Of a truth there are many unexpected things in a long life.--ARISTOPHANES.
"With whom did you dance?" Violet asks, her face one lovely glow of
eager interest; jealousy and she are unknown at this period.
"Dance? an old fellow like me?"
"You are not old!" and her face is a delicious study of indignation.
"You are not as old as the professor."
"But he did not dance, and Gertrude did not dance."
"Oh," her face clouds over, "are people--do they get too old to dance?"
"They certainly do."
"And you said you would dance with me!" she cries, in despairing
accents.
He laughs heartily, and yet it is very sweet to witness her abandon of
disappointment.
"My darling, I shall not be too old to dance with you until I am bald
and rheumatic and generally shaky," he answers, in a fond tone.
"Then it was because--_was_ it because _I_ was not there?"
"It certainly was"; and he smiles down into the velvety brown eyes.
"And it was very base manners, too."
"Oh," with a long, quivering breath, that moves her whole slender body,
"how thoughtful you were! And did madame dance much?" she asks,
presently. "It must be lovely to see her dance. What did she wear?"
"Violet velvet. Well, the color of some very pale wood violets, such as
I used to find hereabouts when I was a lad. Last summer I found another
kind."
She considers a moment before she sees the point, and then claps her
hands delightedly.
"They are all coming over to call this afternoon, I believe. Isn't
there some sort of pretty gown among those things that came from New
York?"
"Yes, a lovely white cashmere, with bits of purple here and there."
"And I shall carry you down-stairs. We must have a fire made in the
professor's parlor. It will be your reception. The ladies go home on
Saturday."
"And now tell me all about it, last night, I mean. Begin at the very
first," she says, with a bewitching imperiousness.
In spite of himself a quick color goes over his face. The "very first"
was Laura's impossible command. Then he laughs confusedly and
answers,--
"The professor was the earliest guest. Then the train came in and the
people multiplied."
"But I want to hear about the dresses and the music and the lovely
lighted lawn."
The professor comes up and is impressed in the arduous service, but
they are not as much at home as in the description of a ruin, though it
is a great deal merrier. Cecil strays in and climbs over her father's
knee. Her enthusiasm spends itself largely in the kitchen with Denise,
compounding startling dishes, playing house in one corner with a family
of dolls, or talking to the gentle, wise-eyed greyhound.
After lunch Floyd goes down to the park and rummages through Violet's
wardrobe in a state of hapless bewilderment, calling finally upon
Gertrude to make a proper selection. Denise attires her young mistress,
who looks really pale after this enforced seclusion. Mr. Grandon
carries her down-stairs; and if it is not a conventional parlor, the
room still has some picturesque aspects of its own, and the two
luxurious wolf-robes on the floor are grudged afterward, as Laura steps
on them. There is a great jar full of autumn branches and berries in
one corner that sends out a sort of sunset radiance, and a cabinet of
china and various curious matters. But the fire of logs is the crowning
glory. The light dances and shimmers, the logs crackle and send up
glowing sparks, the easy-chairs look tempting. They are all in the
midst of an animated discussion when the carriage drives around. At the
last moment Mrs. Grandon has given out with a convenient headache and
sends regrets.
Violet _is_ curious to see Madame Lepelletier. The lovely woman sweeps
across the room and bends over the chair to take Violet's hand. It is
small and soft and white, and the one slippered foot might vie with
Cinderella's. The clear, fine complexion, the abundant hair with
rippling sheen that almost defies any correct color tint, and is
chestnut, bronze, and dusky by turns, the sweet, dimpled mouth, the
serene, unconscious youth, the truth and honor in the lustrous velvet
eyes: she is not prepared to meet so powerful a rival. The Grandons
have all underrated Violet St. Vincent. Floyd Grandon is not a man to
kindle quickly, but there may come a time when all the adoration of the
man's nature will be aroused by that simple girl.
"Oh," says Laura, pointedly, "are you well enough to come down-stairs?
