"Thou on one side, I on the other."
All her life Violet Grandon will remember "Lohengrin," the perfect
evening to the rather imperfect day. In good truth the day disappoints
madame as well. Gertrude comes down with Violet, and there is a little
shopping to finish. Laura and Gertrude cannot agree in one or two
points concerning the wedding. Floyd and the professor are to lunch at
Delmonico's with some literary men.
Of course madame is serene and charming, but Violet and she keep
distinctly apart. There is no tender confidence, as with Mrs. Latimer.
When the girls, Laura and Gertrude, are fairly out of the way, Violet
sits shyly looking at some engravings, and answers gently, but makes no
comments of her own. She does feel strange with this beautiful woman.
She wonders how much Floyd loved her at first, in those long years ago
when she was a girl, only she seems never to have been a girl, just as
you never can think of her being old.
Madame yawns presently, feels the lack of her _siesta_, and decides
that to be brilliant to-night she must have it. Excusing herself for a
few moments, she goes away, rather vexed that Violet should be so
inappreciative. After all, has the child anything much in her? Is it
worth while to expend any great interest upon her?
The dinner passes agreeably, and the carriage comes for them. The
professor has been discoursing upon Wagner and his musical theories,
but he will not have anything said about this particular opera. So
Violet takes her seat, with her husband on one side and the professor
on the other, and prepares herself to listen to that hidden mental
element that touches the inmost processes of the soul.
_Elsa_, in her blissful surprise, the mysterious enchantment convincing
her of reality, loving, adoring, trusting to the uttermost, and content
to live, to take love without asking herself from whence her lover
comes; to hold her happiness on so strong a tenure now because she
_does_ trust. Wide-eyed, exultant, Violet listens. Cannot her husband
read _her_ story in her eyes? The beautiful march enchants her. Again
she says to herself, Is this love? Though the way is straight and few
find it, some blest souls enter in.
And then the question forces itself upon Elsa's soul, it becomes its
deepest need, and in that evil hour she sets it above love. There is
the thrilling vision and _Lohengrin's_ rebuke, and Violet listens and
looks like one entranced. _Elsa_ asks her fateful question, and the
enchantment is gone. Ah, can any tears, any prayers bring him back? Can
all the divine passion and repentance of one's life prevail?
The lovely color goes out of Violet's face; it seems for a moment as if
she would faint. How can all these women keep from crying out in their
anguish?
"_Mignonne_," the professor says, softly, and takes her hand, "come out
of thy too passionate dream. That is the musician's soul, but it is not
daily food."
Her eyes are blind with tears, and she is glad to rise with the crowd
and go.
Gertrude Grandon's brief engagement is shortened by nearly a fortnight
on account of a literary meeting at Chicago that the professor must
attend. So Christmas day at two o'clock they go to church, Gertrude in
dark blue cloth, that is extremely becoming, and fits her tall, slender
figure to perfection; just under the brim of her bonnet are two
pale-pink crush roses, the only tint of color. No one could imagine so
much improvement possible. Floyd gives her away also. He has endeared
her by many kindnesses, but the last is placing her present and
possible fortune in her hands.
"But if you should never be able to get it all out of the business?"
she asks, and her eyes moisten.
"Then," he answers, "the rest is my wedding gift to you. I should like
to make it much larger."
"O Floyd, what a good brother you have been! And we have never thought
of anything but just our own selves," she adds, remorsefully.
"Yes," he rejoins, "_you_ have thought of Violet."
Then they all go down to the city to see Gertrude start on her new
journey. Floyd and the professor wring each other's hands,--they have
been like brothers so long! Surely, even if he had thought of it, he
could have wished Gertrude no better fate. He is curiously moved by the
professor's very earnest regard, though he knows it must half be pity,
tenderness. His face is bright and cheerful, and his voice rings out
heartily. He will bring back Frau Freilgrath so stout and rosy that no
one will recognize her.
They are all very tired when they reach home. Mrs. Grandon is the
happiest. She is the mother of two well-married daughters. They will be
no further expense or care, and perhaps some one may pick up Marcia.
She is no better reconciled to her son's marriage; in truth, as it
sometimes happens where no real fault can be discovered, an obstinate
person will fall back upon a prejudice. For a governess Violet would
answer admirably, but she has no qualification for the position into
which she has thrust herself.
January comes in bitterly cold, and the great house is very lonely.
