Life is but thought, so think I will,
That youth and I are housemates still.
COLERIDGE.
Violet had imagined the place when Laura's reception was given, but
this sight far exceeds her wildest dreams. The moon is nearly at its
full, and the lawn lies in a sheet of silver light, while the lamps
throw out long rays of color. Roses are everywhere, it is their
blossoming time. All the air is sweet and throbs with music that stirs
her pulses like some rare enchantment. The odorous evergreens are rich
in new and fragrant growth, the velvet turf gives out a perfume to the
night air and looks like emerald in the moonlight. Beds of flowers are
cut in it here and there, a few clumps of shrubbery, the pretty
summer-houses, the sloping terrace, and the river surging with an
indolent monotone, make a rarely beautiful picture. The columns
upholding the porch roof are wreathed with vines, but the spaces
between are clear. The low windows are all open, and it is fairyland
without and within. Floyd Grandon paces up and down, with John Latimer
at his side, while the band around on the other side are in the discord
of tuning up.
"Upon my word, Grandon, you _are_ to be envied," says Latimer. "I am
not sure we have done a wise thing coming up here this summer. The fuss
and pomp of fashion rarely move me to any jealous state of mind, but I
am afraid this will awaken absolute covetousness."
Grandon gives a genial, wholesome laugh, and he almost believes he is
to be envied, in spite of the perplexities not yet at an end. He is
proud of his lovely home, he has a beautiful child and a sweet wife,
and if she does not charm the whole world what does he care? There is
no one left to fret them in household ways, for he fancies he has seen
signs of softening in his mother, and she is having new interests in
life, with her daughters well married. There is only Eugene to feel
really anxious about.
The carriages are driving up the avenue and there is a flutter through
the hall. Floyd goes up-stairs presently and finds Violet in his room
waiting for the finishing touches to be added to Cecil's attire. She
turns quickly, and a soft flush makes her bewitching, radiant.
"How do you like me?" she asks, in her innocent simplicity.
She is in pure white, his favorite attire for her, but the wraith-like
laces draping her lend her a different air from anything he has seen
before. The rose-leaf tint in her cheek, her lovely dimpled mouth, the
eyes that look browner and more like velvet than ever, and the shining
hair give her a glamour of sweetness and youth that stirs his heart to
its very depths.
"Like you?" he echoes; "you are beautiful, bewitching!"
She comes a little nearer. His commendation makes her extremely happy.
He holds out both hands, and she places hers in them, and kisses her on
the forehead; he has fallen so much into the habit that he does it
unthinkingly.
"Floyd," says Mrs. Grandon, from the hall, "you certainly ought to go
down."
"I am all ready," cries Cecil, who flies out, beautiful as a fairy, in
a shimmer of white and pale blue, her waving hair like a shower of
gold.
Violet is a good deal frightened at first, although she resolutely
forces herself to a point of bravery. She has never been the central
figure before, and she has a consciousness that all eyes are turned
upon her, and that she hardly has a right to the use of her true name
while Mr. Grandon's stately mother is present. Laura is resplendent in
silk and lace,--she never affects any _ingenue_ style,--and madame is
a dazzle in black and gold, her Parisian dress of lace a marvel of
clinging beauty, and her Marechal Niel roses superb. She has been
mistress and head for several days, but now she is simply the guest,
and none better than she knows how to grace the position.
Outside there is a sea of bewildering melody, that pulses on the air in
rhythmic waves. The French horns blow out their soft, sweet gales, like
birds at early morn, the flutes whistle fine and clear, and the
violins, with their tremulous, eager sweetness, seem dripping amber;
viols and horns reply, shaking out quivering breaths to the summer
night air, until it seems some weird, far-away world. Violet is so
entranced that she almost forgets she is Floyd Grandon's wife, being
made known to society.
The first quadrilles are full of lovely gliding figures. Violet dances
with her husband, then with Eugene. Floyd and Madame Lepelletier are in
the same set. It is the first time he has danced with her since they
were betrothed. She knows if she had stayed at home and married him,
neither would have been the kind of people they are now, and she does
not envy that old time, but she wants the power in her hands that she
had then. She would not even care to give up all the years of adulation
when rank and title were an open-sesame to golden doors, and even now
has its prestige. There is nothing she really cares for but the love of
this man, little as she believes in the divine power.
The _fête_ is really open now. Guests stroll about and listen to the
music, or sit on the balcony chairs and watch the dancing. By and by
there are some soft melodious waves with no especial meaning, then the
French horns pipe a delicious thrill, "viol, flute and bassoon" burst
into beguiling bloom of the Zamora, and hands steal out to other hands,
arms cling to arms, and the winding, bewildering waltz begins.