Now we heard such a dreadful report that you could hardly stir."
"I was not allowed to stir at first." Violet's voice is trained to the
niceties of enunciation, and can really match madame's. Laura's has a
rather crude strain beside it, the acridness of youth that has not yet
ripened. "The doctor has forbidden my trying my foot for some time to
come."
"She has two--what do you call them?--loyal knights to obey her
slightest frown," declares the professor.
"Oh, do I frown?" She smiles now, and the coming color makes her look
like a lovely flower.
"No, no, it is nod or beck. I cannot always remember your little
compliments, and I make blunders," says the professor, quickly.
"She is extremely fortunate," replies madame, who smiles her sweetest
smile, and it is one of rare art and beauty. "I am sorry to have missed
you through this little visit," she continues, with a most fascinating,
delicate regret.
"And I am so sorry." She _is_ sorry now; she feels more at home with
Madame Lepelletier in five minutes than she does with any of the
family, Gertrude excepted. She knows now that she should have enjoyed
the reception, even if she had no right to dance.
Laura spies out the china, and she has the craze badly. Madame turns to
inspect the cabinet. There is a true Capo di Monté, and some priceless
Nankin, and here a set of rare intaglios. Some one must have had taste
and discernment. Laura would like to cavil, but dares not. The
professor tells of curiosities picked up in the buried cities of
centuries ago,--lamps and pitchers and vases and jewels that he has
sent to museums abroad,--and stirs them all with envy.
During this talk Violet listens with an air of interest. She knows at
least some of the points of good breeding, decides madame. She also
asks Grandon to bring two or three odd articles from Denise's cupboard.
"You don't admit that you actually drink out of them," cries Laura, in
amaze, at last.
"Why, yes," and Violet laughs in pure delight. If there was a tint of
triumph in it, Laura would turn savage, but it is so generous, so
genial. "I wish you would accept that," she says, "and drink your
chocolate out of it every day. Won't you please wrap it some way?" and
she turns her eyes beseechingly to Floyd.
The love of possession triumphs over disdain. Laura is tempted so
sorely, and Floyd brings some soft, tough, wrinkled paper, that looks
as if it might have been steeped in amber, and gently wraps the
precious cup and saucer, while Laura utters thanks. They all politely
hope that she will soon be sufficiently recovered to come home, and
madame prefers a gentle request that she shall be allowed to offer her
some hospitality presently when she begins to go into society.
"Oh," declares Violet, when the two gentlemen return from their
farewell devoirs, "how utterly lovely she is! I do not suppose
princesses are _always_ elegant, but she seems like one, the most
beautiful of them all; and her voice is just enchanting! I could
imagine myself being bewitched by her. I could sit and look and
listen----"
"_Mignonne_, thy husband will be jealous," says the professor.
Floyd laughs at that.
"Well, it was a charming call. I was a little afraid Laura would be
vexed over the cup; you see, I don't know the propriety of gift-giving,
but I _do_ know the delight"; and her face is in a lovely glow. "Why do
you suppose people care so much for those things? Papa was always
collecting. Why, _we_ could almost open a museum."
"You can sell them, in a reverse of fortune," says the professor, with
an amusing smile.
Floyd inquires if she will return to her room, but Freilgrath insists
that they shall have tea in here. Mrs. Grandon is his first lady guest.
The carriage meanwhile rolls away in silence. Laura and Gertrude
bickered all the way over, and now, if Gertrude had enough courage and
was aggressive by nature, she would retort, but peace is so good that
she enjoys every precious moment of it; but at night, when Laura is
lingering in Madame Lepelletier's room, while Arthur smokes the remnant
of his cigar on the porch, she says, with a sort of ironical gayety,--
"Well, were you quite extinguished by Mrs. Floyd? You seem dumb and
silent! She looked exceptionally well, toned down and all that, though
I did expect to find her playing with a doll."