Marcia is flitting about, Mrs. Grandon makes another visit to New York,
Eugene is moody and distraught, for he is very much smitten with
madame, who, to do her justice, does not encourage the passion, though
in a certain way she enjoys the young man's adoration. Then, too, he is
extremely miserable about money. He hates to curtail any indulgence, he
is fond of theatres, operas, _petit soupers_, fresh gloves, and fast
horses, and he is put upon an allowance, which makes him hate Floyd and
grumble to Wilmarth.
Floyd is deep in a literary venture, or rather it is no venture at all,
a series of travels and descriptions of out-of-the-way corners of Asia,
with new and marvellous discoveries. He is so excited and interested
that he almost forgets other matters, and the time being short, every
day is precious. Violet understands this, and amuses herself and Cecil,
drives out to the cottage and spends days with Denise, and is a happy,
bright little creature. Mrs. Latimer comes up for two or three days,
which is utterly delightful.
Madame meanwhile has her hands full. She is sought after, and
invitations accumulate on her table. Her callers are the _crême_ of the
city. Brokers who are up early, drop in to her elegant little teas and
bring her bouquets when roses are at their highest. Professional men
find a wonderful charm in her conversation. There are generally one or
two bright women beside, and the room takes on the appearance of a
select party. She gives a superb little dinner, to which Floyd goes,
but Violet does not, though warmly invited. Often after working all day
he takes the evening train down to the city, and long before he is back
Violet is asleep. They are quietly happy. He _is_ fond, though a good
deal preoccupied.
Yet the time does not hang heavily. There have been several more plays
and some fine concerts, but when they have taken the late train the
pleasure has been somewhat fatiguing. Letters come from Gertrude, who
admits that she grows foolishly happy. The professor makes such a
delightful husband. She cannot go about a great deal, but he describes
places and people to her, and she enjoys it quite as much. Gertrude
certainly is not _exigeant_, and she has a touch of tender gratitude
that makes the professor feel continually that he has done a good deed
by marrying her, which is a flattering unction to the man's generous
soul.
March comes in, and the pressing work being done, Floyd turns to the
business. It is a success, but he is not any more in love with it. They
have demonstrated now that the new looms carry a secret that must
revolutionize trade. He holds long interviews with Mr. Connery and
Ralph Sherburne. He has the privilege, being joint executor with Mr.
Sherburne, of selling out all St. Vincent's right and title, and he has
already been offered a fortune for it. He will deal justly and fairly
by the dead man's genius, and Violet will be an heiress, which in one
way gratifies, and in another way pains. He likes his mother and the
world to know that Violet has a rank of her own, since money confers
that, and in the future nothing she chooses will be considered
extravagant in her. But he hates to be suspected of any mercenary
considerations. He always had enough for both.
He lays the matter before Mr. Wilmarth, being quite convinced now that
Eugene will never make a business man. He will not hurry matters, but
when the legacies have been paid he shall close his connection with the
factory.
"But Mrs. Grandon still has a life interest," suggests Jasper Wilmarth.
"That can be hypothecated, or the will gives her the privilege of
taking any certain sum that can be agreed upon. It would not impoverish
me to pay it myself," he says, with a fine contempt.
"But your brother must agree to all this; it is _his_ business, not
yours."
"He will agree to it," answers Floyd, in a tone not to be mistaken,
since it implies the young man would dispose of his birthright any day
for a mess of pottage.
"Still, I should suppose there would be a feeling of honor," says
Wilmarth, with his suave sneer.
"I think my honor has never been questioned, Mr. Wilmarth, nor my
integrity."
Floyd Grandon rises and stands straight before him, his face slightly
flushed.
"You quite mistake me," he replies, with a covert but insolent evasion;
"or I had better have said pride, business pride, I have so much of
that," and the lips show a sort of sardonic smile. "That is what your
brother lacks; I suppose we have no reasonable right to look for it in
you, a literary man."
Jasper Wilmarth always exasperates him, but he says now, with dignified
gravity,--
"I give you this notice, so that you may prepare for the event. There
will be no undue haste, but I should like to have the business settled
in from one to two years hence."
So that is his warning! If he _could_ have married St. Vincent's
daughter! Jasper Wilmarth does not care such a great deal for riches,
but he would like to put down this aristocratic fellow whom the world
is beginning to worship, who has only to hold out his hand and the St.
