If there is a spot that is touched it is his utter admiration for madame. She treats him as if he were still in the tender realms of youth; she calls him Eugene, and asks pretty favors of him in a half-caressing manner that is not to be misunderstood. She puts the years between them in a very distinct manner. She will have no "philandering." He belongs to the young girls. She dances with him several times, and then chooses partners for him. She is regal to-night, that goes without saying. Her velvet is a pale lavender, that in certain lights looks almost frost white, and it fits her perfect figure admirably.

Laura has been disappointed in the wish of her soul, her grand stroke.

"Floyd," she said, when he came down, looking the faultless gentleman, "you must open the dancing with Madame Lepelletier. You can walk through a quadrille, so you need not begin with excuses. I have arranged the set."

"In this you must excuse me, Laura," he answers, with quiet decision. "I have not danced for years, and, under the circumstances——"

"You don't mean you are going to turn silly, just because—your wife is not here?" and her authority dominates his. "It would not be decent for her to dance if she were here! We never even went to a dancing party after papa's death, until—well, not until this autumn, and I wouldn't marry before six months had elapsed. Then, I have everything planned, I have even spoken to madame. O Floyd!" and seeing his face still unrelenting, her eyes fill with tears.

"My dear Laura——" A woman's slow tears move him inexpressibly, while noisy crying angers him, and he bends to kiss her. "Do not feel hurt, my child. Command me in anything else, but this I cannot do."

"Oh, I know, she made you promise, the mean, jealous little thing!"

"Hush," he commands. "She asked no favors and I made no promises. She would not care if I danced every set."

"That is just it!" cries Laura, angrily. "She doesn't care, she doesn't know——"

"She is my wife!" He walks away, so indignant the first moment that he all but resolves to return to Violet, then his duty as host presents itself. He and the professor and a few others keep outside of the magic circle, but no one would suspect from his demeanor that he had been ruffled for an instant. There is enough enjoyment in the rambles about the lawn and smoking on the balcony. It is the perfection of an early autumn night; in fact, for two or three days it has been unusually warm.

Gertrude looks quite well for her. Madame has added a few incomparable toilet touches. Floyd is attentive to her, and Prof. Freilgrath takes her to supper, promenades with her, and is quite delightful for an old bookworm. Mr. Latimer talks to her and finds her a great improvement on Marcia, but the German keeps thinking over her poor little story. If there was something for her to do! and he racks his brain. There are no crowds of nephews and nieces, there is no house to keep, there is no gardening, and he remembers his own busy countrywomen.

A little whisper floats about in the air that young Mrs. Grandon is not quite—but no one finishes the sentence that Laura so points with a shrug. It seems a pity that a man of his position and attainments should stumble upon such a mesalliance. The sprained ankle is all very well, but the feeling is that some lack in gift or grace or education is quite as potent as any physical mishap in keeping her away to-night. Gertrude, out of pure good-nature, praises her, but Gertrude is a little passe and rather out of society. The professor speaks admiringly, but he is Mr. Grandon's confrere, and a scholar is not a very good judge of a young girl's capacity to fill such a place in the world as Mrs. Floyd Grandon's ought to be. But all this creates in his favor a romantic sympathy, and this evening men and women alike have found him charming.



CHAPTER XVII.

Of a truth there are many unexpected things in a long life.—ARISTOPHANES.

"With whom did you dance?" Violet asks, her face one lovely glow of eager interest; jealousy and she are unknown at this period.

"Dance? an old fellow like me?"

"You are not old!" and her face is a delicious study of indignation. "You are not as old as the professor."

"But he did not dance, and Gertrude did not dance."

"Oh," her face clouds over, "are people—do they get too old to dance?"

"They certainly do."

"And you said you would dance with me!" she cries, in despairing accents.

He laughs heartily, and yet it is very sweet to witness her abandon of disappointment.

"My darling, I shall not be too old to dance with you until I am bald and rheumatic and generally shaky," he answers, in a fond tone.

"Then it was because—was it because I was not there?"

"It certainly was"; and he smiles down into the velvety brown eyes. "And it was very base manners, too."

"Oh," with a long, quivering breath, that moves her whole slender body, "how thoughtful you were! And did madame dance much?" she asks, presently. "It must be lovely to see her dance. What did she wear?"

"Violet velvet. Well, the color of some very pale wood violets, such as I used to find hereabouts when I was a lad. Last summer I found another kind."

She considers a moment before she sees the point, and then claps her hands delightedly.

"They are all coming over to call this afternoon, I believe. Isn't there some sort of pretty gown among those things that came from New York?"

"Yes, a lovely white cashmere, with bits of purple here and there."

"And I shall carry you down-stairs. We must have a fire made in the professor's parlor. It will be your reception. The ladies go home on Saturday."

"And now tell me all about it, last night, I mean. Begin at the very first," she says, with a bewitching imperiousness.

In spite of himself a quick color goes over his face. The "very first" was Laura's impossible command. Then he laughs confusedly and answers,—

"The professor was the earliest guest. Then the train came in and the people multiplied."

"But I want to hear about the dresses and the music and the lovely lighted lawn."

The professor comes up and is impressed in the arduous service, but they are not as much at home as in the description of a ruin, though it is a great deal merrier. Cecil strays in and climbs over her father's knee. Her enthusiasm spends itself largely in the kitchen with Denise, compounding startling dishes, playing house in one corner with a family of dolls, or talking to the gentle, wise-eyed greyhound.

