"I watched the distance as it grew,
And loved you better than you knew."
"Violet," Floyd Grandon says, one morning, "I have invited two guests
who will come to-day, a Mr. Murray and his daughter. She is a very
pretty young girl and fond of society. I think we had better plan some
entertainments. What would you like--a garden party? I want to render
Grandon Park attractive to Miss Murray."
"Is she like Miss Dayre?" asks Violet, gravely.
"She is a pretty girl with the usual fair hair," and he smiles. "No, I
fancy she is not like Miss Dayre, and yet I thought Bertie Dayre oddly
entertaining. Miss Murray is fond of dancing. The evening I was there
she was full of delight about a German. I don't know but you ought to
pay some attention to that," he adds, with a touch of solicitude.
"It is very fascinating," she makes answer. "You know we are invited to
Madame Lepelletier's German on Thursday evening."
"I really had forgotten. Why, it is the very thing. I shall go down and
get an invitation for Miss Murray, and bespeak madame's favor. They
will reach here about two, I think, and must have some lunch. Mother
will take charge of that. When Miss Murray is rested you can take her
out driving. We might have some kind of gathering on Friday evening."
Violet wonders why so much is to be done for Miss Murray's
entertainment, and she shrinks a little at having it on her hands. But
Eugene, who has been off on a brief expedition, will return to-morrow,
and he can assist her.
Floyd meanwhile saunters out to the hall and takes his hat, with a
little kindly nod to Violet, who sits by the window with a book. There
has been a quiet week, from various causes, and now the whirl is to
begin again. She has not so much heart in it as youth ought to have or
her eighteen years would rightly warrant, and she turns idly again to
her page. At times some of Bertie Dayre's comments come back to her
with a kind of electric shiver. Is she anything to her husband beyond a
pet and tenderly guarded child like Cecil? a companion for her, rather
than for her husband. Could Madame Lepelletier have been more to him?
Ah, she could, and Violet knows it in the depths of her soul. It is a
bitter and humiliating knowledge. Madame has the exquisite art of
filling her house with attractive people, of harmonizing, of giving
satisfaction, of rendering her guests at home with herself, of charming
grave men and wise scholars, as well as gay young girls. It is true
Violet has married him, but was not Floyd Grandon's regard brought
about by a pique, an opportunity to retaliate the wrong once done to
him? What if there were moments when he regretted it?
He goes down the handsome avenue lined with maples, remembering the old
times with Aunt Marcia and all the changes, and recalling Miss
Stanwood, as he seldom has until Mrs. Dayre talked her over. He can see
the tall, slender, dignified girl, just as he can call up the young
student with his head full of plans, none of which came to pass, none
of which he would care for now. His life has changed and broadened like
the old place, and when this business is fairly off his hands there
will be new paths of delight opening before him. He will take Violet
away somewhere,--to Europe, perhaps, when Gertrude and the professor
go. She is such a simple child, she needs training and experience and
years. Youth is sweet, but it is not the time of ripeness.
Madame Lepelletier is on the shaded porch, sitting in a hammock; a
scarlet cushion embroidered with yellow jasmine supports her head and
shoulders, and her daintily slippered feet rest on a soft Persian rug.
"Ah," she says, holding out her hand, but she does not rise, and he has
to bend over to take it. "Sit here," and she reaches out to the willow
chair, "unless you would prefer going within. I am living out of doors,
taking in the summer fragrance and warmth for the coming winter."
"O provident woman!" and he laughs, as he seats himself beside her.
She makes such a lovely picture here in the waving green gloom, with
specks of sunshine filtered about, the cushion being the one brilliant
mass of color that seems to throw up her shining black hair and dusky,
large-lidded eyes. There is a suggestion of affluent orientalism that
attracts strongly.
"Well, are blessings so numerous that one can throw them aside
broadcast? Do we not need such visions as these to take us through the
ice and snow and gray skies of a stinging winter day?"
"With your house at eighty degrees and tropical plants in every
corner?"
"You are resolved not to approve of my laying up treasure. I breathe
delight with every waft of fragrance, and though you may not believe
it, the natural has a charm for me. I have been slowly studying it for
a year. Is it a symptom of second childhood,--this love of olden
pleasures, this longing to retrace?" and she raises her slow-moving
eyes, letting them rest a moment on his face.
