"We must go back," she says, presently. "Cecil has fallen asleep, and it will not do to keep her out in the night air. How utterly lovely it is!" and she gives a deep inspiration of content.

"It is because you enjoy everything in that keen, ardent sort of way," says Eugene. "You are very different from what I thought you at first."

"What did you think me?" she asks, in spite of Briggs sitting calmly there.

"Well, you seemed such a little girl," answers Eugene, "and you were always so shy, except with the professor. Did you really like him so much? I should have been bored to death with all that prosy writing. Briggs," turning to the rower, as Violet covers Cecil more closely, "we will steer our barque homeward. It is a shame not to stay out this magnificent night."

"We ought to be on the river a great deal more," returns Violet. "It is so tranquil and soothing, and there is a suggestive weirdness in it, as if you were going on to some mystery."

Her voice drops to such a soft key as she utters the last word. The very air seems full of mystery to her, of messages carried back and forth. Will hers go to the one she is thinking of?

When they land, Eugene takes Cecil in his arms and carries her up the terrace with a strange emotion of tenderness. He is fond of teasing her and hearing saucy replies, but ordinarily he does not care much for children.

Violet helps to undress the sleepy girl and gives her more than the dozen kisses. Floyd has said in his letter, "I shall keep yours on interest until I come." And she suddenly hides her blushing face on the pillow beside the child. What does all this eager tremor and expectation mean?

"Violet," calls Eugene up the stairway, "come down. Isn't Cecil asleep?"

She would rather stay there and dream, but she seldom thinks of herself first. Cecil is sleeping soundly, and she glides down to talk a little, play a little, and sing a few songs. Listening to her, Eugene begins to consider himself a consummate fool. He would not marry madame if he could. If it were all to do over again,—but then he was not prepossessed with Violet when he first saw her, and now it is too late. He has no high and fine sentiments, he simply recognizes the fact that she is the wife of another; and though youth may indulge in foolish fondness, it is generally older and riper natures that are ready for a plunge in the wild vortex of passion.

Their days pass in simple idyllic fashion. Another party is neglected, and even a German passed by, to the great astonishment of Marcia. She has called home several times, but they have been out, not always together, though she chooses to think so. Violet has spent hours and hours with Mrs. Latimer, whose great charm is that she talks of Floyd Grandon, and she is amused with her ready, devoted listener.

Marcia does find her at home one morning.

"I think it a shame that Eugene did not go to the Brades' last night;" and her voice is thinner, sharper than usual, a sure sign of vexation. "They had counted on him for the German, and were awfully disappointed."

"I did not want to go," replies Violet, in a soft, excusing tone.

"I don't see what that had to do with it," is Marcia's short, pointed comment.

Violet glances up. "Why, yes, he could have gone," she says, cheerfully. "I told him I did not mind staying alone. I do not understand Germans, and——"

"You could have looked on," interrupts Marcia. "It seems extremely disobliging to the Brades, when they have taken the pains to cultivate you."

"I have never been in company without Mr. Grandon," Violet says, in a steady tone, though her cheeks are scarlet, "except at your garden party, and then he asked Eugene to take me."

"Admirable condescension!" returns Marcia, angrily. "But possibly you may subject yourself quite as much to criticism by staying at home so closely with a young man. It is shameful how Eugene has gone on, hardly a day at the factory, and you two driving about and mooning on balconies and dawdling through the grounds. Very late admiration, too, on his part, when he would not take you in the first instance."

"Would not take me in the first instance?" Violet repeats, in a dazed, questioning way.

"Exactly," snaps Marcia. "Perhaps you are not aware an offer of your hand and fortune was made to Eugene Grandon, and declined. So you know now what his admiration is worth! He is ready to flirt with any——" silly girl, she means to say, but makes it more stinging—"any girl who throws herself at his head."

"I do not in the least understand you," Violet begins, with quiet dignity, though her voice has an unsteady sound. "When was my hand offered to Mr. Eugene Grandon?"