After lunch Floyd goes down to the park and rummages through Violet's wardrobe in a state of hapless bewilderment, calling finally upon Gertrude to make a proper selection. Denise attires her young mistress, who looks really pale after this enforced seclusion. Mr. Grandon carries her down-stairs; and if it is not a conventional parlor, the room still has some picturesque aspects of its own, and the two luxurious wolf-robes on the floor are grudged afterward, as Laura steps on them. There is a great jar full of autumn branches and berries in one corner that sends out a sort of sunset radiance, and a cabinet of china and various curious matters. But the fire of logs is the crowning glory. The light dances and shimmers, the logs crackle and send up glowing sparks, the easy-chairs look tempting. They are all in the midst of an animated discussion when the carriage drives around. At the last moment Mrs. Grandon has given out with a convenient headache and sends regrets.

Violet is curious to see Madame Lepelletier. The lovely woman sweeps across the room and bends over the chair to take Violet's hand. It is small and soft and white, and the one slippered foot might vie with Cinderella's. The clear, fine complexion, the abundant hair with rippling sheen that almost defies any correct color tint, and is chestnut, bronze, and dusky by turns, the sweet, dimpled mouth, the serene, unconscious youth, the truth and honor in the lustrous velvet eyes: she is not prepared to meet so powerful a rival. The Grandons have all underrated Violet St. Vincent. Floyd Grandon is not a man to kindle quickly, but there may come a time when all the adoration of the man's nature will be aroused by that simple girl.

"Oh," says Laura, pointedly, "are you well enough to come down-stairs? Now we heard such a dreadful report that you could hardly stir."

"I was not allowed to stir at first." Violet's voice is trained to the niceties of enunciation, and can really match madame's. Laura's has a rather crude strain beside it, the acridness of youth that has not yet ripened. "The doctor has forbidden my trying my foot for some time to come."

"She has two—what do you call them?—loyal knights to obey her slightest frown," declares the professor.

"Oh, do I frown?" She smiles now, and the coming color makes her look like a lovely flower.

"No, no, it is nod or beck. I cannot always remember your little compliments, and I make blunders," says the professor, quickly.

"She is extremely fortunate," replies madame, who smiles her sweetest smile, and it is one of rare art and beauty. "I am sorry to have missed you through this little visit," she continues, with a most fascinating, delicate regret.

"And I am so sorry." She is sorry now; she feels more at home with Madame Lepelletier in five minutes than she does with any of the family, Gertrude excepted. She knows now that she should have enjoyed the reception, even if she had no right to dance.

Laura spies out the china, and she has the craze badly. Madame turns to inspect the cabinet. There is a true Capo di Monte, and some priceless Nankin, and here a set of rare intaglios. Some one must have had taste and discernment. Laura would like to cavil, but dares not. The professor tells of curiosities picked up in the buried cities of centuries ago,—lamps and pitchers and vases and jewels that he has sent to museums abroad,—and stirs them all with envy.

During this talk Violet listens with an air of interest. She knows at least some of the points of good breeding, decides madame. She also asks Grandon to bring two or three odd articles from Denise's cupboard.

"You don't admit that you actually drink out of them," cries Laura, in amaze, at last.

"Why, yes," and Violet laughs in pure delight. If there was a tint of triumph in it, Laura would turn savage, but it is so generous, so genial. "I wish you would accept that," she says, "and drink your chocolate out of it every day. Won't you please wrap it some way?" and she turns her eyes beseechingly to Floyd.

The love of possession triumphs over disdain. Laura is tempted so sorely, and Floyd brings some soft, tough, wrinkled paper, that looks as if it might have been steeped in amber, and gently wraps the precious cup and saucer, while Laura utters thanks. They all politely hope that she will soon be sufficiently recovered to come home, and madame prefers a gentle request that she shall be allowed to offer her some hospitality presently when she begins to go into society.

"Oh," declares Violet, when the two gentlemen return from their farewell devoirs, "how utterly lovely she is! I do not suppose princesses are always elegant, but she seems like one, the most beautiful of them all; and her voice is just enchanting! I could imagine myself being bewitched by her. I could sit and look and listen——"

"Mignonne, thy husband will be jealous," says the professor.

Floyd laughs at that.

"Well, it was a charming call. I was a little afraid Laura would be vexed over the cup; you see, I don't know the propriety of gift-giving, but I do know the delight"; and her face is in a lovely glow. "Why do you suppose people care so much for those things? Papa was always collecting. Why, we could almost open a museum."

"You can sell them, in a reverse of fortune," says the professor, with an amusing smile.

Floyd inquires if she will return to her room, but Freilgrath insists that they shall have tea in here. Mrs. Grandon is his first lady guest.

The carriage meanwhile rolls away in silence. Laura and Gertrude bickered all the way over, and now, if Gertrude had enough courage and was aggressive by nature, she would retort, but peace is so good that she enjoys every precious moment of it; but at night, when Laura is lingering in Madame Lepelletier's room, while Arthur smokes the remnant of his cigar on the porch, she says, with a sort of ironical gayety,—

"Well, were you quite extinguished by Mrs. Floyd? You seem dumb and silent! She looked exceptionally well, toned down and all that, though I did expect to find her playing with a doll."

"She is quite a pretty girl," returns madame, leisurely, carefully folding her exquisite lace fichu and laying it back in its scented box. "Very young, of course, and will be for years to come, yet tolerably presentable for an ingenue. And after all, Laura, she is your brother's wife."

"But the awful idiocy of Floyd marrying her! And demure as she looks, she makes desperately large eyes at the professor. So you see she has already acquired one requisite of fashionable life."

"There will be less to learn," replies madame, with charming good-nature.

"Oh, I suppose we shall have to take her up some time, but I can never get over my disappointment, never! It is seeing her in that place that makes me so savage!" and she kisses the handsome woman, who forgives her; and who hugs to her heart the secret consciousness that Floyd Grandon does not love his wife, though he may be fond of her.

Violet improves rapidly, and is taken out to drive, for Floyd cannot bear to have her lose the fine weather. They read a little French together, and he corrects her rather too provincial pronunciation. Her education is fairly good in the accomplishments, and she will never shame him by any ignorance, unless in some of the little usages of society that he knows no more about than she. Her innocent sweetness grows upon him daily; he is glad, yes, really glad that he has married her.