Vincent fortune will drop into it. When the time of settlement actually
comes the partnership will be dissolved; he must either sell or buy;
buy he cannot. Floyd Grandon pushes him out. Is there no way to give
the man a sword-keen thrust?
He broods over it for days, and at last it comes to him like an
inspiration. Marcia has been making calls in Westbrook and stops for
Floyd according to agreement. She sits there in the pony carriage in
seal sacque and cap, her light hair flying about, her cheeks red with
the wind, her face in a kind of satisfied smirk. You can never quite
tell where this starts from; it is in the little crease in the brows,
in the nose slightly drawn, in the lines about the mouth, and the
rather sharp chin. Nature has not been as bountiful to Marcia in the
matter of charms as to the others; she has stinted here and there, and
it shows clearly as she grows older. But as she gives her head an airy
toss and shakes the Skye fluff out of her eyes, he smiles. It would be
an immense joke to marry Marcia Grandon; an immense mortification as
well! To be Floyd Grandon's brother-in-law, to have the _entrée_ of the
great house, to come very near Violet Grandon and perhaps drop a bitter
flavor in her cup!
Marcia Grandon is not sharp enough to outwit him anywhere and he would
always be master; that is another point scored. Then he might make some
moves through her that would otherwise be impossible.
Floyd comes out and springs in the carriage, indulgently allowing her
to drive. Violet has had a cold and been in-doors for several days, but
looks bright and well when she greets him. She is such a dear, happy
little thing!
Not many days after this Wilmarth meets Marcia bowling along in the
spring sunshine. He raises his hat, pauses, and with her coquettish
instinct she stops.
"Good day, Miss Grandon," he says, with a low bow. "I thought of coming
down to call on you. Have you given up all your old habits of
designing? We have some large orders and I am quite in trouble about
patterns,--I suppose your brother told you?"
"Oh, he never tells _me_ anything!" with an assumed air of disdain.
"And he would be sure to consult Mrs. Grandon, who draws a little, like
every school girl!"
"I dare say he never gave it a second thought," returns Wilmarth, in a
reflective manner. "Well, _have_ you given it up?"
"I have been painting in oils for the last year or two," and nose and
chin indulge in an extra tilt. "I dare say I _could_ design, though."
"Well, bring some in, if you can. I believe my brain begins to get
rusty. Will you come--soon? You will always find me in my office."
There is something in the inflection of the voice that secretly
delights Marcia. She has a taste for mystery and intrigue, but she is
not secretive, she has too much vanity.
"I will, as soon as I can get about it," with what she considers
well-bred indifference.
She shuts herself up in her studio all the next morning, all the
afternoon and evening. She has a good deal of just this artistic
faculty. The next day she copies and colors, and on the third Floyd
goes to New York, and she drives to the factory. Eugene is out, as fate
will have it.
Mr. Wilmarth receives her with just the right touch of graciousness,
praises a little, finds a little fault, suggests a touch here and
there, and admits that he is pleased with two, and thinks he shall use
them. Marcia goes up to the seventh heaven of delight, and sees before
her fame and fortune.
"Look over these," says Mr. Wilmarth. "They do not quite suit me. See
if you can suggest anything. These Japanese designs admit of endless
variation."
An hour passes ere Marcia consults her watch, and then she professes to
be greatly surprised. What must poor Dolly think of her? "For I never
make such unconscionable calls," she declares, and fancies that she
blushes over it.
"It has been extremely pleasant to me," Mr. Wilmarth replies, in a tone
of grave compliment. "I am so much alone. I miss your father more than
any of you would suspect, I dare say. We used to consult together so
much, and he was in and out a dozen times a day."
"But everything goes on _well_?" says Marcia, in an undecided tone of
inquiry.
"Yes, if by that you mean prosperously. We are on the high road to
fortune," and he laughs disagreeably. "I only wish your father were
alive to enjoy it. It has been a hard pull for the last two years."
"Poor papa!" Marcia gives a pathetic little sniff. "But then it is
something to have gained a success!"
"Yes, when one has friends or relatives to enjoy it. I sometimes wonder
why _I_ go on struggling for wealth, to leave it to some charity at the
last."
"Have you really no one?" Marcia lowers her voice to a point of
sentiment.