"Hardly, in your case," and he smiles.
She likes him to study her as he is gravely doing now. She has not
posed for him, and yet she thought of him when she came out and settled
herself.
"I have a favor to ask," he says, presently, and it would sound abrupt
if the voice were less finely modulated.
"I am in a mood which is either indolent or generous. Try me."
Floyd Grandon prefers his request. It is never any direct aid or
benefit to himself. Has this man no little friendly needs?
"Of course," she says. "Then I shall be sure of you as a spectator of
the pageant. I was not at all certain you would honor me, since Mrs.
Grandon does not participate in Germans."
"But I think she would like them," he says. "I suppose disparity in
marriages is generally condemned for kindred reasons, one has gone by
the heyday of youth, and the other should be in it. Almost I am tempted
to try a German. Would Latimer keep me in countenance, I wonder?"
"Yes," she answers. "And Mrs. Latimer would no doubt take you through
the figures. Miss Murray is probably skilled in the art."
"And I must give a garden party for her. Would Friday answer?"
"Too soon, unless--how long does she remain?"
"A week or so. It is possible if Mr. Murray should be charmed with the
place he would cast in his lot at Grandon Park."
"Where is Mrs. Murray?"
"There is no Mrs. Murray, and only one daughter. I am not quite equal
to the care of young ladies. If Laura were here--so you see I am
compelled to trouble my friends."
That is all settled and she leads him to other matters. There are
higher subjects than Germans between them,--the new literary work, the
return of Prof. Freilgrath, a coming winter of more absolute
satisfaction than the last, the possibilty of much time being spent in
the city, and bits of half-confidence that she knows he can give to no
other. She is his friend, and there is a secret elation in this; more
she does not care to claim.
He drives to the station for his new friends. Violet is awaiting his
return with her attendant Cecil, who is the embodiment of brilliant
health and rare beauty. Mr. Murray is a fine business-looking man, a
trifle past forty, with smiling, shrewd gray eyes, a bright complexion,
and full brown beard. Miss Murray is tall, with a willowy figure, a
round, infantile face, with wondering blue eyes, a dimpled chin, a
rather wide mouth, but the lips are exquisitely curved and smiling; not
a regular beauty, but possessing much piquant loveliness and the
peculiar gift of interesting you at once. Even Violet is curiously
moved as she holds the plump, ungloved hand in hers. Miss Murray's
voice has a rather plaintive, persuasive note in it, quite different
from the independent ring of Miss Dayre.
Violet conducts her up to a pretty guest-chamber, and listens to the
events of the journey and a two weeks' stay at Newport, which has been
crowded full of pleasure.
"I hope we shall not seem dull here by contrast," says Mrs. Grandon,
and Miss Murray notes the especial refinement of this little lady, who
is the wife of the somewhat famous Floyd Grandon.
"I do not expect every place to be quite alike," returns Miss Murray,
with cheerful good-nature. "And we met several people at Newport who
knew Mr. Grandon. Isn't there a learned German who married some
one----"
"Professor Freilgrath, whose wife is Mr. Grandon's sister."
"Are you literary, too?" and Miss Murray's childlike eyes accent the
question with a perceptible negative hope.
"Oh, no!" and Violet smiles with admirable expression.
"Well, I am glad," returns the young girl, rather hesitatingly. "I am
not much used to them, you see, and I like nice jolly times better. I
do almost everything in the way of amusement. Do you play lawn tennis?"
"I do not quite understand it, and blunder dreadfully," admits Violet.
"Oh, I adore it!"
"Then Mr. Grandon's brother will be able to entertain you. He is an
excellent player."
"The one they call Eugene?"
"Yes, there is but one."
"Papa and Mr. Grandon talked about him. How old is he?"
"Past twenty-three," answers Violet, "and very handsome."
"Dark or light?"
"Dark, brilliant, with a splendid figure and perfect health."
"I adore dark men," says Miss Murray. "And does he dance?"
"He is an elegant dancer. We are all to go to a German to-morrow
evening. Eugene is away now, but will return in the morning."
Miss Murray confesses that she "adores" Germans and rowing and riding.
She has a magnificent horse at home. She is not going to school any
more, but may consider herself regularly in society.