When she does finally return home she is chilled again by the contrast. Marcia has gone to Philadelphia; Mrs. Grandon is cold to a point of severity, and most untender to Cecil. Her surprise is a beautiful new piano, for Laura's has gone to the city. She begins at once with Cecil's lessons, and this engrosses her to some extent. Cecil is quick and rapturously fond of music, "real music" as she calls it, but scales and exercises are simply horrible. Gertrude comes in now and then, oddly enough, and insists that it rather amuses her. She sits with her in the evenings when Floyd is away, and often accompanies her in a drive. Violet does not imagine there is any ulterior motive in all this, but Gertrude is really desirous of helping to keep the peace. When she is present Mrs. Grandon is not so scornful or so aggressive. Gertrude does not want hard or stinging words uttered that might stir up resentment. If Violet cannot love, at least let her respect. It will be an old story presently, and the mother will feel less bitter about it.

It is such a strange thing for Gertrude to think of any one beside herself that her heart warms curiously, seems to come out of her everlasting novels and takes an interest in humanity, in nature, to go back to the dreams of her lost youth. Violet is so sweet, so tender! If she had known any such girl friend then, but she and Marcia never have been real friends. There is another delicate thought in Gertrude's soul. Laura and her mother have sneered about the professor, with whom they are all charmed, nevertheless; and she means that no evil tongue shall say with truth that Violet is alone too much with him or lays herself out to attract him. She furbishes up her old knowledge and talks with them, she reads the books he has recommended to Violet, and they discuss them together until it appears as if she were the interested one. She nearly always goes with her to the cottage. Sometimes she wonders why she does all this when it is such a bore. Why should she care about Violet particularly? But when the soft arms are clasped round her neck and the sweet, fragrant lips throb with tender kisses, she wakes to a sad and secret knowledge of wasted years.

To Violet there comes one crowning glory, that is the promised matinee. Miss Neilson is to play Juliet, and though Floyd considers it rather weak and sweet, Violet is enraptured.

"Would you like to go to a lunch or dinner at Madame Lepelletier's?" he asks.

Violet considers a moment. She cannot tell why, but she longs for this pleasure alone with Mr. Grandon. It will be her first real enjoyment with him.

"Would you—rather?"

There is an exquisite timidity in her voice, the touch of deference to the husband's wishes that cannot but be flattering. She will go if he desires it. He has only to speak. He remembers some one else who never considered his pleasure or desire.

"My child, no!" and he folds her to his heart. "She wants you to come, some time; she has spoken of it."

"I should like this to be just between us." There is the loveliest little inflection on the plural. "And I should like to go there, too."

"Then it shall be just between us." Something in his eyes makes the light in hers waver and go down; she trembles and would like to run away, only he is holding her so tightly.

"What is it?" he asks, with a quick breath.

Ah, if she had known then, if he had known, even! He had never watched the delicate blooming of a girl's heart and knew not how to translate its throbs. He kisses her in a dazed way, and no kisses were ever so sweet.

"Well," he says, presently, "we will let Cecil go over to Denise in the morning"—he can even put his child away for her—"and keep our own secret."

It is delicious to have a secret with him. She dreams of it all the long evening; he is looking over some proofs with the professor. And she can hardly conceal her joy the next morning; she feels guilty as she looks Gertrude in the face.

The city is very gay this Saturday morning. They look in some shop windows, they go to a tempting lunch, and then enter the charming little theatre, already filling up with beautifully dressed women and some such exquisite young girls. She wishes for the first time that she was radiantly beautiful; she does not dream how much of this is attire, well chosen and costly raiment.

She listens through the overture; she is not much moved during the first act. Miss Neilson is pretty and winsome in her quaint dress, with her round, white arms on her nurse's knee, looking up to her eyes; she is respectful to her stately mother, and she cares for her lover. The lights, the many faces about her, the progress of the play interest, but it is when she comes to the balcony scene that Violet is stirred. The longing, lingering love, the good night said over and over, the lover who cannot make parting seem possible, who turns again and again. She catches the tenderness in Miss Neilson's eyes; ah, it is divine passion now, and she is touched, thrilled, electrified. She leans over a little herself, and her pure, innocent young face, with its dewy eyes and parted, cherry-red lips are a study, a delight. One or two rather ennuied-looking men watch her, and Floyd forgives them. It seems to him he has never seen anything more beautiful. The unconscious, impassioned face, with its vivid sense of newness, its first thrilling interest, indifferent to all things except the young lovers, steady, strong, tender, sympathetic. Even women smile and then sigh, envying her the rapt delight of thus listening.

When it is over Violet turns her tearful eyes to her husband in mute questioning. This surely cannot be the end, the reward of love? For an instant the man's heart is thrilled with profoundest pain and pity for the hard lesson that she, like all others, must learn. He feels so helpless to answer that trust, that supreme innocence.

Everybody stirs, rises. Violet looks amazed, but he draws her hand through his arm. Several new friends nod and smile, wondering if that is Floyd Grandon's child-wife that he has so imprudently or strangely married? He hurries out a little. He does not want to speak to any one. In the crush Violet clings closely; he even takes both hands as he sees the startled look in her eyes.

The fresh, crisp air brings her back to her own world and time, but her eyes are still lustrous, her cheeks have an indescribable, delicious color, and her lips are quivering in their rose red.

"Where shall we go?" he says. "Will you have some fruit or an ice, or something more solid?"

"Oh!" and her long inspiration is almost like a sigh. "I couldn't eat anything—after that! Did they really die? Oh, if Romeo had not come so soon, quite so soon!" and her sweet, piteous voice pierces him.