"Not a living soul to take a kindly interest in me," he answers, in a
bitter fashion. "All my kith and kin, and they were not many, died
years ago. If I had been attractive to women's eyes----"
Marcia lets hers droop, and does this time manage a faint color. There
is a touch of romance in this utter desolation.
"I _must_ go," she again declares, reluctantly. "Poor Dolly will be
tired to death standing."
"Take these with you, and I shall be sure of another visit," and he
hands her the roll.
Marcia glides along as if on air. To her any admiration from a man is
sweet incense. It is not so much the person as the food to her vanity.
There are women who enjoy the gift with but little thought of the
giver. In Mrs. Vandervoort's spacious parlors she has received
compliments and attentions from people of note with a thrill of
triumph; she is not less pleased with her present interview. It is
almost as if Wilmarth had asked her for sympathy, interest, and she has
so much to bestow. Gertrude has spent her days in novel-reading, going
into other people's joys and woes. Marcia always lives in them
directly. She recasts the events, and makes herself the centre of the
episode. She is quite certain she could have done better in the
exigency than the friend she contemplates. She could have loved more
deeply, been wiser, stronger, tenderer, and more patient. There would
be no end to her virtues or her devotion. Men are certainly
short-sighted to choose these weak or cold or indifferent women, when
there are others with just the right mental equipoise.
She springs into her phaeton and starts up Dolly. There is a quiver and
glow of spring in the air, grown softer since morning, a breath of
sweetness, and Marcia's mood is exultant. She has bearded the lion in
his den, and his roar was not terrific. It is the power of Una, the
sweet and gentle woman. How desperately melancholy he looked; what a
touch of cynicism there was in his tone, engendered by loneliness and
too much communing with self. Instantly she feels herself capable of
consoling, of restoring to hope, to animation, to the delights of
living.
And Marcia enjoys living very much indeed, if she can only have money.
There never has been a day when she would have exchanged her pony for
Laura's piano. She can play with considerable fashionable brilliance,
but of the divine compensations of music she knows nothing. When Violet
sits and plays for hours without an audience it seems silly to Marcia.
She cannot understand the subtle and intense delight; for her there
must always be _one_ in the audience, if no more.
She wears an air of mystery at the dinner-table, and is apparently
abstracted trying on her new emotions. Floyd is wondering if all this
has not been very dull for Violet. If there only was some one to take a
vital interest in her. They have begun to make neighborhood calls, and
cards are left for Mrs. Floyd Grandon, invitations to teas and quiet
gatherings. Violet cannot go alone, and Floyd is so often engaged or
away. Mrs. Grandon does not trouble herself about her daughter-in-law,
and says frankly to intimates,--
"Floyd's marriage always will be a great disappointment to me. She is
such a child, just a fit companion for Cecil!"
When Floyd watches her in his questioning way her sweet face brightens
and her soft brown eyes glow with delight.
"I wonder if you are happy?" he says this evening when they are alone.
"Happy?"
He reads it in her eyes, her voice, in the exultation visible in every
feature.
"You are a little jewel, Violet," he replies, tenderly, drawing her
nearer and pressing the soft cheek with the palm of his hand, which is
almost as soft. "I have been so much engrossed that I am afraid I
sometimes neglect you, but never designedly, my darling."
"I know you are very busy," she makes answer, in her cheerful voice,
"and I am not a silly child."
He wonders if there is such a thing as her being too sensible, too
self-denying! While he could not now take life on the old terms and be
tormented daily and hourly by foolish caprices, is there not some
middle ground for youth? Are there too many years between them!
"Your birthday will be in June," he says,--he has travelled that far
already,--"and you must have a birthday ball."
"And you will dance with me?" she gently reminds, as she slips her arm
over his shoulder caressingly.
"Regardless of the figure I shall cut!" and he laughs.
"Oh, but you know you have a handsome figure!"
"And I must do my dancing before I get too stout. Well, yes, I shall be
your _first_ partner."
"Oh, am I to dance with any one else?" she asks, in a faint tone of
surprise.
"Why--yes--quadrilles, I believe, are admissible."
"I wish we had some music, we might waltz anytime," and she pats her
little foot on the floor; "just you and I together."
"Well, I shall have to buy a music-box, and we can dance out on the
lawn after the manner of the German and French peasants."
She gives such a lovely, rippling laugh that he indulges in a still
fonder squeeze. It is very pleasant to have her. That is as far as
Floyd Grandon has yet gone.