After all these confidences Violet leaves her to make any change in her
attire that she deems desirable, and Miss Murray comes down in a blue
silk that is wonderfully becoming. It makes her complexion more
infantile, her hair more golden, and her eyes larger. She has a soft,
languishing aspect, and really interests Violet, who does not feel so
utterly lacking in wisdom as she did with Miss Dayre, for Miss Murray
makes girlish little speeches and "adores" generally.
There is an elegant luncheon of fruit and delicacies, and Mrs. Grandon
_mère_ presides. Afterward the gentlemen betake themselves to the tower
and smoke; Violet and her guest divide between the shady end of the
drawing-room and the porch, with its beautiful prospect. When the
midday heat begins to abate they have their drive and some trotting on
the boulevard. Miss Murray grows quite confidential, not in a weak or
silly manner, but with the frank _insouciance_ of youth. She seems so
generally bent upon having a good time and being liked, admired. She is
simply frank where Miss Dayre was independent. She does everything,
rows and rides and plays out-of-door games, even to belonging to an
archery club. But needlework is her abhorrence, and with all her
restless youth she has a great grace of repose as she sits in the
willow veranda chair.
Eugene comes through in a night train,--time is so valuable to
him,--and is set down, with all his traps, at the door of the mansion
just after the gentlemen have had breakfast and departed. Violet
catches a glimpse of him and flies up from the summer-house.
"Oh, you have come!" she cries. "I am so glad."
He takes both hands in his, and if the servants were not about, he
would draw down the sweet, blooming face and kiss it. There is an eager
light in her eyes, a quiver about the rose-red mouth, a certain abandon
that is very fascinating.
"Yes," he replies. "It was an awful bore! No game, nor anything but
stupid card-playing. Wished myself home fifty times. How lovely you
look!" and his eyes study her so closely that she flushes in a
ravishing fashion.
"Are you tired to death? I have so much for you to do. There is a
German to-night at Madame Lepelletier's, and we are all going. We have
a guest, a young lady."
He gives a whistle, and the delight in his face vanishes more rapidly
than it ought.
"A Miss Murray," Violet goes on. "You cannot help liking her: I do."
"Then I shall," he returns, with a meaning laugh.
"When you are rested----" Violet begins.
"Oh, I slept like a top! Nothing _could_ keep me awake but a troubled
conscience. When I get the dust of ages washed off and make myself
presentable I will hunt you up. Where shall I look? Only--I'd like to
have you a little glad for your own sake. You might care that much."
"Why, I _am_ glad, I did miss you," she says, daintily. "We are in the
summer-house reading novels."
He unclasps her hands reluctantly. He has been thinking of her day and
night when he was not asleep. Madame would be very well satisfied at
the completeness with which her rival has dethroned her. His callow
passion for her has turned his attention from over-much racing and
gaming, and therein was a benefit, but it has also implanted within his
breast an intense desire for some woman's admiration, and circumstances
have led him to Violet. He has been allowing himself to think that if
he _had_ met her while she was free he would have cared. She is so
lovely and beguiling, how could he have helped it? And he sees in this
Miss Murray's coming an opportunity to be more devoted to her, without
exposing her to any unfavorable comments.
Violet wonders how he could get through with his toilet so rapidly when
he stands in the doorway of the summer-house, fresh, brilliant, his
lithe figure the embodiment of manly grace, his dark eyes bright,
imperious, and winning, and his smile captivating. A curious light goes
over Miss Murray's face at the introduction. Evidently she is surprised
and satisfied.
They drop into a gay little chat. The sun comes round with such intense
heat that they are driven up to the shady balcony and the hammocks.
Violet is in a new and enchanting mood; she is of their kind to-day,
bright with youth and enjoyment. She even surprises herself. She hardly
knew there was so much merry audacity in her nature, such a capability
of riotous delight.
The gentlemen do not return to lunch.
"I suppose Miss Murray's father is one of the literary sort," says
Eugene, afterward. "Nothing of the bluestocking about her, though.
Isn't she jolly?"
"I am so glad you like her," Violet answers. "I don't know what Mr.
Murray is, only he doesn't seem like a--that kind, you know, but I
suppose he must be," she settles in her own mind. "They are very
wealthy."