"My darling, you must not take it so to heart," he entreats.

"But they were happy in that other country. And they went together," glancing up with an exquisite hope in her eyes. "It was better than to live separate. Mr. Grandon, do you know what love like that is?"

She asks it in all innocency. She would be very miserable at this moment if she thought she had come to the best love of her life. Her training has been an obedient marriage, a duty of love that is quite possible, that shall come some time hence.

"No," he says, slowly. He really dare not tell her any falsehood. He did not love Cecil's mother this way, and though he may come to love Violet with the highest and purest passion, he does not do so now. "No, my dear child, very few people do."

"But they could, they might!" and there is a ring of exultation in her tone.

"Some few might," he admits, almost against his better judgment.

"Why, do you not see that it is all, all there is of real joy, of perfect bliss? There is nothing else that can so thrill the soul."

They surge against a crowd on the corner crossing. He pauses and glances at her. "Shall we go home?" he asks, "or somewhere else? If it is home, we may as well take a car."

"Oh, home!" she answers. So they take the car and there is no more talking, but he watches the face of youth and happy thoughts, and is glad that it is his very own.

The train is crowded as well. An instinctive shyness would forbid her talking much under the eyes of strangers, if good breeding did not. She settles in her corner and thinks the good night over and over, until she again sees Miss Neilson's love-lit, impassioned countenance.

The sun has dropped down and it is quite cold now. They must go for Cecil.

"Oh," cries Violet, remorsefully, "we forgot Cecil! We never brought her anything! But I have a lovely box of creams at home; only you do not like her to eat so much sweets."

"Give her the creams." and he smiles at her tenderness.

Cecil welcomes them joyfully. She has two lovely little iced cakes baked in patty-pans.

"One is for you, mamma——" Then she suddenly checks herself. "O Denise, we ought to have baked three; we forgot papa!" she says, with childish naivete.

"Well, mamma will divide hers with me."

A curious feeling runs over him. The child and the father have forgotten each other an instant, but the child and the mother remembered.

It is dark when they reach home. The spacious hall is all aglow with light and warmth. In the parlor sits the professor, and Cecil, catching a sight of his beaming face, runs to him.

Gertrude comes out, and putting her arms around Violet's neck, kisses her with so unusual a fervor that Violet stares.

"I have something to tell you after dinner. You shall be the first. Oh, what a cold little face, but sweet as a rose! There is the bell."

They hurry off and soon make themselves presentable. The professor brings in Gertrude. He is—if the word maybe applied to such a bookish man—inexpressibly jolly. Mrs. Grandon hardly knows how to take him, and is on her guard against some plot in the air. Violet laughs and parries his gay badinage, feeling as if she were in an enchanted realm. Floyd has a spice of amazement in his countenance.

"Now," the professor says, as they rise, "I shall take Mr. Grandon off for a smoke, since we do not sit over wine."

"And I shall appropriate Mrs. Grandon," declares Gertrude, with unusual verve.

When they reach the drawing-room she says, "Send Cecil to Jane, will you not?"

But Cecil has no mind to be dismissed from the conclave. Violet coaxes, entreats, promises, and finally persuades her to go, very reluctantly indeed, with Jane for just half an hour, when she may come down again.

Gertrude passes her arm over Violet's shoulder, and draws her down to the soft, silk cushioned tete-a-tete. Her shawl lies over the arm,—she did not wear it in to dinner.

"You wouldn't imagine," she begins, suddenly, "that any one would care to marry me. I never supposed——"

"It is the professor!" cries Violet, softly. "He loves you. Oh, how delightful!"

"Why, did he tell you?"

"I never thought until this instant. That is why you are both so new and strange, and why your cheeks are a little pink! O Gertrude, do you love him?"

Her face is a study in its ardent expectation, its delicious joy. What does this girl know of love?

"Why—I—of course I like him, Violet. I could not marry a man I did not like, or a man who was not kindly or congenial." Then she remembers how very slight an opportunity Violet had to decide whether Floyd would be congenial or not, and is rather embarrassed. "We are not foolish young lovers," she explains, "but I do suppose we shall be happy. He is so kind, so warmhearted; he makes one feel warmed and rested. It did so surprise me, for I had not the faintest idea. I used to stay with you because——"

"Well, because what?" Violet is deeply interested in the least reason for all this strange denouement.

"Because I never wanted any one to say that you, that he," Gertrude begins to flounder helplessly, "were too much alone."

"Who would have said that?" Violet's face is a clear flame, and her dimpled mouth shuts over something akin to indignation.

"Oh, don't, my dear Violet! No one could have said it, because he was Floyd's friend, but you see you were so young, such a child, and I was a sort of grandmother, and you had been in so little society——"

Gertrude breaks down in a nervous tremble, then she laughs hysterically.

"I didn't want you to think I was running after him," she cries, deprecatingly. "I only came for company, and all that, and he has taken a fancy to have me, to marry me, though what he wants me for I can't see. I did not suppose I ever should marry. I didn't really care, until Laura began to flaunt her husband in every one's face, and now I shall be so glad to surprise her. What a stir it will make; Marcia will turn fairly green with envy."

Violet begins to be confused. Can any one allow all these emotions with love?

"And you are not a bit glad," says Gertrude, touched at her silence.

"Oh, I am more than glad!" and Violet clasps her arms about Gertrude's neck and kisses her tenderly. Gertrude draws her down on her lap and holds her like a baby.

"Oh, you sweet little precious!" she exclaims. "I don't know how any one could help loving you! The professor thinks you are an angel. But you know I should look silly going into transports over a middle-aged man, getting bald on the forehead. I am too tall, too old; but he insists that I will grow younger every year. And I shall try to get back a little of my old beauty. I have not cared, you know, there was nothing to care for, but when you have some one to notice whether your cheeks are pale or pink, and who will want you to be prettily attired—oh, I am growing idiotic, after all!"

