"Love and hay are thick sown, but come up full of thistles."
Mrs. Floyd Grandon is considered fairly in society, and the world
decides there is nothing detrimental about her. She is admitted to be
pretty, she is well-bred, with some little touches of formalism, due to
her training, that are really refreshing to elderly people, and sit
quaintly upon her. She is charming, both when her natural vivacity
crops out, that has been so repressed, and when she is shyly diffident.
Cards and invitations are left for her, and Grandon Park blossoms out
into unwonted gayety. The people who go away find no difficulty in
renting their houses to those who want to come; perhaps the Latimers
have given the impetus, for Mrs. Latimer is one of those women who are
always quoted, without having any special desire to achieve a society
reputation. The cottage frequently has some visitors of note: its
smallness renders large companies impossible.
There is the usual lawn tennis, and croquet, which is rather falling
into desuetude, but still affords unequalled opportunities for
flirtation. There is boating, and the river looks quite gay with boats
with striped and colored awnings to protect the fair ones from the sun.
Grandon and Latimer are famous oarsmen, and often gather an admiring
audience which gets greatly excited over the victorious champion,
though honors keep evenly divided. Then there are garden parties and
musical evenings, so there is no lack of amusement.
Violet has become quite an expert driver, and she and her pretty
step-daughter, who keep up their adoration of each other, make a lovely
picture in the basket phaeton. She rides on horseback very well, and
here Eugene is always at her service. In fact, though he never _quite_
confesses it, he lets her fancy that he is an unfortunate moth who has
been drawn into the flame when he would not have flown of his own
account and desire. He is the kind of masculine who must always be dear
to _some_ woman, who floats on the strongest current of fascination or
sympathy. It has been the former, it is now the latter. The many frank
allurements of youth in Violet charm him insensibly. She has a secret
sympathy and a curious misgiving that she cannot overcome,--it grows
upon her, indeed,--that Madame Lepelletier is dangerous to man and
woman.
Had madame more personal vanity in her conquests, she might feel piqued
at the defection of her knight, who has not wavered in his allegiance
for the last year. She is rather pleased than otherwise, she even
breathes little bits of encouragement and commendation to Violet, as
if seconding her efforts; and Violet falls into the mistake that many
have made before her, of comforting a young man and assisting him to
overlive his fancy for another woman, as well as secretly blaming the
other. Eugene is so fond of shifting burthens upon other people.
Laura and Mr. Delancy go abroad. Mrs. Grandon accepts several
invitations for summer visits. She is less the head of the house now
that her daughters are married and away, but she does not abate one jot
of her dignity, and is secretly mortified to see Eugene so ready to
treat with the enemy, as she still considers her.
Mrs. Jasper Wilmarth is at the summit of delighted vanity. They cannot
compete with Grandon Park, but they have taken a rambling old country
house on the outskirts of Westbrook, and Marcia has certainly managed
to accumulate no end of bizarre articles. The rooms are large and the
ceilings low; there are corner fireplaces and high mantels, there are
curtains and portières and lambrequins, there are pictures and brackets
and cabinets, easels with their "studies," and much _bric-à-brac_.
Jasper Wilmarth insists that the sleeping chamber and sitting-room
shall be kept free from this "nonsense," as he calls it, and does not
meddle his head about the rest. Indeed, he rather smiles to himself to
see of what consequence his name has made her. He does not even object
to being considered a hero of romance in her estimation, knowing her
sieve-like nature, and that whatever is in must drip through somewhere.
She adores him, she waits on him with a curious humility that is very
flattering, while to the rest of the world she puts on rather lofty
airs. They amuse him, and he sees with much inward scorn the respect
paid her--for what, indeed? Was she not as wise and as attractive six
mouths ago? Yet he means she shall have the respect and the honor. He
will not be the rich man that he once dreamed of, but he has enough to
afford her many indulgences. So when she makes a rather timid
proposition for a party of some kind, he listens with attention as she
skips over the ground and makes a jumble of festivities.