"But from now to then," he asks, "what can you find to amuse yourself
with?"
"To amuse myself?" she asks, rather puzzled. "Why, you are not going
away?" and she grasps his arm tightly.
"Going away! No." She _would_ miss him then; but, he reflects, there is
no one else for companionship. Marcia somehow is not congenial, and
Eugene--how much company a pleasant young fellow like Eugene might
prove.
"Is there any one you would like to ask here?" He thinks of madame,--she
would be a delightful summer guest. He would like to open his house, he
does owe something to society for its warm welcome to him.
"I don't really know any one but Mrs. Latimer. Oh," she says, with a
bright ring in her voice, "how nice it would be to have them both, and
the children! Would your mother mind very much, I wonder?"
"It need be no trouble to her," he says, almost coldly, "and _you_ are
to have your wishes gratified in your _own_ house."
She cannot get over the feeling that she is merely on sufferance. As
the time goes on she understands the situation more clearly. Mrs.
Grandon does not like to have her Floyd's wife, and she _would_ like
Madame Lepelletier in the place. But how strange that no one seems to
remember the old time when she jilted him, as Marcia says.
"But all that will be so much nicer in the summer," he goes on,
reflectively. "The children can run out of doors. Yes, we will have the
Latimers and any one else we choose, and be really like civilized
people. I hope Gertrude can get back."
"Oh, I do hope so!" she re-echoes.
The next morning he takes Violet and Cecil out for a long drive, way up
the river. It is the last day of March, and there is a softness in the
air, a bluish mist over the river, and a tender gray green on the
hillsides. The very crags seem less rugged and frowning. It is really
spring!
"Oh, how delightful it will be!" she exclaims. "Are there not wild
flowers about here? We can have some lovely rambles gathering them. And
there will be the gardens, and the whole world growing lovelier every
day."
They stop at a hotel and have a dinner, which they enjoy with the
appetites of travellers. Just above there is a pretty waterfall, much
swollen by the spring rains, then there is a high rock with a legend,
one of the numerous "Lover's Leap," but the prospect from its top is
superb, so they climb up and view the undulating country, the blue,
winding river, the nooks and crags, dotted here and there by cottages
that seem to hang on their sides, a slow team jogging round, or fields
being ploughed. All the air is sweet with pine and spruce, and that
indescribable fragrance of spring.
Floyd Grandon is so happy to-day that he almost wishes he had a little
world of his own, with just Violet and Cecil. If it were not for this
wretched business; but then he is likely to get it off his hands some
time, and as it is turning out so much better than he once feared, he
must be content.
If there were many days like this! If husband and wife could grow into
each other's souls, could see that it was not separate lives, but one
true life that constituted marriage; but she does not know, and does
her best in sweet, brave content; and he is ignorant of the intense joy
and satisfaction the deeper mutual love might bring. He is a little
afraid. He does not want to yield his whole mind and soul to any
overwhelming or exhausting passion, and yet he sometimes wonders what
Violet would be if her entire nature were stirred, roused to its
utmost.
But the morrow brings its every-day cares and duties. Floyd is wanted
in the city. He drops into madame's and finds her in the midst of
plans. She is to give an elegant little musicale about the 10th, and he
must surely bring his wife, who is to stay all night. She, madame, will
hear of nothing to the contrary. No woman was ever more charming in
these daintily arbitrary moods, and he promises. All the singers will
be professional, there will be several instrumental pieces, and the
invitations are to be strictly limited.
She touches upon his work with delicate praise and appreciation. It
would seem that she kept herself informed of all he did, but she never
questions him in any inquisitive manner. She is really intimate with
the Latimers, so she hears, no doubt. It _will_ be charming to add
her to the summer party. There are other delightful people for Violet
to know as soon as she can begin to entertain society.
Violet is not much troubled about society these pleasant days. April
comes in blustering, then turns suddenly warm, and lo! the earth seems
covered with velvet in the wonderful emerald green of spring. She hunts
the woods for violets and anemones, and puts them in her father's
room,--it is her room now, for she was very happy in it when her ankle
was hurt. She moves out her few pictures, a lovely Mater Doloroso,
whose grief is blended with heavenly resignation, and the ever-clear
Huguenot Lovers. Both have been school gifts. For the rest, her girl's
chamber was simple as any nun's.