"So that you are happy, very happy——"

"My dear, I substitute comfort for happiness; one is much more likely to at thirty. But you will not believe me when you hear all. He wants to be married early in January, and take me with him to the Pacific coast and to Mexico. I told him I would have to be carried in a palanquin or on a stretcher, but it would be lovely for a wedding tour!"

"Oh, yes! And you will get stronger and care more for everything; and he will be so pleased to see you take an interest in his pursuits. You must read German and French with him, and make diagrams and columns and jugs and all manner of queer things. You will love to live once more, Gertrude, I know you will."

Gertrude sighs happily, yet a little overwhelmed.

"Mamma! mamma!" calls a sweet, rather upbraiding voice, "it is just half an hour."

"Let her come down; we can go on with our talk now," says Gertrude; and the delighted child flies to her mother's arms.

The gentlemen return presently. Floyd Grandon takes his little girl on his knee, while Violet puts both hands in the professor's and gives him perhaps the sweetest congratulation he will have. Then he wishes to explain matters to Mrs. Grandon and have a betrothal. This all occurs while Violet is putting Cecil to bed. Jane waits upon her young mistress, but the good-night kiss and the tucking up in the soft blanket must be Violet's, and to-night the story is reluctantly deferred.

She finds Mrs. Grandon in the drawing-room when she enters it, dignified and composed, showing in her face none of the elation she feels. For she is amazed and triumphant that this famous gentleman, whose name is the golden key to the most exclusive portals of society, should choose her faded, querulous Gertrude. How much of it is due to Violet she will never know, nor the professor either; but it is Violet who has raised Gertrude up to a new estate out of her old slough of despond, who in her own abundant sweetness and generosity has so clothed the other that she has seemed charming even in the sadness of an apathetical life. Everything is amicably settled. Gertrude does not care for the betrothal party, but to Mrs. Grandon it has a stylish and unusual aspect, and the world can then begin to talk of the engagement.

Violet is strangely perturbed that night. Visions of ill-fated Romeo and Juliet haunt her thoughts. Then she wonders if Gertrude has quite forgotten that old love. Perhaps it would be foolish to let it stand up in ghostly remembrance when something fond and strong and comforting was offered. But which of all these is love? She is yet to learn its Proteus shapes and disguises.



CHAPTER XVIII.

Nothing is courtesy unless it be meant friendly and lovingly.—BEN JONSON.

The world is amazed that Prof. Freilgrath, the savant and explorer, is to take unto himself an American wife. The betrothal party at Grandon Park excites much interest, and the few invited guests feel highly honored. The press has received him and his book with the utmost cordiality; the young women who read everything are wild over it and talk glibly, though it is mostly Greek to them, but then he is the new star and must be admired. Many of them envy Miss Grandon, and well they may.

Gertrude is dressed in soft gray silk, with an abundance of illusion at throat and wrists; a knot of delicate pink satin is the only bit of color, and it lends a sort of tender grace to the thin face, where a transient flush comes and goes. Her betrothal ring is of exquisite pearls. There are congratulations, there is a supper that is perfection. Gertrude is serene, but softened in some strange way, and yet curiously dignified.

Madame Lepelletier is surprised. She considers any marriage a short-sighted step for such a man, and she can only think of Gertrude as a fretful, despondent woman, who will end by being a dead weight upon her husband. Whatever gave him the fancy? for Gertrude was too indolent to set about winning any man.

This is Mrs. Floyd Grandon's first appearance in society, and the guests eye her with a something too well-bred for curiosity. She looks very petite in her trailing dress of dead silk that imitates crape, but is much softer. So quiet, so like a wraith, and yet with a fascinating loveliness in her eyes, in her tender, blossom-like face, in her fresh young voice. She makes no blunders, she is not awkward, she is not loud. Cecil is her foil,—Cecil, in lace over infantile blue, with a knot of streamers on one shoulder in narrow blue satin ribbon and a blue sash. Floyd is host, of course, so Cecil would be left exclusively with her pretty mamma, if it was not her own choice. Madame watches them. How did this girl charm that exclusive and almost obstinate child? She is indulgent, yet once or twice she checks Cecil, and the little girl obeys; it is not altogether indulgence.

Violet is extremely interested. There are few very young people; several of the gentlemen converse with her, and though she is rather fearful at first, she soon feels at home and likes them better, she imagines, than the women, with one exception, and that is Mrs. Latimer. The two have a long talk about Quebec, its queer streets and quaint old churches, and Mr. Latimer takes her in to dinner, which seems a dreadful ordeal to her, but he is very kindly and entertaining.

Madame Lepelletier resolves to be first in the field. She asks Mr. Grandon to appoint a day convenient to himself for bringing Mrs. Grandon to lunch. She will have Gertrude and the professor, Laura and her husband, and a few friends. Floyd consults Violet, who glances up with shy delight: madame sees it with a secret joy. She will charm this young creature, even if her arts have failed with the husband. She will manage to obtain a hold and do with it whatever seems best; but now she begins to have a sullen under-current of hate for the young wife.

Marcia's feelings are not those of intense satisfaction. Why did not she stay at home and win the professor, for it seems any man whom Gertrude could please would be easily won? Then she is not ambitious to be Miss Grandon, the only unmarried daughter of the house. Miss Marcia sounds so much more youthful. She could almost drag off Gertrude's betrothal ring in her envy.

Now there is the excitement of another wedding. Gertrude will have no great fuss of shopping.

"You all talk as if I never had any clothes," she says one day to Laura. "I shall have one new dark silk, and I shall be married in a cloth travelling-dress, and that is all. I will not be worried out of my life with dressmakers."