"I should choose the garden party," he says, briefly, for in his mind
he considers it the prettiest for the expense and the most enjoyable.
There is no velvet lawn, but there is the remnant of an orchard, and
the old trees are still picturesque. They need not have the fuss of a
regular supper, but refreshments out of doors, with quartet tables, for
the evening will be warm and moonlight.
Marcia is delighted. The pony phaeton flies around briskly, and
invitations are accepted on nearly every hand. Floyd Grandon would much
prefer to decline, but he cannot, without seeming churlish, and Violet
takes it as a matter of course.
Is it a special Providence that interferes? That very morning an
important telegram comes, and some one must go to Baltimore. It is not
a matter he cares to have Wilmarth settle, and Eugene is not to be
relied upon. He could take Violet, but it would look absurd this hot
weather, and on such a hurried journey, when he has not hesitated to go
alone before. Why should he be so reluctant to leave her, he wonders.
"It's just shabby!" declares Eugene. "Wait until to-morrow. Marcia will
feel dreadfully put out if you are not there to-night."
"To-morrow would make it too late to see one of the parties, who is to
go abroad." And he knits his brows.
"Well," says Eugene, "I'll take care of Violet to-night, though I can't
hope to fill your place. But--I say, Floyd, do you mind if she waltzes
with me?"
"Not if she cares to," is the answer, in a tone of reluctance that is
quite lost upon the younger. He realizes that he has hardly courage for
a direct prohibition when Eugene has just begun to show himself
brotherly.
Violet is out driving with Cecil. He hurries up to the Latimers'. She
has been there and gone, and there is no more time if he catches his
train, and not to do it might be to lose immeasurably. But to go
without a good-by to her or Cecil, and the old thought, the ghost that
haunts every untoward parting, if he should never see them again,
unmans him for an instant. What folly! Why, he is growing as fearful as
a young lover.
He writes a brief farewell in pencil, and lays it on her table. She
shall decide about the party herself, but he longs for a kiss, for one
look into her lovely, untroubled eyes.
Violet does not return until luncheon is on the table. Eugene is
looking out for her.
"Floyd had to go," he begins. "There was some important business, and
he had to make a Baltimore connection, but he scoured the town to find
you, and was awfully sorry."
It does not occur to Violet that there is anything unusual in his
sudden departure, since it is not the first time he has gone with a
very brief announcement. A thrill of satisfaction speeds through her at
the thought of his wishing to find her, and she is truly very sorry
that he should miss anything of the slightest consequence to him.
"I ought not have stayed," she says, with tender regret. "But I
remembered I had promised to call on Miss Kirkbride, and I wanted to
before I met her to-night. Oh----" and she pauses in vague questioning.
"That is all right. Floyd engaged me for your loyal knight and true,"
announces Eugene, in a confident tone, bowing ludicrously low.
Violet laughs, then a faint pink is added to the color in her cheek. It
is like her husband's thoughtful ways.
"I am not sure I ought to go. Why, I have never been out without Mr.
Grandon," she says, in alarm.
"Well, he has often been out without you," returns Eugene, with what he
considers comforting frankness. "And then--it wouldn't do at all, you
see. Mother is away, and there is not a single member of the family to
do honor to Marcia, for if you remained at home I should stay to keep
you company. And Marcia made a great point of our coming."
She has been pulling off her gloves, and now goes slowly up-stairs.
Cecil has run on before and Jane is busy with her, but she calls
eagerly as Violet passes through the hall. There lays the note on her
table, a fond farewell to her and Cecil, a kiss to each, and regrets
that he must go in such haste, but not a word about the party.
"I am all ready first," announces Cecil, coming in, attired in a fresh
white dress.
"Yes, my darling. That is from papa," as she stoops and kisses her,
"who has had to go away without a bit of good-by."
Cecil questions as to where he is gone, and why he went, and why he did
not stay until after luncheon; and Violet explains patiently, recalling
past times when the child has been almost inconsolable. She is so
solaced by her message that she does not think of any other side.