Violet is talking to a young man, one of the Grandon Park neighbors,
who stands bashfully wondering if it would do to ask her to waltz.
Unconsciously her feet are keeping time, and her heart seems to rise
and fall to the enchantment in the air. Then she feels a presence
behind her and turns.
"This is our waltz," Floyd Grandon says, just above a whisper, and,
bowing to her companion, leads her away.
"Shall we go out on the balcony?" he asks, and the quick pressure on
his arm answers him. Out in the wide warm summer night, where the air
throbs and glows with some weird enchantment, he puts his arm about her
and draws her close; there are several irregular measures, then their
figures and steps seem to settle to each other, and they float down the
long space, up again, there is reversing to steady her a little, then
on and on. He looks down at the drooping eyes with their tremulous
lids, at the faint flush that comes and goes, he feels the throbbing
breath, and realizes what a powerful and seductive temptation this
might become. He is even kindled himself. For the first time he feels
himself capable of rousing such a torrent of love in her that her whole
soul shall be absorbed in his. Down in this shady corner, while the
other couples are quite at the other end, he raises the sweet face,
tranced in the beguiling melody of movement, and kisses the lips with
all a man's passionate fervor, holds her in such a clasp that she
struggles and throws out one hand wildly, as if suddenly stricken
blind, and a frightened expression drowns the sweet delight.
"Oh!" and she gives a little cry of pain and mystery.
"My darling!"
The voice is tenderly reassuring, and they float on again, but for a
brief moment the lightness seems gone out of her feet. He draws a long,
deep inspiration. Sweet, tender, and devoted as she is, it is not her
time to love, and he remembers all the years between them. She is as
innocent of the deeper depths of passion as Cecil.
There is a long, long throb on the air, almost a wail of regret, from
the human voices of the violins. The cornet seems to run off in the
distance, and the horns have a sob in their last notes. The dancers
stop with languid reluctance. Floyd Grandon leads his wife along as if
he would take her down the steps, away somewhere.
"Let us sit here," she cries, suddenly, and there is a curious strain
in her voice, a thrill as of fear. Does she not dare trust herself with
him anywhere, everywhere?
"Are you tired?" he asks, with a tenderness that touches her.
She still seems like one in a dream.
"No," she answers. "It was enchanting. I could dance forever. I don't
know----"
Her voice falters and drops as the last notes of the music have done.
It would be a mortal sin to awaken her. She shall dream on until the
right time comes.
"Then you liked it?" His voice has a steady, reassuring tone. "There is
another; shall we try it again, presently?"
This time it is the "Beautiful Blue Danube."
"Oh, no, no!" she says, vehemently.
The strains begin to float and throb again, light, airy, delicate, with
one pathetic measure that always touches the soul. She rouses and
listens, then the little hand creeps into his beseechingly.
"Oh," she says, "may I take that back! I think I was beside myself.
Will you waltz with me again?"
It is an exquisite waltz, pure, dreamy pleasure, delicious to the last
bar, and nothing has startled her. He watches her lovely flower-like
face that is full of supreme content.
"Now," he says, after she has rested awhile, "we must look after our
guests. Let us take a stroll around."
Nearly everybody has been waltzing. Marcia and her husband are present.
It was quite against his desire that Floyd extended an invitation to
Jasper Wilmarth, but he felt he could not do otherwise. He does not
mean to be over-cordial with his brother-in-law in the matter of
hospitalities. Wilmarth is proud of this victory, because he knows it
cost Floyd Grandon something. He is glad, too, of an opportunity of
becoming better acquainted with Mrs. Grandon. This does not altogether
mean conversing with her, although he has managed several passing
talks, but he likes to watch her, and the old thought comes into his
mind that with a little better planning he might have won her. A
half-suggestion of his had put the thought of Eugene Grandon in the
mind of St. Vincent, but he well knew that Eugene would only laugh such
a proposal to scorn. The factor he had not counted on was Floyd
himself.
Marcia is set wild with the first waltz. She is new to wifehood, and
she stands a little in awe of Jasper Wilmarth. There are people,
husbands, who object to it. Eugene is too late to secure madame, and
stands looking rather bored and sulky.
"Would you mind dancing it with me, just once?" says Marcia,
pleadingly.
"Of course not," he answers, indifferently.