And she is not. For people past youth, she and the professor manage to do a great deal of what looks suspiciously like courting over the register in the drawing-room. They agree excellently upon one point, heat. They can both be baked and roasted. He wraps her in shawls and she is happy, content. She reads German rather lamely, and he corrects, encourages.

"Fraulein," he says, one day, "there is a point, I have smoked always. Will it annoy thee?"

"No," replies Gertrude, "unless you should smoke bad tobacco."

He throws back his head and laughs at that, showing all his white, even teeth.

"And when I have to go out I may be absent for days at times, where it would be inconvenient to take thee?"

"Oh, you know I should be satisfied with whatever you thought best! I am not a silly young girl to fancy myself neglected. Why, I expect you to go on with your work and your research and everything."

"Thou art a jewel," he declares, "a sensible woman. I am afraid I should not be patient with a fool, and jealousy belongs to very young people."

It is the day before Madame Lepelletier's lunch, and has rained steadily, though now shows signs of breaking away. Violet is in Gertrude's room helping her look over some clothes. Marcia and her mother have quarrelled, and she sits here saying uncomfortable things to Gertrude, that might be painful if Gertrude were not used to it.

"Gertrude," Violet begins, in her gentle tone that ought to be oil upon the waters, "what must I wear to-morrow, my pretty train silk?"

Marcia giggles insolently.

"No, dear," answers Gertrude, with a kindliness in her voice. "You must wear a short walking-dress. You are going to take a journey, and trains are relegated to carriages. You can indulge in white at the neck and wrists. In fact, there is no need of your wearing black tulle any more. And Briggs will get you a bunch of chrysanthemums for your belt."

"You can't expect to rival Madame Lepelletier," says Marcia, in the tone of one giving valuable advice.

"No, I could never do that," is the quiet response.

"Except on the one great occasion," and there is a half-laugh, half-sneer.

"When was that?" asks Violet.

"Marcia!" says Gertrude, half rising.

"Why shouldn't she be proud of her victory? Any woman would. All women are delighted to catch husbands! I dare say Madame Lepelletier would have enjoyed being Mrs. Floyd Grandon."

"Marcia, do not make such an idiot of yourself!"

A sudden horrible fear rushes over Violet. "You do not mean," she says, "that Mr. Grandon——" What is it she shall ask? Was there some broken engagement? They came from Europe together.

"She does not mean anything——" begins Gertrude; but Marcia interrupts, snappishly,—

"I do mean something, too, if you please, Miss Grandon," with a bitter emphasis on the Miss. "And I think turn about fair play. She jilted Floyd and he jilted her, it amounts to just that, and for once Violet came off best, though I doubt——"

Violet is very white now, and her eyes look like points of clear flame, not anger. Something has fallen on her with crushing weight, but she still lives.

Gertrude rises with dignity. "Marcia," she says, in a tone of command, "this is my room, and you will oblige me by leaving it."

"Oh, how fine we are, Mrs. Professor!" and Marcia gives an exasperating laugh; but as Gertrude approaches she suddenly slips away and slams the door behind her.

"My dear child," and Gertrude takes the small figure in her arms, kissing the cold lips, "do not mind what she has said. Let me tell you the story. When they were just grown up and really did not know their own minds, Floyd and Irene Stanwood became engaged. She went to Paris with her mother and married a French count, and a few years after, when we were there, Floyd met her without the least bit of sentiment. He never was anything of a despairing lover. She was very lovely then, but not nearly so handsome as now. When we heard they were coming home together from Europe, last summer, we supposed they had made up the old affair. She had no friends or relatives, and we are third or fourth cousins, so he brought her here. This was more than a month before he even saw you, and in that time if he had loved her he would have asked her to marry him; don't you see?"

She gives a long, quivering breath, but her lips are dry. It is not simply a thought of marriage.

"And I am sure if she had been very much in love with him, she would have managed to entangle him. Fascinating women of the world can do that in so many ways. They are simply good friends. Why," she declares, smilingly, "suppose I was to make myself miserable because you translated for the professor, you would think me no end of a dunce! It is just the same. Marcia has a love for making mischief, but you must not allow her ever to sow any distrust between you and Floyd. The woman a man chooses is his true love," says Gertrude, waxing enthusiastic, "not the one he may have fancied or dreamed over long before. Now, you will not worry about this? Get the roses back to your cheeks, for there come Floyd and Eugene, and we must dress for dinner."

Gertrude kisses her fondly. She never imagined she could love any woman as well. Violet goes to arrange her hair, and while she is at it Floyd comes up with a cheery word. But she feels in a maze. Why should she care? Does she care? Floyd Grandon chose her when he might have had this fascinating society woman. How much was there in the old love?

He is rather preoccupied with business, and does not remark a little tremor in her voice. She rubs her cheeks with the soft Turkish towel until they feel warm, and goes down with him and chattering Cecil. Marcia is snappy. She and Eugene dispute about some trifle, and Floyd speaks to her in a very peremptory manner that startles Violet. He does so hate this little bickering!

Floyd is extremely interested in his wife's appearance the next morning, and regrets that she cannot wear the train; he selects her flowers, and looks that she is wrapped good and warm. How very kind he is! Will she dare believe this is love?

"Do you not look a little pale?" he asks, solicitously.

She is bright enough then and smiles bewitchingly.

When they go up in the dressing-room at madame's, Violet finds Mrs. Latimer, and she is glad to her heart's depth.

"Oh, you dainty little child!" the lady cries. "You look French with your chrysanthemums. What elegant ones they are! I want you to come and spend a whole day with me; we are sort of relatives you know," with a bright smile, "and you will not mind coming to me; then at eight we will give Gertrude and the professor a dinner. Has she not improved by being in love? She used to be quite a beauty, I believe, but the Grandons are all fine looking. I do admire Mr. Floyd Grandon so much."