Still, she is not quite satisfied to go without him to so large a
gathering, and brings up half a dozen pretty reasons that Eugene
combats and demolishes.
"And there will be dancing," she says.
"It would be stupid if there were not," the young man replies. "Such
people as the Latimers and the Mavericks can talk forever, but Marcia
hardly keeps up to concert pitch in a long harangue, and Wilmarth is
not altogether a society man, though I must say he does uncommonly well
as a benedict. And you can waltz, too. Floyd actually bestowed the
privilege upon me," and he gives a light, flute-like laugh. Certainly
when Eugene Grandon pleases he can bring out many delightful graces.
A little pang goes to her soul. Floyd Grandon has never been exclusive
or in any sense jealous. Indeed, he has had such scant cause, but she
wishes secretly that he had not been so ready to give away that
enjoyment, and resolves that she will not waltz with Eugene.
"Come out and lie in the hammock," he says, after lunch. "It is shady,
and there is a lovely breeze; you must take a siesta to look fresh and
charming, and do honor to the Grandon name. How odd that there are only
us two!" and he gives an amusing smile. "What a marrying off there has
been since Floyd came home! Four brides in a year ought to be glory
enough for one family."
Eugene should, by right, go over to the factory and answer a pile of
letters, but instead, he throws himself on the grass, with an afghan
under his head, and falls fast asleep. Violet drowses in her hammock
and dreams away the happy hours. Only a little year ago. It runs
through her mind like the lapping of the waves in the river.
They are a little late in reaching Mrs. Wilmarth's. It is an extremely
picturesque sight, with seats rustic and bamboo, urns and stands of
flowers, and moving figures in soft colors of flowing drapery. Some one
is singing, and the sound floats outward to mingle with the summer air.
"Marcia certainly deserves credit," declares Eugene. "She is in her
glory. She always did love to manage, and maybe she tries her arts upon
Vulcan,--who knows."
"Mr. Wilmarth looks happy," says Violet, with gentle insistence.
"I suppose he is,--happy enough. But the marriage always has been a
tremendous mystery to me. I should as soon have thought of the sky
falling as Jasper Wilmarth marrying, and that he should take Marcia
caps it all. I give it up," declares the young man.
"But Marcia is--I mean she has many nice ways," remarks Violet, as if
deprecating harsher criticism.
"Well, for those who like her ways."
"You are not quite----" and Violet pauses.
"Generous or enthusiastic or any of the other womanish adjectives."
Eugene pauses, for Marcia comes to meet them and Mr. Wilmarth stands on
the porch.
"Well, you _have_ made your appearance at last!" begins Marcia, with an
emphasis rendered more decisive from a remark uttered by her husband a
few moments before.
"Yes, but you can be thankful that you have us at all," says Eugene, in
a tone of lazy insolence. "We only came as representatives of the great
family name whose dignity we are compelled to uphold in the absence of
the august head of the house."
Jasper Wilmarth hears this and would like to knock down the young man.
"Where is Floyd?" asks Marcia, sharply.
"Gone to Europe," says Eugene, with charming mendacity.
"Oh," cries Violet, in consternation, "not Europe! It is Baltimore."
And fearing Marcia will be hurt she adds quickly, "It was very
important business."
"Well, some one else went or is going to Europe. He was in a panic for
fear of missing a connection. And he left loads of regrets, didn't he,
Violet?"
"He left all that word with you," replies the young wife, wondering in
her secret soul if Floyd really meant her to come and why he did not
speak of it in the note.
They are in the hall by this time. Eugene nods coolly to Wilmarth, and
Violet speaks with a curious inflection, her thoughts are elsewhere,
but Wilmarth's steel-gray eyes remark that without reading the motive.
"Where has your brother gone?" he asks of Eugene. "I was not aware of
any urgent business when I saw him this morning."