"She is quite a pretty girl," returns madame, leisurely, carefully
folding her exquisite lace fichu and laying it back in its scented box.
"Very young, of course, and will be for years to come, yet tolerably
presentable for an _ingenue_. And after all, Laura, she is your
brother's wife."
"But the awful idiocy of Floyd marrying her! And demure as she looks,
she makes desperately large eyes at the professor. So you see she has
already acquired _one_ requisite of fashionable life."
"There will be less to learn," replies madame, with charming
good-nature.
"Oh, I suppose we _shall_ have to take her up some time, but I can
never get over my disappointment, never! It is seeing her in _that_
place that makes me so savage!" and she kisses the handsome woman, who
forgives her; and who hugs to her heart the secret consciousness that
Floyd Grandon does not love his wife, though he may be fond of her.
Violet improves rapidly, and is taken out to drive, for Floyd cannot
bear to have her lose the fine weather. They read a little French
together, and he corrects her rather too provincial pronunciation. Her
education is fairly good in the accomplishments, and she will never
shame him by any ignorance, unless in some of the little usages of
society that he knows no more about than she. Her innocent sweetness
grows upon him daily; he is glad, yes, really glad that he has married
her.
When she does finally return home she is chilled again by the contrast.
Marcia has gone to Philadelphia; Mrs. Grandon is cold to a point of
severity, and most untender to Cecil. Her surprise is a beautiful new
piano, for Laura's has gone to the city. She begins at once with
Cecil's lessons, and this engrosses her to some extent. Cecil is quick
and rapturously fond of music, "real music" as she calls it, but scales
and exercises are simply horrible. Gertrude comes in now and then,
oddly enough, and insists that it rather amuses her. She sits with her
in the evenings when Floyd is away, and often accompanies her in a
drive. Violet does not imagine there is any ulterior motive in all
this, but Gertrude is really desirous of helping to keep the peace.
When she is present Mrs. Grandon is not so scornful or so aggressive.
Gertrude does not want hard or stinging words uttered that might stir
up resentment. If Violet cannot love, at least let her respect. It will
be an old story presently, and the mother will feel less bitter about
it.
It is such a strange thing for Gertrude to think of any one beside
herself that her heart warms curiously, seems to come out of her
everlasting novels and takes an interest in humanity, in nature, to go
back to the dreams of her lost youth. Violet is so sweet, so tender! If
she had known any such girl friend then, but she and Marcia never have
been real friends. There is another delicate thought in Gertrude's
soul. Laura and her mother have sneered about the professor, with whom
they are all charmed, nevertheless; and she means that no evil tongue
shall say with truth that Violet is alone too much with him or lays
herself out to attract him. She furbishes up her old knowledge and
talks with them, she reads the books he has recommended to Violet, and
they discuss them together until it appears as if she were the
interested one. She nearly always goes with her to the cottage.
Sometimes she wonders why she does all this when it is such a bore. Why
should she care about Violet particularly? But when the soft arms are
clasped round her neck and the sweet, fragrant lips throb with tender
kisses, she wakes to a sad and secret knowledge of wasted years.
To Violet there comes one crowning glory, that is the promised
_matinee_. Miss Neilson is to play _Juliet_, and though Floyd considers
it rather weak and sweet, Violet is enraptured.
"Would you like to go to a lunch or dinner at Madame Lepelletier's?" he
asks.
Violet considers a moment. She cannot tell why, but she longs for this
pleasure _alone_ with Mr. Grandon. It will be her first real enjoyment
with him.
"Would you--rather?"
There is an exquisite timidity in her voice, the touch of deference to
the husband's wishes that cannot but be flattering. She will go if _he_
desires it. He has only to speak. He remembers some one else who never
considered his pleasure or desire.
"My child, no!" and he folds her to his heart. "She wants you to come,
some time; she has spoken of it."
"I should like this to be just between _us_." There is the loveliest
little inflection on the plural. "And I should like to go there, too."