Violet's face is in a soft glow of hazy pink, and her eyes are luminous.

"Oh," Mrs. Latimer says, just under her breath, "you are one of the old-fashioned girls, who is not ashamed of being in love with her husband. Well, I don't wonder. And you must have had some rare charm to win him against such great odds. If you knew the world well, you would have to admit that women like madame only blossom now and then, and are—shall we call them the century plants of the fashionable world?"—and she smiles—"not that they have to be a hundred years old to bloom; indeed, they seem never to grow old. I like to watch her, she is so elegant and fascinating."

She comes up just then and crosses over to Violet, having stopped for a little chat with Mr. Grandon in the hall. Violet is unexceptionable, though it seems inharmonious to see such a bright young creature in mourning; but the fashionable and the literary world will open its doors to Mrs. Grandon, and madame has the wisdom to be first. She is not much given to caressing ways, but she kisses Violet, and is struck by a peculiar circumstance,—Violet does not kiss her back. She liked this beautiful woman so very much before, and now she feels as if she never wanted to see her. She is absolutely sorry that she has come, for after one has partaken of hospitality the fine line is passed.

Mrs. Latimer is very curiously interested in this young wife. She has listened to Laura's strictures and bewailing, for Laura has gone down to madame body and soul, but when the professor said, "Mrs. Grandon is such an excellent German scholar, Mrs. Grandon is the most charming little wife," and when she met her at the betrothal she resolved to know her better, and finds her a fresh, sweet, innocent girl. Probably she did appeal strongly to Floyd Grandon's chivalrous instincts when she saved his child's life, but she is worth loving for herself alone.

Mr. Latimer takes Violet in, and she is very glad not to fall to the lot of some stranger. Madame and Mr. Grandon are at opposite ends of the table. It is a perfect lunch, with good breeding and serving, that is really a fine art. Violet does enjoy it. Mr. Latimer knows just how to entertain her, and he entertains her for his own pleasure as well. He likes to see her wondering eyes open in their sweet, fearless purity; he watches the loveliest of color as it ripples over her face, the dimples that seem to play hide-and-seek, and the rare glint of her waving hair as it catches the light in its dun gold reflexes.

"I know two people who would rave over you," he says, in a very low tone, just for her ear, "Mr. and Mrs. Dick Ascott. This was their house, you know, and they could not have paid Madame Lepelletier a higher compliment than renting to her,—it is the apple of their eye, the chosen of their heart! They are both artists and we think charming people, but Dick was resolved his wife should have some Parisian art culture. They are to be back in two years, and I hope you will not change in the slightest particular. I command you to remain just as you are."

"Two years," she repeats, with a dreamy smile that is entrancing, and presently glances up with such a sweet, shy look, that John Latimer, not often moved by women's smiles, rather suspecting wiles, feels tempted to kiss her on the spot.

"I hope," she says afterwards, with the most delicious seriousness, "that I shall not disappoint any one two years from this time."

"Don't you dare to," he replies, warningly.

Gertrude and the professor are really the stars of this morning's luncheon, and they are having such an engrossing conversation on the other side of the table that no one but Marcia remarks this little episode. Everything to her savors of flirtation. Marcia Grandon could not entertain a simple, honest regard for any one; she is always studying effects, and she is hungry for admiration. All the small artifices she uses she suspects in every one else, and now in her secret heart she accuses Mrs. Floyd of flying at high game.

Take it altogether, it is a decidedly charming little party. Mrs. Vandervoort, though not a handsome woman, is at the very height of fashion, and is particularly well-bred, as the Delancys are not modern people, but have the blue blood of some centuries without much admixture; there are a few others: madame makes her parties so select that it is a favor to be invited to one.

She seeks out Violet just as they are beginning to disperse.

"My dear Mrs. Grandon," she says, in that persuasive voice that wins even against the will, "I have been planning a pleasure for you with Mr. Grandon. You are to come down here for a day and a night next week, and we are to go to the opera; it is to be 'Lohengrin,' and you will be delighted. You are quite a German student, I hear. Now I am going to make arrangements with the professor and Gertrude."

She smiles superbly and floats over to Gertrude. Violet turns a little cold; to come here for a day, to remain all night—

"Do you know," says Mrs. Latimer, when she is seated in her sister's carriage,—Mr. Latimer is to walk down town,—"I think that little Mrs. Grandon charming. She is coming to me on Tuesday, and we are to give a kind of family dinner to Gertrude. Laura's vexation made her rather unjust, and Mrs. Grandon's hair is magnificent, not really red, at all, and her manners are simply quaint and delicate. She doesn't need any training; it would be rubbing the bloom off the peach. I just wish Winnie Ascott could see her!"

"You and John and the Ascotts have rather a weakness for bread-and-milk flavoring. She is very nice, certainly, and quite presentable, but one can never predict how these innocent ingenues will develop. They are very delightful at eighteen, but at eight-and-twenty one sometimes wants to strangle them, as you do Marcia Grandon."

"Marcia is certainly not the black sheep of the family, for she hasn't the vim and color for absolute wickedness, but a sort of burr that pricks and sticks where you least desire it. Now, Laura will make an extremely stylish woman of fashion, and tall, fair Gertrude, with her languors and invalidisms, will be picturesque, but an old maid like Marcia Grandon would be simply intolerable! Let us join hands and get her married."

"And I dare say Marcia was one of the sweet innocents," Mrs. Vandervoort remarks, dryly.

"Never, Helen, never! Why, there is a little tint of scandal that she was having a desperate escapade with a married man when her mother took her abroad. No, the two are as far apart as the poles. It is really unjust for you to suppose a resemblance."