"Eugene wants me to waltz with him," she whispers to her husband; and
he, in deep conversation with a neighbor, simply nods. There will be
time enough for marital training when the worship becomes irksome, and
he wants spice instead of sweet. They shall all see that Marcia has an
indulgent husband and is not to be commiserated. But when he sees Floyd
Grandon floating up and down with that lovely fairy-like figure in his
arms, he hates him more bitterly than before. Irene Lepelletier and
Jasper Wilmarth could well join hands here. The gulf between them is
not so very wide.
Marcia is up in the next waltz as well, but this time with an old
admirer. Eugene resists the glances of Lucia Brade and makes a
wall-flower of himself. He begins to watch Violet presently, and remark
with what entire perfection she waltzes. Who would have suspected it in
a little convent-bred girl? She _is_ pretty in spite of all detractions,
Laura has discovered. How her shining hair glitters, as if sprinkled
with diamond-dust.
Cecil comes running up to her after they have promenaded around among
the guests.
"Mamma," she exclaims, "that was just as we dance. Why can't you dance
with me here to all the pretty music!"
Violet glances up to meet her husband's smile of assent. "Next time,
Cecil," she says, slipping the little hand in hers.
They do not have to wait very long. After a mazourka comes a waltz, and
Cecil is made supremely happy.
"How utterly bewitching they look!" says a low, melodious voice at
Floyd Grandon's side. "How tall Cecil has grown in a year!"
"A year!" he repeats. Yes, it is a year ago that his old life ended,
and how much has been crowded in that brief while.
"You are a wise man," madame says, in an indescribable tone. "You have
not forced your bud into premature blossoming. There might be a decade
between Laura and your wife."
"I wonder if Laura had any real girlhood?" he remarks, musingly.
"Why, yes, at fourteen, perhaps. That is the way with most of us. But
hers, not beginning so soon, will have the longer reign. How lovely the
river looks to-night! I should like to go down on the terrace," she
adds, after a moment.
"I am at your service," and he rises.
They cross the lawn amid groups sauntering in the moonlight, keeping
time to the music, if they do not dance. The whole scene is like
enchantment. They stroll on and on, down the steps and then over the
broad strip of grass. The cool air blows up along the shore, and with
the tide coming in every ripple is crested with silver. Over at the
edge of the horizon the stars dare to shine out amid the silence of the
rocks and woods opposite, making a suggestive, shadowy land.
"'On such a night,'" she quotes, with a smile that might beguile a
man's soul.
"We could not have had anything more beautiful. And I owe a great deal
of the perfection of the scene to you, since the season was in other
hands. Allow me to express my utmost gratitude."
"I am glad to be able to add to your pleasure in any way," she answers,
with a kind of careless joy. "Possibly I may add to your displeasure.
May I make a confession?" and she smiles again.
"To me?" not caring to conceal his surprise.
"Yes, to you. I shall bind you by all manner of promises, but the
murder must out."
"Is it as grave as that?"
"Yes. If you had not gone by the heats and caprices of youthful
passion, you would be less able to extend your mantle of charity. I
care enough for your good opinion and for that of your family not to be
placed in a false light by the imprudence of youth,--shall we call it
that?"
"I cannot imagine," he begins, puzzled, and yet almost afraid to trench
on this suspicious ground.
"Can you not? Then I give the young man credit for a degree of prudence
I was fearful he did not possess."
"Oh," he says, with a curious sense of relief, "you mean--my brother?"
"Floyd," in a low, confidential tone, and she so rarely gives him his
Christian name that he is struck with her beautiful utterance of it, "I
want you to do me this justice at least, to let me stand higher in your
estimation than that of a mere silly coquette, who makes a bid for the
admiration of men in general. There was a time when it might have
turned my head a little, but then I had no _general_ admiration to
tempt me. I have been friendly with Eugene, as any woman so much older
might be, and the regard he has for me is not love at all, but just now
he cannot see the difference. He feels bitter because he cannot have
matters as he fancies he would like, and in a few years he will be most
grateful for the cruelty, as he calls it."
"Oh," Floyd says, with a sense of shame, "he certainly has not been
foolish enough to----"
"You surely do not think I would allow him to make an idiot of
himself!" she replies, with an almost stinging disdain. "I should not
want him to remember that of me. One may make a mistake in youth, or
commit an error, but with added years there would be small excuse. I
had a truer regard for him, as well as myself. It was wiser to quench
the flame before it reached that height," and she smiles with a sense
of approval. "So if you see us at sword's points, you will know that
the disease has reached the crisis, and you may reasonably expect an
improvement. Indeed, it is time he turned his attention to other
matters. Shall you be able to make a business man of him?"