"I dare say it is his own affairs. Some ruin-hunter is no doubt going
to the East, and he wants to send for an old coin or a bit of stone
with an inscription, or the missing link," and the young man laughs
indolently.
Marcia is going up-stairs with Violet. "I think Floyd might have put
off his journey until to-morrow," she says, in an offended tone. "He
did not come to the dinner, either. Perhaps he thinks we are _not_ good
enough, grand enough. You are quite sure you have not come against his
wishes?"
Violet starts at this tirade, and if she had more courage would put on
her hat again and walk out of the house.
"I am very sorry," she begins, but some one enters the dressing-room
and she goes down presently to be warmly welcomed by several of the
guests. Eugene constitutes himself her knight, and she feels very
grateful. It is so strange to go in company without her husband; she
can roam about the woods or drive her pony carriage and not feel
lonely, but it seems quite solitary here, although she has met most of
the people.
Eugene takes her arm and escorts her about. They are a charming young
couple in their youth and beauty, and more than one person discerns the
fitness. The business, too, would be of so much more account to Eugene,
and he is in most need of a fortune. Jasper Wilmarth wonders if a time
of regret will come to him.
Wafts of music float out on the summer night air. There is some dancing
and much promenading. Marcia has a surprise in store, a series of
tableaux arranged out of doors, with a pale rose light that renders
them extremely effective, and they are warmly applauded. The guests sit
at the tables and enjoy creams, ices, and salads: it is the perfection
of a garden party. Marcia is in rather æsthetic attire, but it is
becoming, and she is brimful of delight, though she wishes Floyd were
here to see. She has a misgiving that he does not mean to rate Jasper
Wilmarth very highly, and her wifely devotion resents it, for she is
devoted. Jasper Wilmarth is both pleased and interested in the puppet
he can move hither and thither to his liking, and occasionally to his
service. He is gratified to see her party a success, though somewhat
annoyed at the defection of his brother-in-law, who so far has not been
his guest. He is piqued, too, about the sudden journey, and remembers
now that a telegram came for him this morning. There is no business
connection in Baltimore that need be made a secret, unless it is some
secret of his own.
"There," exclaims Eugene, "a waltz at length! I began to think the ogre
had forbidden so improper a proceeding. Now you are to waltz with me."
And he rises, with her hand in his, but Violet keeps her seat.
"Why is waltzing considered improper?" she asks, slowly.
"Upon my life I don't know, unless, like the woman, you have to draw
the line somewhere, and it is drawn at your relations or your husband.
I have it--bright thought--it is to give _them_ some especial
privileges that will rouse the envy of the rest of the world. For
myself I think it a humbug. There are other dances quite as
reprehensible when you come to that, but I've never come to harm in
any," and he laughs. "And as for flirting, there are devices many and
various; when you reach that point, Madame Lepelletier can do more with
her eyes than any dozen girls I know could with their feet. Come."
"I think--I do not feel like it," replies Violet.
"Oh, don't wear the willow!" advises the young man. "You have just been
up in one quadrille, and people will notice it. Besides, I was very
particular to respect any lingering prejudice my august brother might
have had."
"And he said you were to waltz with me?"
"Oh," he rejoins, in a kind of hurt tone, "you really do not suppose I
would tell you a falsehood in this matter! I really do want to waltz
with you, but I shouldn't descend to any such smallness as that."
She is touched by his air and disappointment.
"Well," she answers, reluctantly.
Just then madame floats by them. Violet rises, and they go gracefully
down in the widening circles. Eugene waltzes to perfection. A few young
girls look on with envious eyes, and something about Lucia Brade's face
appeals to Violet. She _does_ carry her heart on her sleeve, and has
always been fond of Eugene Grandon.
"Let us stop," entreats Violet.
"Why, we were just going so perfectly! It was like a dream. How
beautifully you do waltz! What is the matter?"
All this is uttered in a breath.
"I want you to go waltz with Miss Brade," says Violet. "She looks so
lonely talking to that old Mr. Carpenter."
"Nonsense." And he tries to swing her into line.