"Birds of a feather," laughs Eugene, adverting to Floyd.
The afternoon is a good deal taken up with dresses; Miss Murray has
half a dozen that are simple yet extremely elegant. She finally selects
a lace robe made over pale pink silk, and she looks bewitching in it.
Eugene is rather puzzled about Mr. Murray at first, but before dinner
is ended he learns that the bent of the man's mind is business. What
new project has Floyd on hand? There has been some talk of reopening
the quarry; at least Floyd has had offers. Or does he mean to build up
the remainder of Grandon Park?
Violet is in a soft white silk, with some remarkable pearls and opals
that Floyd has had set for her, and a few magnificent roses. Her color
and vivacity have come back to her, and as Floyd watches her, a curious
remembrance seems to dawn on him. Has she not been well of late that
she has seemed so grave and silent, so pale and sad-eyed? Ever since
his return she has appeared changed, but now he has his own little
fairy back again. What charm in Miss Murray has worked the
transformation? Is it kindred youth and sympathy and pleasure?
Miss Murray and Eugene have been explaining the figures to her, even to
the extent of practising them in the library, where they idled away
much of the afternoon.
"You will try it with me?" Eugene pleads. "I know I can find a partner
for Miss Murray."
"No, you must take Miss Murray; some other time we will--yes, you
must," peremptorily. "She is my especial guest. I am her chaperone, you
know, and am duty bound to provide her with the best and handsomest
partner I can find."
"Do you really think so? Then for the sake of the compliment I must do
my best."
She smiles upon him, and the young man is unwillingly persuaded. Miss
Murray cannot remain forever, but Violet is a part of the present life,
and he does not mean that she shall slip out of his reach. Nothing on
his part shall crowd her out.
The rooms are lovely, the night and the music enchanting. Violet's face
grows unconsciously wistful as she listens and watches the dancers
taking their places. Eugene comes for a word.
"I hate to leave you," he declares. "Are you just going to stand and
look on?"
She waves him away to his duty, but other eyes note the reluctance.
"Are you not going to allow Mrs. Grandon to dance?" asks madame, in a
soft, half-reproachful tone. "She stands there looking like a Peri at
the gate, forbidden to enter youth's paradise."
"She is not forbidden," answers Grandon, quickly, with a nervous sense
of marital tyranny which he repudiates now and always.
"She is enough to tempt an anchorite," declares Mr. Murray, gallantly.
"I could sigh for the days of past and gone youth. Have you forsworn
such gayeties, Grandon? But I need hardly ask a man of your stamp----"
"As we have no advantages of acquiring Germans in deserts," interrupts
Floyd, with a smile.
"They are the offshoots of civilization," says Latimer, "the superior
accomplishments of the men who stay at home. With your permission, Mr.
Grandon, I will induct Mrs. Grandon into the enchanting mystery."
Floyd bows with pleased acquiescence, and conducts Latimer to his wife.
Her soft, dark eyes express her delight, and something else that he
wonders about but does not understand.
Madame executes a little manoeuvre which brings them to Miss Murray's
vicinity. The young girl nods and smiles. She is serenely happy with
her partner, the handsomest man in the room, and he has been saying
some extremely pretty things to her.
"You little match-maker," whispers Latimer. "For a first attempt it is
audacious."
"I have not attempted," and she colors vividly. "How could I know _you_
would offer, or that Miss Murray would accept such an objectionable
partner?" she says, archly.
"I suppose I must believe you," slowly, as if he were making an effort,
while a mirthful smile gleams in his eye. "But in the place of the
stage father, I 'bless you, my children,'" and he raises his brows,
indicating the two. "Eugene Grandon's mission in life is to be purely
ornamental; he must have been born with an incapacity for doing
anything of any real service to the world, and his manifest destiny is
to be some rich woman's husband. Now here is an opportunity too good to
lose. My advice is to go on as you have begun."
"But I have not begun," she says, a little nervously.
"Then I advise you to begin."
The band strikes up a few bars with a preliminary flourish, and the
music vibrates enchantingly on the summer night air. They take their
places.
"I shall blunder horribly," Violet insists. "You will soon be ashamed
of me."