"I am afraid not," replies Floyd Grandon.
"Now that I have confessed, I feel quite free," she begins, in a tone
of relief. "I wanted the matter settled before I came up here, and I
did want to keep your good opinion, if indeed you have a good opinion
of me."
Something in her voice touches his very soul. It is entreating,
penitent, yet loftily proud. It says, "I can do without your approval,
since I may have forfeited it in some way, yet I would rather have it.
You are free to give or to withhold."
"I think," he says, steadily, "this is not the first time you have
acted sensibly. I wonder if I shall offend you by a reference to those
old days when we both made a mistake. Time has shown us the wisdom of
not endeavoring to live up to it. Both of our lives have doubtless been
the better, and we have proved that it makes us none the less friends."
There is no agitation in voice or face. He stands here calmly beside
the woman he was to have married, and both he and she know the regard
has perished utterly. An hour ago he would hardly have said what he
has. Why does he feel so free to say it now? She is superbly tranquil
as well, but she knows him for a man who holds his honor higher than
any earthly thing. If Violet St. Vincent had not come between, she
might have won him, but now all the list of her fascinations cannot
make him swerve.
"I ought," he continues, scarcely heeding the momentary silence, "to
thank you in behalf of my wife as well. You have shown us both many
kindnesses. You have been a true friend."
He never makes the slightest reference to any family disagreements or
any lack of welcome his wife has experienced.
"I should have done a great deal more if Mrs. Grandon had been less shy
of strangers," she makes answer, quietly.
They walk up and down in silence. The river ripples onward, the moon
sails in serenest glory, the wind wafts the melody down from the wide
verandas, and it trembles on the river, making a faint echo of return
from the other side. They are both thinking,--Grandon of Violet, and
madame of him. She has found few men so invincible, even among those
very much in love. There is a certain expression in his face which she
as a woman of the world and read in many fascinations understands; it
is loyal admiration, for he is constrained to admire in all honesty,
but it falls far short of that flash of overmastering feeling, so often
mistaken for love and leading to passion, the possibility of being
tempted. It would satisfy her vanity better to believe him incapable of
a deep and fervent love, but she knows better. When he is touched by
the divine fire he will respond, and she envies bitterly the woman who
is destined thus to awaken him. Will it be Violet? She crushes her
white teeth together at the thought, imagining that she would feel
better satisfied to have it any other woman. But why should he not go
on this way? Let him honor the girl whom circumstances and not election
have given for a wife, so that in real regard he sets her no higher
than a friend.
"We must go back," she says, with a touch of regret in her voice. "One
could stay here forever, but there are duties and duties."
He turns with her and they come up the path together. Cecil and Violet
stand on the balcony, warm, yet full of youthful gladness. Cecil has
acquitted herself so beautifully that the two have been a centre of
admiration, and Violet has run away from the compliments. She has been
idly watching the two figures on the terrace, and as they come nearer
it gives her a curious feeling that she at once tries to dismiss as
selfish.
Eugene strolls out to them. He has been on terms of friendly
indifference with his pretty little sister-in-law, classing her with
Cecil, but to-night he has seen her in a new character, which she
sustains with the brilliant charm of youth, if not the dignity of
experience. He is sore and sulky. He has not been fool enough to
believe madame would marry him, but he would have married her any day.
He has been infatuated with her beauty, her charms of style and manner,
her beguiling voice; the very atmosphere that surrounded her was
delightful to breathe in concert with her. He has haunted her afternoon
teas and her evening receptions, he has attended her to operas, and
sometimes lowered savagely at the train that came to pay court to her.
Like a wary general she has put off the symptoms of assault by making
diversions elsewhere, until the feint no longer answered its purpose.
She would not allow him to propose, that would savor of possible hope
and encouragement; she has spoken with the friendliness a woman can
command. This course of devotion on his part draws attention to them
and is ungenerous to her. "How do you know what I mean?" he has asked,
in a tone of gloomy persistence.
She gives a little laugh, suggestive of incredulity and a slight flavor
of ridicule.
"Because I know it is impossible for you to really mean anything
derogatory to me or to yourself," she answers, in a tone of assured
steadiness. "If I were a young girl it might be love or flirtation; if
I were a coquette it might be an evil fascination such as too often
wrecks young men. As I do not choose it shall be any of these, you must
not grow sentimental with me."
She looks at him out of clear eyes that _are_ maddening, and yet he
cannot but read his fate in them. It is thus far and no farther.
"Oh," he answers, with a touch of scorn, "I think I have read of
marriages with as great disparity of years as between us! It is
supposed they loved, they certainly have been happy."