"No; I do not feel as if I had any business with the young men," says
Violet, rather promptly, standing her ground with resolution.
"See here," exclaims Eugene, suddenly, "if I waltz with her, will you
give me another somewhere? If you won't, I shall not dance another step
to-night," and he shakes his black curls defiantly.
That means he will keep close to her as a shadow, and she wishes he
would not.
"Yes," she answers, "if you will do your duty you shall be rewarded."
"Be good and you will be happy," he quotes.
"Take _me_ over to Mr. Carpenter."
"He will prose you to death. See, there is Mrs. Carpenter waltzing with
Fred Kirkbride. That is the way young and pretty second wives enjoy
themselves," says this candid young man.
Lucia Brade goes off supremely happy. Violet watches them from her
rustic seat. She has been a little amazed at Lucia's evident
preference, so plainly shown. Mr. Carpenter only needs a listener to
render him supremely happy in his monologues, so Violet can follow her
own thoughts.
She is wondering why she feels so lost and lonely in this bright scene,
and why the waltz did not enchant her! Where is Mr. Grandon--drowsing
in a railway car? If he were here! The very thought thrills her. Yes,
it _is_ her husband she misses,--not quite as she used to miss him,
either. He has grown so much more to her, he fills all the spaces of
her life. He may be absent bodily, but he is in her soul, he has
possession of her very being. Is this love?
A strange thrill runs over her. The lights, the dancing, the talk
beside her, might all be leagues away. She is penetrated, possessed by
a blissful knowledge, something deeper, finer, keener than she has ever
dreamed, not simply the reverence and obedience of the marriage vow
that she has supposed included all. And then comes another searching
question,--how much of just this kind of love has Floyd Grandon for
her?
The waltz has ended, and the lanciers begun. She will not dance that,
but sends Eugene in quest of another partner, at which he grumbles. The
Latimers are not here,--a sick baby has prevented,--though now Violet
begins to feel quite at home with many of the dwellers in the park and
about. Even madame searches her out presently.
"My dear child," she says, in that soft, suave tone, "are you not well
this evening? You are such a little recluse."
"Quite well." And the brilliant face answers for her.
"Then you are not enjoying yourself. You young people ought to be up in
every set."
"I did dance. But I like to look on. The figures are so graceful, and
the music is bewitching."
"It seems unnatural for one of your age to be merely a spectator. How
lovely Eugene and Mrs. Carpenter look together! She is just about your
size and dances with the _verve_ of youth, which I admire extremely.
Gravity at that age always seems far-fetched, put on as a sort of
garment to hide something not quite frank or open, but it never can
conceal the fact that it covers thoughts foreign to youth."
Violet wonders if she has been unduly grave this evening. She _has_
something to conceal, a sweet, sacred secret that only one person may
inquire into. Will he, some day? He has never yet asked her the lover's
question to which it would be so sweet to reply.
"There," exclaims Eugene, sitting down beside her, "I have done my
duty. The very next waltz, remember."
The last is in a whisper, and it brings the bright color to her face,
brighter because madame's eyes are upon her; but fortunately for her
peace, madame is wanted.
"Do you know," says Eugene, "I am very glad you married Floyd, for I
_do_ think it would have ended by his taking her; not that he cared
particularly, and the queer thing was that Cecil would not make friends
with her; but she is the kind of woman who generally gets everything
she tries for. And I do believe she envies you your home and your
husband."
"Oh!" cries Violet, much abashed, "do not say so. It seems to me there
is nothing that she can envy or desire."
"Don't believe the half of that, little innocent! Oh, listen, this
measure is perfection! Come."
She rises, for she cannot endure sitting here and discussing madame,
and they all take so much for granted between her and Mr. Grandon.
The waltz is lovely out here in the summer moonlight. She forgets her
discomfort in it, and is very happy; but when it ends she feels that
her duty is done, that she would like to go home, and mentions her
desire to Eugene.