"We will see. Of course if you are dreadful I shall scold you, and tell
your husband in the bargain. He and Mr. Murray ought to take a turn. I
have seen men waltz splendidly."
She laughs, then bethinks herself in time to save the undesired
blunder, and they float gracefully through the first figure. It is
enchanting. The sunny lustre comes back to Violet's eyes, and her
cheeks are abloom, her lips part in a half-smile. As she floats down to
where Mr. Grandon and Mr. Murray stand, her husband takes in the supple
grace, the happy young face, the half-abandon, and feels that it is the
right and the power of youth. Has he cut her off from a full
participation of its pleasures? More than once he has questioned his
kindness of a year agone.
Mr. Murray is watching his daughter with a vague satisfaction,--his
little "Polly," as he sometimes calls her, to whom his life is devoted.
All day he has talked business with Mr. Grandon, and they have gone
deep into the mysteries of trade and manufacturing. He sees himself
that the right parties could control vast interests in this matter.
When his friend George Haviland returns from Europe, a few weeks later,
a decision will be made, for he understands how troublesome the matter
is to Grandon, and how anxious he is to have his father's estate
settled. If these two young people should choose to settle another
point? He must inquire into the young man's character and habits; but
if Mr. Floyd Grandon is a sample of the manhood of the family, there
can be no trouble on that score. Grandon Park is aristocratic,
undeniably elegant, and, so far as he can see, less given to "shoddy"
than many of the new places.
The evening is perfection to those who dance and full of enjoyment to
those who do not. There are card-tables, and a disused conservatory is
transformed into a luxurious smoking-room, from which the mazy winding
German can be seen. There are no wall-flowers, no dissatisfied young
women with scorn-tipped noses, and the promenaders, mostly married
guests, are well paired. Mr. Murray, who has seen society almost
everywhere, is charmed with this.
"What a magnificent woman Madame Lepelletier is," he says to Grandon.
"We have some friends who met her in New York last winter, and I do not
wonder at their enthusiasm. I little thought I should have the
pleasure. There are not many of our countrywomen who could give so
charming an evening."
Grandon is pleased with the praise. His eyes follow the regal woman.
"If I had been in his place I would have made a bid for her," says Mr.
Murray to himself, and he wonders what induced Grandon to marry such a
child as Miss St. Vincent must have been a year ago.
After the supper there is some miscellaneous dancing, a few new steps
the younger portion are desirous of trying, and a waltz that delights
Violet, since she has her husband for a partner. She is full of
pleasurable excitement, and seems alive with some electric power. He
goes back to their first waltz; what is it that has fallen between and
made a little coldness? Why does he study her now with such questioning
eyes, and why is she, with all her brilliance, less tender than a month
or two ago? That quaint little touch of entire dependence has merged
into a peculiar strength, and she seems quite capable of standing
alone. He is strangely roused, piqued as it were.
Violet has been studying a rather ponderous subject for a ball-room,
and she is somewhat elated at having arrived at a conclusion unaided,
except by the trifling suggestion Mr. Latimer has thrown out. It was
Mr. Murray whom Mr. Grandon had some business with awhile ago; she
remembers seeing his name in a letter. His friend went to Europe, and
this is the Mr. Haviland they talk about. She can almost guess the
rest. How odd if Eugene should marry into the new business house, as
his brother married the daughter of a member of the old one. Violet
resolves that he shall love her. She is sweet and engaging and quite
captivated by him, as is evident by her girlish frankness and
admiration.
The two go up-stairs together, while the gentlemen indulge in a last
cigar.
"It was delightful!" Miss Murray says. "Why, I never saw anything
really lovelier at Newport, though there is more magnificence. And Mr.
Grandon's dancing is perfection. I never enjoyed a partner better. How
very handsome he is! I _was_ envied," she cries, with eager delight; "I
saw it in the eyes of the other girls. Tell me if you think he is given
to flirting; but you know girls _do_ run after such a handsome young
fellow! I never should," she declares, naively. "Oh, Miss Brade has
asked us to lawn tennis to-morrow, with tea and a little dancing in the
evening! And if you want to give _me_ a pleasure," she adds, with a
seductive smile, "let it be a German. I do adore Germans."
She kisses Violet good night in a sweet, girlish way, and her last
thought is of Eugene Grandon's handsome face.