Marcia makes her second visit to Mr. Wilmarth, and leaves Dolly at
home. Now there is a rather curious desire of secrecy on her part; the
whole thing is so much more charming enveloped in mystery. Mr. Wilmarth
receives her with a brusque sort of cordiality, as if he was rather
striving against himself, and she sees it, as he means she shall. The
drawings are satisfactory, and he expresses his obligation to her.
"I don't know as I can summon up courage to offer you any ordinary
payment," he says, "but if you will accept some gift in its stead,--if
you will allow me to make it something beyond a mere business
transaction----"
"Oh, it is such a trifle," and Marcia's head takes its airy curve. "I
think I should like----"
"Well?" he asks, rather startled.
"Please don't laugh at me," she begins, in a tone of girlish entreaty,
which is not bad, "but I have been thinking--wondering if I could turn
my gift to any advantage?"
Marcia is really blushing now. It seems paltry to think of working for
money, unless one could earn it by the hundreds.
"Yes, I suppose you could," he replies, "but you have a genius for
better things. You _can_ design very well," and he is in earnest now.
"There are a great many branches. Why?" he asks, abruptly.
"Oh," she replies, "I get so tired of the frivolity of life. I long to
do something beyond the mere trifles."
"I suppose you miss both of your sisters," he remarks, with a touch of
sympathy. "You are learning now what loneliness is. Although there is
your brother's wife----"
"A child, a mere child, who can thrum a little on the piano and dress
dolls for Cecil. I never _could_ understand _why_ Floyd married her."
"There was the fortune," suggests Mr. Wilmarth.
"Oh, Floyd did not care for that! You see he has had it all tied up so
that he cannot touch it."
"Those who tie can sometimes untie," he answers, dryly.
"No. _I_ have always thought there was some silly sentiment, or perhaps
Mr. St. Vincent asked it of him," she cries, with sudden inspiration,
"for Floyd could have rewarded her for saving the child's life."
Evidently the marriage is not pleasing to Miss Marcia. That scores one
in her favor as a good ally. Through Eugene he has learned that it was
generally unsatisfactory, but he has fancied Marcia just the kind to be
caught by a sweet young girl.
He has been considering the point in all its bearings these few
days,--whether he really wants to be bothered with a wife, only he need
not allow the wife to bother, and whether it would be better to win her
openly or not. If the house at the park were her father's, but it is
Floyd Grandon's, and he might some day be dismissed. He feels
intuitively that Grandon would oppose the marriage from the
under-current of enmity between. Of course he could persuade Marcia to
secret meetings and a marriage. Would it not be more of a triumph if
the whole matter were kept a secret?
He draws from Marcia, with the requisite astuteness, and it does not
need much, the state of affairs and her own position at home. She would
be ready enough to change it, that he sees. With a touch of secret
elation he knows he could make this woman worship him like a bond slave
while the bewilderment lasted. He has never been so worshipped. He has
known of several women who would have married him, but it would have
been for a home and a protector. He has not been sufficiently
unfortunate to inspire any one with that profound and tender pity that
women do sometimes give to deformity or accident; he has no particular
gifts or genius to win a heart, he is now quite to middle life and
cannot reasonably expect to grow handsomer. Under any circumstances he
could hardly hope to marry into a family like that of the Grandons, and
though he shall not be friends with a single member, still, it will
gratify his pride, and Floyd Grandon must be more considerate of his
business interests.
All these things run through his mind as he talks to her. She is rather
coquettish and vain and silly,--his eyes are pitilessly clear,--and she
may afford him some amusement when her unreasoning adoration ends. He
sees the fact that he is attracted towards her, moves her curiously.
If he is to take a wife he will not have her cold and selfishly
considerate, but quaff the full cup of adoration at first, even if it
does turn to ashes and dust afterward.
"I wonder," he says, after they have talked away the genial spring
afternoon, "when I shall see you again,--when I may present my little
gift. Your brother and I are _not_ cordial friends. I offered him some
advice in the beginning, as an elder might reasonably give to an
inexperienced person, which he resented quite indignantly, and he
prefers to use his own wisdom. I am not quarrelsome, and so we are
comfortable business compeers, but hardly calling friends, and since
you are in his house I must deny myself the pleasure. Do you not
sometimes go to walk? I know you drive a good deal."
She catches the cue, and her heart bounds.
"I _do_ go out to sketch," she says, with admirable modesty.
"Ah, that would be an enjoyment. _Will_ you allow me to come?"