"Then it shall be just between _us_." Something in his eyes makes the
light in hers waver and go down; she trembles and would like to run
away, only he is holding her so tightly.
"What is it?" he asks, with a quick breath.
Ah, if she had known then, if he had known, even! He had never watched
the delicate blooming of a girl's heart and knew not how to translate
its throbs. He kisses her in a dazed way, and no kisses were ever so
sweet.
"Well," he says, presently, "we will let Cecil go over to Denise in the
morning"--he can even put his child away for her--"and keep our own
secret."
It is delicious to have a secret with him. She dreams of it all the
long evening; he is looking over some proofs with the professor. And
she can hardly conceal her joy the next morning; she feels guilty as
she looks Gertrude in the face.
The city is very gay this Saturday morning. They look in some shop
windows, they go to a tempting lunch, and then enter the charming
little theatre, already filling up with beautifully dressed women and
some such exquisite young girls. She wishes for the first time that she
was radiantly beautiful; she does not dream how much of this is attire,
well chosen and costly raiment.
She listens through the overture; she is not much moved during the
first act. Miss Neilson is pretty and winsome in her quaint dress, with
her round, white arms on her nurse's knee, looking up to her eyes; she
is respectful to her stately mother, and she cares for her lover. The
lights, the many faces about her, the progress of the play interest,
but it is when she comes to the balcony scene that Violet is stirred.
The longing, lingering love, the good night said over and over, the
lover who cannot make parting seem possible, who turns again and again.
She catches the tenderness in Miss Neilson's eyes; ah, it is divine
passion now, and she is touched, thrilled, electrified. She leans over
a little herself, and her pure, innocent young face, with its dewy eyes
and parted, cherry-red lips are a study, a delight. One or two rather
ennuied-looking men watch her, and Floyd forgives them. It seems to him
he has never seen anything more beautiful. The unconscious, impassioned
face, with its vivid sense of newness, its first thrilling interest,
indifferent to all things except the young lovers, steady, strong,
tender, sympathetic. Even women smile and then sigh, envying her the
rapt delight of thus listening.
When it is over Violet turns her tearful eyes to her husband in mute
questioning. This surely cannot be the end, the reward of love? For an
instant the man's heart is thrilled with profoundest pain and pity for
the hard lesson that she, like all others, must learn. He feels so
helpless to answer that trust, that supreme innocence.
Everybody stirs, rises. Violet looks amazed, but he draws her hand
through his arm. Several new friends nod and smile, wondering if that
is Floyd Grandon's child-wife that he has so imprudently or strangely
married? He hurries out a little. He does not want to speak to any one.
In the crush Violet clings closely; he even takes both hands as he sees
the startled look in her eyes.
The fresh, crisp air brings her back to her own world and time, but her
eyes are still lustrous, her cheeks have an indescribable, delicious
color, and her lips are quivering in their rose red.
"Where shall we go?" he says. "Will you have some fruit or an ice, or
something more solid?"
"Oh!" and her long inspiration is almost like a sigh. "I couldn't eat
anything--after that! _Did_ they really die? Oh, if _Romeo_ had not
come so soon, _quite_ so soon!" and her sweet, piteous voice pierces
him.
"My darling, you must not take it so to heart," he entreats.
"But they _were_ happy in that other country. And they went together,"
glancing up with an exquisite hope in her eyes. "It was better than to
live separate. Mr. Grandon, _do_ you know what love like that is?"
She asks it in all innocency. She would be very miserable at this
moment if she thought she had come to the best love of her life. Her
training has been an obedient marriage, a duty of love that is quite
possible, that shall come some time hence.
"No," he says, slowly. He really dare not tell her any falsehood. He
did not love Cecil's mother this way, and though he may come to love
Violet with the highest and purest passion, he does not do so now. "No,
my dear child, very few people do."
"But they could, they might!" and there is a ring of exultation in her
tone.
"Some few might," he admits, almost against his better judgment.