"But I am not in my dotage," she cries, gayly. "Neither am I such a
wonderful believer in love. There are many other qualities requisite
for what I call a good marriage."
"I do not suppose I shall ever make a _good_ marriage," he says,
calmly, but with bitter emphasis.
"And yet you ought. You are handsome, attractive, you can make a
fortune if you will; you can grace any society."
"Spare me," he replies, with contempt. "My impression is, that I shall
never have faith enough in any woman to marry her."
"Oh, that is so deliciously young, Eugene! It ought to be applauded."
And she laughs lightly.
"Good morning," he says, in a furious temper.
He has not been near her since, and chooses to absent himself on a
business trip the first three days she spends at Grandon Park, coming
home last evening, and meeting her at the breakfast-table this morning,
where she has tact enough to cover all differences. He has not danced
with her, though they have met in the quadrilles, and he is moody and
resentful, although he knows that she is right. But he puts it on the
score of money. "If I were the owner of Grandon Park," he thinks, "she
would not so much mind the years between."
Therein he is mistaken. It would hurt Irene Lepelletier's _amour
propre_ to make herself conspicuous, to be held up to ridicule or
blame. She does not _care_ for marriage; her position is infinitely
more delightful in its variety. She can make a world of her own without
being accountable to any one, but she has come perilously near to
loving Floyd Grandon, when she considered love no longer a temptation,
had dismissed it as a puerile insanity of youth.
Eugene catches sight of the two promenaders. Almost beside them now are
Miss Brade and Mr. Latimer. There is nothing in it, and yet it stirs
his jealousy. Laura has always been so sure that Violet alone
interrupted a marriage between them, and in this cruel pang he is
grateful to Violet, and glad, yes, exultingly glad that madame never
can be mistress here. There is one check for her, even if she triumphs
in all things else.
"What an exquisite dancer you are," he says to Violet. "I never
imagined you could learn anything like that in a convent."
"I don't think you learn _quite_ like it," she says, with a soft little
ripple. "I never danced so before; it is enchantment. And I never
waltzed with a gentleman until to-night, except to take a few steps
with my teacher."
"You like it?" He is amused by the enthusiasm of her tone.
"Oh," she confesses, with a long sigh, "it is rapturous! I am so fond
of dancing. I wonder, do _you_ think it frivolous?" and she glances up
with a charming deprecation.
She _is_ very pretty. It must be her dress that makes her so uncommonly
lovely to-night, he fancies, but it is all things,--her youth, her joy,
her sweet satisfaction.
"Why, no, not frivolous. It is--well, I don't know how society would
get along without it," and he gives a short, grim laugh. "We could not
have balls or parties or Germans,--nothing but dinners and teas and
musicales and stupid receptions. And there wouldn't be anything for
young people to do; the old tabbies, you know, can gossip about their
neighbors, and the men can smoke."
"It is all so wonderfully beautiful!" she begins, dreamily. "The lawn
is a perfect fairyland, and I never saw so many lovely dresses and
handsome people together in my life. And the music----"
The strains floating in the air are quite enough to bewilder one, to
steep him in delicious reveries, to transport him to Araby the blest.
"Will you waltz once with me?" he asks, suddenly, taking her hand.
"_Ought_ I?" she inquires, innocently. "You see I do not quite
understand----"
"No," he answers, "I will take a galop instead, but it is all right
enough. Floyd wouldn't care, I know."
He has a jealous misgiving that Floyd will waltz with madame if Violet
thus sets him an example.
The galop begins presently. Floyd is busy with the duties of host, and
supper is soon to be announced. Madame dances superbly, but neither of
them are up now, except that just at the last Floyd takes a few turns
with Cecil, whose time of revelry is now ended.
Eugene takes Violet in to supper; not exactly as Floyd has planned, but
as she desires. Her next neighbor is very bright and entertaining, and
Eugene really does his best. Between them both Mrs. Grandon is vivacious,
sparkling, and radiant with the charms of youth and pleasure. Eugene is
quite resolved to show madame that he has not been hard hit, and even
devotes himself awhile to Lucia Brade, who is supremely happy. There is
more dancing, and Violet and Floyd have another lovely waltz. So with
walking and talking and lounging on balcony and lawn, listening to the
delicious music, the revel comes to an end.
"You have been very happy?" Floyd Grandon says to his wife.
"It has been perfect," she makes answer. "I could ask nothing more,
nothing."
He kisses her with a little sigh. Is there something more, and does he
long for it?