There is a most flattering entreaty in his tone.
Marcia considers. Violet and Cecil are forever rambling round, and she
knows how easily an interview can be spoiled. It will hardly be safe to
appoint one between here and Grandon Park. Down below the park there is
a little cove, with a splendid view opposite, and a grove of trees for
protection. She will appoint it here. Friday is unlucky. Saturday will
be busy for him, so it is settled for Monday of the next week, and he
agrees, with a peculiar smile and a pressure of the hand.
Marcia Grandon walks home in a state of triumph. Experience forbids her
to count upon this man as a positive lover, but he _is_ an admirer.
They have a disagreeable habit of going so far and then taking wing.
Marriage seems an event rather difficult of accomplishment, for with
all Marcia's flighty romance she shrinks from encountering actual
poverty, but it might be this man's admiration is sufficiently strong
to lead him beyond the debatable land. She hesitates just a little,
then solaces herself with the improbability.
Still, she is in a flutter of excitement when she goes up to her room
after luncheon. What shall she wear? Bonnets and hats are tried on, and
she passes and repasses before the glass to study the jauntiness or
attractiveness of different styles. Her dress is gray, and she finally
settles upon a light gray chip, with two long black plumes that almost
touch her shoulder. A cluster of pansies would be very effective at her
throat. Violet wears them a good deal, so she selects the finest in the
greenhouse, and takes a parasol with a lilac lining. She does look very
well. Before mourning, her taste was rather _bizarre_, but it has been
toned down somewhat.
Jasper Wilmarth is first on the spot. She has dallied so long with
toilet questions, that it has given the man's complacency a little
start, no bad thing. She catches a glimpse of him and is filled with
trepidation, for up to this moment she has not been quite sure but he
would _allow_ something to prevent.
He takes both hands. The consciousness goes over her that he _is_ a
lover. He is not a handsome man, with his high shoulders, short neck,
and rugged face, but to-day he has taken some pains, and lets his
steely eyes soften, his lips show their bit of red under the gray
mustache. His necktie is fresh, his clothes have been brushed, and if
the soul animating the man was even as good as the body it would be
better for all who come in contact with him.
He has resolved to try his utmost at fascination. It is strong,
masterly, imperious, but he seems to check himself now and then, as if
he wanted her to believe he was holding in the actual man for her sake,
and Marcia is immensely flattered. He has brought her a really
beautiful bracelet, counting on her personal vanity, and she is quite
overwhelmed.
"If it had been any ordinary designer, of course I should have paid the
usual price for the work," he explains, "but I wanted you to remember
the pleasure the interviews gave me."
"You rate them too highly," says Marcia, falteringly.
"Ah, I didn't say they gave _you_ pleasure," he answers. "You have so
much society, so many friends, but a poor unfortunate fellow like me
gets early shelved, and crumbs are not to my taste. I am just selfish
enough to want a whole piece of cake."
"Well, why should you not have it?" says Marcia, who is well versed in
the audacities of coquetry.
"I am not at all sure I could get it, the kind I want."
He folds his hands behind him and they walk down to the shore. Her
portfolio she has consigned to a rocky crevice: there will be no
sketching she is well aware.
"I think a man--can get a great deal," she says, in a meditative sort
of tone. "He can dare almost anything. Indeed, it occurs to me that it
is often women who take up with the crumbs."
"And there are seasons in life when one would be glad to offer an
equivalent, if one had the nice iced and ornamented cake."
"Oh, you fancy women are always on the lookout for sweets, Mr.
Wilmarth," she says, parrying. "There are other things----"
"As what?"
"Strength, power, honor, manliness."
"I wonder," he begins, musingly, "how long strength and manliness would
stand against beauty and the soft, seductive flatteries of society. I
wonder what they in their ruggedness would win? What a lovely day it
is, and what a solemn talk! I shall bore you," suddenly changing his
tone.
Marcia protests. They ramble up and down, and skirmish. He has fancied
her an over-ripe peach ready to fall, but is surprised at her numerous
little defences. It is fortunate for her that she cannot think him in
solemn earnest, for her uncertainty adds a zest to his pursuit.
When they part it is with the understanding that she shall not attend
the musicale, which she really cares little about, and that he shall
spend the evening with her. It is a rather bold step, and his
acquiescence sends a tremor through every pulse. What if he _should_
prove a lover?