"Why, do you not see that it is all, _all_ there is of real joy, of
perfect bliss? There is nothing else that can so thrill the soul."
They surge against a crowd on the corner crossing. He pauses and
glances at her. "Shall we go home?" he asks, "or somewhere else? If it
is home, we may as well take a car."
"Oh, home!" she answers. So they take the car and there is no more
talking, but he watches the face of youth and happy thoughts, and is
glad that it is his very own.
The train is crowded as well. An instinctive shyness would forbid her
talking much under the eyes of strangers, if good breeding did not. She
settles in her corner and thinks the good night over and over, until
she again sees Miss Neilson's love-lit, impassioned countenance.
The sun has dropped down and it is quite cold now. They must go for
Cecil.
"Oh," cries Violet, remorsefully, "we forgot Cecil! We never brought
her anything! But I have a lovely box of creams at home; only you do
not like her to eat so much sweets."
"Give her the creams." and he smiles at her tenderness.
Cecil welcomes them joyfully. She has two lovely little iced cakes
baked in patty-pans.
"One is for you, mamma----" Then she suddenly checks herself. "O
Denise, we ought to have baked three; we forgot papa!" she says, with
childish _naiveté_.
"Well, mamma will divide hers with me."
A curious feeling runs over him. The child and the father have
forgotten each other an instant, but the child and the mother
remembered.
It is dark when they reach home. The spacious hall is all aglow with
light and warmth. In the parlor sits the professor, and Cecil, catching
a sight of his beaming face, runs to him.
Gertrude comes out, and putting her arms around Violet's neck, kisses
her with so unusual a fervor that Violet stares.
"I have something to tell you after dinner. You shall be the first. Oh,
what a cold little face, but sweet as a rose! There is the bell."
They hurry off and soon make themselves presentable. The professor
brings in Gertrude. He is--if the word maybe applied to such a bookish
man--inexpressibly jolly. Mrs. Grandon hardly knows how to take him,
and is on her guard against some plot in the air. Violet laughs and
parries his gay badinage, feeling as if she were in an enchanted realm.
Floyd has a spice of amazement in his countenance.
"Now," the professor says, as they rise, "I shall take Mr. Grandon off
for a smoke, since we do not sit over wine."
"And I shall appropriate Mrs. Grandon," declares Gertrude, with unusual
_verve_.
When they reach the drawing-room she says, "Send Cecil to Jane, will
you not?"
But Cecil has no mind to be dismissed from the conclave. Violet coaxes,
entreats, promises, and finally persuades her to go, very reluctantly
indeed, with Jane for just half an hour, when she may come down again.
Gertrude passes her arm over Violet's shoulder, and draws her down
to the soft, silk cushioned _tête-à-tête_. Her shawl lies over the
arm,--she did not wear it in to dinner.
"You wouldn't imagine," she begins, suddenly, "that any one would care
to marry me. I never supposed----"
"It is the professor!" cries Violet, softly. "He loves you. Oh, how
delightful!"
"Why, did he tell you?"
"I never thought until this instant. That is why you are both so new
and strange, and why your cheeks are a little pink! O Gertrude, _do_
you love him?"
Her face is a study in its ardent expectation, its delicious joy. What
does this girl know of love?
"Why--I--of course I like him, Violet. I could not marry a man I did
_not_ like, or a man who was not kindly or congenial." Then she
remembers how very slight an opportunity Violet had to decide whether
Floyd would be congenial or not, and is rather embarrassed. "We are not
foolish young lovers," she explains, "but I do suppose we shall be
happy. He is so kind, so warmhearted; he makes one feel warmed and
rested. It did so surprise me, for I had not the faintest idea. I used
to stay with you because----"
"Well, because what?" Violet is deeply interested in the least reason
for all this strange denouement.
"Because I never wanted any one to say that you, that he," Gertrude
begins to flounder helplessly, "were too much alone."