"I did not quite infer a resemblance, but I doubt if Mrs. Floyd can keep pace with her husband, and there are so many silly moths to flutter about such a man. Mrs. Grandon may turn jealous and sulky, or become indifferent and leave him to other people's entertainment and fascinations, and that Madame Lepelletier would never do. They would make such a splendid couple! Like Laura, I regret the wrecked opportunity. They seem made for each other. He no doubt married Miss St. Vincent in the flush of some chivalrous feeling, but she will always be too childish to understand such a man. There will remain just so many years between them."

"And I think she will grow up to a perfect wifehood. She is not yet eighteen."

"And I cannot understand how a man having a chance to win Madame Lepelletier would not urge it to the uttermost."

Mrs. Latimer is set down at her own door, but keeps her confident faith as she talks matters over with John.

"Floyd Grandon is about the one level-headed man out of a thousand," he says, decisively. "Whether it is that he cannot be fascinated with womenkind or holds some resentment concerning the past, I am not sure, but he is able to sun himself in the dazzle of Madame Lepelletier's charms with the most perfect friendly indifference that I ever saw. If he were not, she might prove dangerous to the peace of mind of the young wife, who is simply delightful, but who doesn't know any more about love than the sweetest rosebud in the garden."

"O John! now your penetration is at fault," laughs the wife; "she unconsciously adores her husband."

"Well, I said she didn't know about it, and she does not. The awakening will have to come."

Violet meanwhile begins to anticipate the day at Mrs. Latimer's as much as she dreads that at madame's. Cecil is surprised, indignant.

"You don't stay with me now," she says, her voice and her small body swelling with emotion. "You let Jane put me to bed, and you don't tell me any stories."

"But after Aunt Gertrude is married we shall stay at home, and there will be stories and stories. And you might like to go to Denise," she suggests, with admirable art. "Briggs could drive you in the pony carriage."

The temptation is too great. She has winked rather hard to make tears come, and now she ungratefully winks them away again and dances for joy.

It is almost noon when they reach the Latimers'. Their house is about as large as madame's, but it has a greater air of carelessness, of disorder in its most charming estate. John Latimer lives all over it, and there are books and papers everywhere, and bric-a-brac in all the corners. The redwood mantel in the sitting-room is shelved nearly up to the ceiling, and tiled around the grate, and is just one picture of beauty. The easy-chairs are around the fire, and softest rugs are laid for your feet. Violet sits down in the glow and feels at home, smiles, blossoms, and surprises herself at her gift of adaptiveness.

The lunch is simple and informal; the men retire to Mr. Latimer's den to smoke and take counsel. Floyd discusses his literary plans and receives much encouragement. There are three small children in the nursery, and thither the ladies find their way. Violet charms them all; even the baby stretches out his hands to come to her. They talk of Cecil, and Mrs. Latimer, by some magic known to herself, draws out of Violet a deliciously naive confession of that romantic episode when she first saw Mr. Grandon.

"Cecil is so rarely beautiful," she says, with the most perfect admiration. "She might not have been killed,—I really do not think she would have been,—but I can understand how terribly Mr. Grandon would hate to have her marred or disfigured in any way. She has the most perfect complexion, and no sun or wind seems to injure it. And you cannot think what an apt pupil she is in music; she plays some exercises very cunningly already, and she is learning French sentences."

Violet's face is a study of delight, of unselfish affection. Mrs. Latimer bends over and kisses her, and Violet clasps her arms about the other's neck.

"You play," she says, presently. "Do you sing any? Come down and try my piano; it is a new upright, and very fine tone."

"I do not sing many of the pretty new songs," says Violet, modestly, "nor Italian. My music and my German teacher was the same person and a German. He liked the old Latin hymns."

She plays without any special entreaty, and plays more than simply well, with taste, feeling, and correctness. You can see that she loves the really fine and impassioned in music, that show and dash have had no place in her training. She sings very sweetly with a mezzo-soprano voice that is clear and tender.

"You need never be afraid to play or sing," is Mrs. Latimer's quiet verdict; and though Violet does not specially regard the commendation now, it is afterward of great comfort.

"You are going to the opera on Thursday night," she begins, suddenly, for it has just entered her mind. "What have you ever heard?"

"Nothing," answers Violet, simply. "Mr. Grandon took me to see 'Romeo and Juliet.'" And she gives a little sigh to the sweet, sad memory.

"And the opera is 'Lohengrin'! I think we must go, I should so like to see you. I will ask Mr. Latimer to get tickets, and we must be together."

"Oh, if you only will!" Violet is in eager delight now.

"To be sure I will. Mr. Latimer will settle it before you go. Let us make a call upon them; they must have smoked themselves blue by this time."

They have smoked the sanctum very blue, and are full of apologies. Mr. Latimer dumps the contents of two chairs on the floor, and the opera matter is soon settled. Violet is extremely happy over it.

"Do you realize how late it is?" exclaims Mrs. Latimer, presently. "Gertrude is coming in for a little visit before the play begins."

She arrives just then, and the professor joins the masculine circle with great zest. The three women have a cosey time until Mrs. Latimer has to leave them to give some small attention to her dinner, which proves very enjoyable. There can be no compliments to Gertrude afterward, and the time is drawing near.

"John," Mrs. Latimer says afterward, "I have solved the problem. I know just where the secret charm of Miss St. Vincent came to light, and won against all the beauty and advantages of her rival."

"Well?" he gives a lazy, inquiring laugh, "I dare say you have made five chapters of discoveries."

"It was the child. Why, Mrs. Grandon had the whole nursery in her arms in five minutes, and she never made a bit of fuss! Even baby went to her. That little Miss Cecil adores her. But you couldn't imagine Madame Lepelletier really fond of children. She speaks to them in a lovely manner, but I think they must miss the true heart in it. He chose wisely, since he had to give his child a mother."

"He is a capital good fellow," says John Latimer, "Few men would undertake the family bother he has."



CHAPTER XIX.

"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 creme 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 entree 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."