; that
a misfortune will not be allowed.
If Eugene is not a success amid the toil and moil of business, he
shines out pre-eminently on such occasions as these. His handsome face
and fine society breeding render him not only a favorite, but a great
attraction. Not a girl but is honored by his smile, and the elder
ladies give him that charming indulgence which is incense to his
vanity. Eugene Grandon is too thoroughly selfish to be silly or even
weak, and this very strength of demeanor carries a certain weight, even
with men, and is irresistible to the tenderer sex.
If there is a spot that is touched it is his utter admiration for
madame. She treats him as if he were still in the tender realms of
youth; she calls him Eugene, and asks pretty favors of him in a
half-caressing manner that is not to be misunderstood. She puts the
years between them in a very distinct manner. She will have no
"philandering." He _belongs_ to the young girls. She dances with him
several times, and then chooses partners for him. She is regal
to-night, that goes without saying. Her velvet is a pale lavender, that
in certain lights looks almost frost white, and it fits her perfect
figure admirably.
Laura has been disappointed in the wish of her soul, her grand stroke.
"Floyd," she said, when he came down, looking the faultless gentleman,
"you must open the dancing with Madame Lepelletier. You can walk
through a quadrille, so you need not begin with excuses. I have
arranged the set."
"In this you _must_ excuse me, Laura," he answers, with quiet decision.
"I have not danced for years, and, under the circumstances----"
"You don't mean you are going to turn silly, just because--your wife is
not here?" and her authority dominates his. "It would not be decent for
her to dance if she were here! We never even went to a dancing party
after papa's death, until--well, not until this autumn, and I wouldn't
marry before six months had elapsed. Then, I have everything planned, I
have even spoken to madame. O Floyd!" and seeing his face still
unrelenting, her eyes fill with tears.
"My dear Laura----" A woman's slow tears move him inexpressibly, while
noisy crying angers him, and he bends to kiss her. "Do not feel hurt,
my child. Command me in anything else, but this I cannot do."
"Oh, I know, she made you promise, the mean, jealous little thing!"
"Hush," he commands. "She asked no favors and I made no promises. She
would not care if I danced every set."
"That is just it!" cries Laura, angrily. "She doesn't care, she doesn't
know----"
"She is my wife!" He walks away, so indignant the first moment that he
all but resolves to return to Violet, then his duty as host presents
itself. He and the professor and a few others keep outside of the magic
circle, but no one would suspect from his demeanor that he had been
ruffled for an instant. There is enough enjoyment in the rambles about
the lawn and smoking on the balcony. It is the perfection of an early
autumn night; in fact, for two or three days it has been unusually
warm.
Gertrude looks quite well for her. Madame has added a few incomparable
toilet touches. Floyd is attentive to her, and Prof. Freilgrath takes
her to supper, promenades with her, and is quite delightful for an old
bookworm. Mr. Latimer talks to her and finds her a great improvement on
Marcia, but the German keeps thinking over her poor little story. If
there _was_ something for her to do! and he racks his brain. There are
no crowds of nephews and nieces, there is no house to keep, there is no
gardening, and he remembers his own busy countrywomen.
A little whisper floats about in the air that young Mrs. Grandon is not
_quite_--but no one finishes the sentence that Laura so points with a
shrug. It seems a pity that a man of his position and attainments
should stumble upon such a _mesalliance_. The sprained ankle is all
very well, but the feeling is that some lack in gift or grace or
education is quite as potent as any physical mishap in keeping her away
to-night. Gertrude, out of pure good-nature, praises her, but Gertrude
is a little _passé_ and rather out of society. The professor speaks
admiringly, but he is Mr. Grandon's _confrère_, and a scholar is not a
very good judge of a young girl's capacity to fill such a place in the
world as Mrs. Floyd Grandon's _ought_ to be. But all this creates in
his favor a romantic sympathy, and this evening men and women alike
have found him charming.