"Who would have said that?" Violet's face is a clear flame, and her
dimpled mouth shuts over something akin to indignation.
"Oh, don't, my dear Violet! No one could have said it, because he was
Floyd's friend, but you see you were so young, such a child, and I was
a sort of grandmother, and you had been in so little society----"
Gertrude breaks down in a nervous tremble, then she laughs
hysterically.
"I didn't want you to think _I_ was running after _him_," she cries,
deprecatingly. "I only came for company, and all that, and he has taken
a fancy to have me, to marry me, though what he wants me for I can't
see. I did not suppose I ever should marry. I didn't really care, until
Laura began to flaunt her husband in every one's face, and now I shall
be so glad to surprise her. What a stir it will make; Marcia will turn
fairly green with envy."
Violet begins to be confused. Can any one allow all these emotions with
love?
"And you are not a bit glad," says Gertrude, touched at her silence.
"Oh, I am more than glad!" and Violet clasps her arms about Gertrude's
neck and kisses her tenderly. Gertrude draws her down on her lap and
holds her like a baby.
"Oh, you sweet little precious!" she exclaims. "I don't know how any
one could help loving you! The professor thinks you are an angel. But
you know _I_ should look silly going into transports over a middle-aged
man, getting bald on the forehead. I am too tall, too old; but he
insists that I will grow younger every year. And I shall try to get
back a little of my old beauty. I have not cared, you know, there was
nothing to care for, but when you have some one to notice whether your
cheeks are pale or pink, and who will want you to be prettily
attired--oh, I _am_ growing idiotic, after all!"
"So that you are happy, very happy----"
"My dear, I substitute comfort for happiness; one is much more likely
to at thirty. But you will not believe me when you hear all. He wants
to be married early in January, and take me with him to the Pacific
coast and to Mexico. I told him I would have to be carried in a
palanquin or on a stretcher, but it would be lovely for a wedding
tour!"
"Oh, yes! And you will get stronger and care more for everything; and
he will be so pleased to see you take an interest in his pursuits. You
must read German and French with him, and make diagrams and columns and
jugs and all manner of queer things. You will love to _live_ once more,
Gertrude, I know you will."
Gertrude sighs happily, yet a little overwhelmed.
"Mamma! mamma!" calls a sweet, rather upbraiding voice, "it is just
half an hour."
"Let her come down; we can go on with our talk now," says Gertrude; and
the delighted child flies to her mother's arms.
The gentlemen return presently. Floyd Grandon takes his little girl on
his knee, while Violet puts both hands in the professor's and gives him
perhaps the sweetest congratulation he will have. Then he wishes to
explain matters to Mrs. Grandon and have a betrothal. This all occurs
while Violet is putting Cecil to bed. Jane waits upon her young
mistress, but the good-night kiss and the tucking up in the soft
blanket must be Violet's, and to-night the story is reluctantly
deferred.
She finds Mrs. Grandon in the drawing-room when she enters it,
dignified and composed, showing in her face none of the elation she
feels. For she is amazed and triumphant that this famous gentleman,
whose name is the golden key to the most exclusive portals of society,
should choose her faded, querulous Gertrude. How much of it is due to
Violet she will never know, nor the professor either; but it is Violet
who has raised Gertrude up to a new estate out of her old slough of
despond, who in her own abundant sweetness and generosity has so
clothed the other that she has seemed charming even in the sadness of
an apathetical life. Everything is amicably settled. Gertrude does not
care for the betrothal party, but to Mrs. Grandon it has a stylish and
unusual aspect, and the world can then begin to talk of the engagement.
Violet is strangely perturbed that night. Visions of ill-fated Romeo
and Juliet haunt her thoughts. Then she wonders if Gertrude has quite
forgotten that old love. Perhaps it would be foolish to let it stand up
in ghostly remembrance when something fond and strong and comforting
was offered. But which of all these _is_ love? She is yet to learn its
Proteus shapes and disguises.