Marcia is a little frightened at her temerity, but she is in for it now, and may as well make a clean sweep of all her vexations. From Mr. Wilmarth she has gathered the idea that Floyd's marriage has been inimical to him, and that business would have been much better served by Violet's union with Eugene. Then, all the family have disapproved of it, and it has been kept a secret from her. All these are sufficient wrongs, but the fact still remains that in some way Floyd is likely to make a great fortune for Violet, while the rest will gain nothing. More than all, Marcia has a good deal of the wasp in her nature, and loves to make a great buzz, as well as to sting.

"Why," she answers, with airy insolence, "Floyd wished him to marry you and he declined, then Floyd married you himself. Your fortune was too valuable to go out of the family, I suppose. It was about the time your father died."

Violet pales with a mortal hurt.

"I think you are wrong there," and she summons all her strength to combat this monstrous accusation. "Mr. Grandon liked me because—because——"

"Oh, yes; saving Cecil gave color to the romance, and it is all very pretty," says Marcia, with insufferable patronage. "But there was some one else, and he could have had quite as much fortune without any trouble. He was a fool for not marrying her."

"You shall not discuss Mr. Grandon in this manner to me," declares Violet, indignant with wifely instincts.

"Oh, you asked me yourself!" retorts her antagonist. "If you were at all sharp-sighted you could have seen——"

Violet stops Marcia with a gesture of her hand. She stands there white as snow, but her eyes are larger, and gleam black, the color and tenderness have gone out of her scarlet mouth, and she seems to grow taller. Marcia is checked in her onslaught, and a half-misgiving comes to her.

"After all," she says, presently, in a more moderate tone, "I supposed you did know something about it. You really ought to have been told in the beginning, as all the rest were, it seems." And she adds the last a little bitterly, remembering she has been shut out of the family conference.

"Mr. Grandon did what was right and best," Violet returns, loyally.

"I suppose we all do what we think best," comments Marcia, with an air of wisdom, and experience sits enthroned on the little strip of brow above her eyes. "Well, I'm sorry you were not at the Brades', and I do think Eugene ought to pay better attention to business, especially now that Floyd is away. And I don't see why he should stay away from parties if you do not want to go."

"There is no reason," answers Violet, coldly.

Marcia bids her good morning, and flies down the steps with the air of one who has performed her whole duty. Now that she has attained to married respectability, she feels quite free to criticise the rest of the world, and she rejoices in the fact that she does carry more weight than a single woman.

Violet stands by the window where Marcia left her. She is very glad to be alone, and thankful that Cecil is at the Latimers' for the day, although she is due there for a kind of nursery tea-party. A whirlwind seems to have swept over her, to have lifted her up bodily and carried her out of the sphere she was in two hours ago, and in this new country all is strange; on this desolate shore where she is stranded the sea moans in dull lament, as if the soul had gone out of that also, and left an aching heart behind. She might dismiss Marcia's tirade as other members of the family are wont to do, but there comes an awesome, shivering fear that it is true in some degree. How many times she has seen Gertrude check Marcia when Floyd was under discussion. She has never tried to pry into family secrets, but she knows there have been many about her; a certain kind of knowledge that all have shared, a something against her. She has fancied that she made some advances in living down the dislike; Mrs. Grandon has been kinder of late, and Marcia, since her marriage, quite confidential. Instead, she has done nothing, gained nothing.

If Gertrude were only here. She has made that one true friend, whom nothing can shake, who, knowing all, came to love her with a tender regard that was not pity. But there is no one, no one. All is a dreary waste.

A step comes up the balcony, and the mellifluous voice is whistling Schumann's Carnival. Whither shall she fly? But even now it is too late, for he meets her in the wide doorway.

"Good heavens! what has happened? You look like a ghost," cries Eugene, in alarm. Then he stretches out his arms, for it seems as if she would fall to the floor.

Violet shrinks back into the room and drops on the divan, making a gesture as if she would send him away.

"I'm not going," he declares, "until you tell me what has happened. Cecil is all right, and you can have had no bad news from Floyd. You were so bright and well this morning, and we are to go to the Latimers' to-night——"

"I cannot!" It would be a shriek if it were not a hoarse whisper, and she covers her face with her hands.