"Why, yes, if you like," he answers. "If it had not been for you the
whole thing would have bored me intolerably. Floyd may thank his stars
for an excuse to keep away."
They make their adieus to host and hostess. Marcia tosses her head with
a curt farewell.
But it has been a success. Doubtless many of the guests came from
curiosity; but Mrs. Wilmarth is delighted to have had what would have
been an enormous crush inside, and much elated to have it praised on
every hand.
"But what idiots Violet and Eugene made of themselves," she says, in
the privacy of her own room, when all is quiet and the old orchard is
left to the weird dancing shadows of the moonlight, while the insect
voices of the night keep up an accompaniment.
"Did they? I thought he was unusually modest and chary of his numerous
graces," returns Jasper Wilmarth, with his usual sneer, which is nearly
always lost upon Marcia, who has settled it as belonging to his way and
not meaning anything.
"That is just what I complain of. They walked round or sat under trees
like a couple of spooning lovers. I believe they did waltz once; and
Violet did nothing but dance the night of her ball."
"I wonder," Jasper Wilmarth says, slowly, "if Eugene does not, or will
not regret giving up the St. Vincent fortune."
"Giving up the fortune!" Marcia turns straight around, with a
resemblance to Medusa, since her short, uneven hair stands out every
way with the vigorous use of her magnetic brush. "How could he have had
the St. Vincent fortune?"
Wilmarth is surprised. Is it possible that Marcia does not know? Have
these two men kept the secret from the family?
"Why of course you are aware that it was offered to Eugene!" he
answers, composedly.
"No, I am not," she replies, shortly. "Was it to marry Violet?"
He nods. "Yes, she seemed to go begging for a husband. I had the chance
first, but I really fancied she was not more than fourteen or so, and I
must wait for her to grow up. But St. Vincent was in a hurry, for I
suppose he knew his days were numbered, and when Eugene declined--well,
no doubt he offered her and her fortune to your brother Floyd, who was
more shrewd than either of us."
Marcia drops in an easy-chair, quite astounded. It is true, the secret
has been kept from her. Eugene had the grace to swear Laura and madame
to secrecy; and Marcia not being at home when Mrs. Grandon became
possessor of it, a little fear of Floyd kept her from confiding it to
this untrustworthy member of the family.
"And you would have married her?" cries Marcia, jealously.
"The fortune might have tempted me. I will not pretend to a higher
state of grace than your brother, and you know up to that time you had
taken no pains to render yourself attractive to me. See how soon I
succumbed."
"You delightful old Vulcan!" And Marcia flies across the room to shower
kisses on her husband, convinced that she might have had him long
before if she had only smiled upon him.
"What a cheat Floyd was!" she declares, "making believe he fell in love
with Violet because she saved Cecil. But--the fortune was not certain?"
"I should have made it certain as well as your brother," says Wilmarth.
"But if Eugene repents and falls in love with the pretty little thing,
there will be a nice row."
"And it does look like it," declares Marcia, who is delighted to ferret
out unorthodox loves. "I mean to watch them."
"Do no such thing," he commands. "Eugene will not be very hard hit, and
your brother is quite capable of taking care of his wife. They are like
two children, but it _is_ a pity Eugene had not been wiser. If your
brother had only waited until Eugene had met Miss St. Vincent. The
hurry in this matter always did surprise me a little. But I forbid you
ever breathing a word to your brother. You see what a foolish husband I
am to trust you with secrets," and he laughs.
"No, you are not foolish. Of course I should never speak of it to
Floyd," she says, reflectively. She would never have the courage.
"Well, that is all right," patronizingly. "I dare say the rest know it.
It was because you were not in their confidence."
That remark nettles Marcia, and she secretly resolves to find out, as
Jasper Wilmarth is quite certain that she will. He has spoken of this
with a purpose, not simply in foolish marital confidence. He believes
Violet Grandon is very much in love with her husband, and he does not
care who gives her the stab. It is this adoration that adds fuel to his
hatred of Floyd Grandon.