Eugene is amazed. He is not a mysterious young man. He enjoys everything on the surface, and considers it a bore to dive deep for hidden meanings. Something comes to his aid. He skulked out of the road five minutes ago to avoid Marcia, for he knew she would open upon him for his dereliction of pleasure.

"Marcia has been here," he announces. "She has said something to you, the spiteful little cat! See here, I can guess what unmitigated drivel it is. She has accused you of flirting with me, and said I stayed at home to keep you company when I should have been at the German."

The rift of color in Violet's face answers him.

"I believe I should like to wring her neck, the little hussy! Well, you are not to mind a bit of it. In the first place you are a little innocent and do not know how to flirt, even if you have magnificent eyes. You are too honest, too true; and it's all awful stuff, said out of pure jealousy."

He has not comforted her. The awe-stricken face is still ashen, despairing. Any other girl would almost rush to his arms, she seems to go farther and farther away. Her large eyes look him over. He has a handsome face, and now it is kindly, sympathetic.

"Tell me," he says, peremptorily. "You know you've never flirted. Why, you might make yourself more attractive than ten Marcias could possibly be; and, see here, I've never kissed you, though you have been my brother's wife for more than a year, and—bosh!" with the utmost contempt. "Oh, does it trouble you so?" After a moment, "My dear, dear girl, don't worry about it," and his face is full of genuine distress. The common comfort of life will not apply to this case.

"It was wrong," she says, tremulously. "You have stayed home from business, and——"

He laughs, it seems so utterly absurd. Many a day has he been away from the factory and perhaps not half so innocently employed.

"See here," he begins, "we will let Floyd settle it when he comes home. Good heavens, won't he make it hot for Marcia! I shall tell him myself."

"No, no!" and Violet starts up in anguish. "You must not utter a word!"

"Well, why?" asks Eugene, with a kind of obstinate candor. "I'm sure—flirting, indeed! Why, Marcia couldn't be an hour in the room with any fellow, young or old, that she wouldn't make big eyes at him. I like to see people turn saints at short notice. I'll go off and have it out with her myself, and make her keep a civil tongue in the future."

"Eugene!" Violet cries, in distress, as he is half-way through the hall. Oh, what shall she do? Must she go wild with all this pain and shame?

"Well," he ejaculates, again standing indecisively.

"She said other things," and the dry lips move convulsively. "I must know; I cannot live with this horrible shadow over everything. There is no one else to ask."

He comes and seats himself on the divan beside her, and there is a glimpse of Floyd in his face. His voice falls to a most persuasive inflection as he rejoins, "Tell me, ask me anything, and I will answer you truly. There has never been any horrible thing since you came here, or ever that I can remember. What did Marcia say?"

Perhaps, after all, Marcia did not tell the exact truth, and Violet's despairing face lightens. Marcia may have Charles Lamb's way of thinking the truth too precious to be wasted upon everybody, for she is sometimes extremely economizing. And Violet must know.

"You will tell me if—if Mr. Grandon asked you to marry me—before——"

Eugene springs up and utters a low, angry ejaculation, strides across the floor and then back again. Violet's face is crimsoned to its utmost capacity, and her eyes have that awful beseechingness that cuts him to the soul. If he could, if he dared deny it! but even as this flashes through his brain a stony kind of certainty settles in every line, and he gathers that denial would be useless.

"See here, my dear little sister," and sitting down he takes the small, cold hand in his. "I will tell you the truth. There is nothing horrible or disgraceful in it! Your father proposed that instead of having any business trouble to be years in the course of settlement, I should marry you, as the patent was in such an uncertain state and he had invested everything in it. It simply joined the fortunes, don't you see? Well, I was a dumb, blundering idiot, head over heels in an infatuation, and knew nothing about you, but it will be the regret of my whole life that I did not come when Floyd sent for me. And I suppose he fell in love with you himself; he could not have cared for the fortune, he had enough of his own."

Violet draws a long, shivering breath, but her very soul seems icy cold with doubt.

"You did not—despise me?" she cries, with passionate entreaty.

"Despise you? Why, I didn't know anything about you." The young man's lethargic conscience gives him a severe prick. He should not have made light of it to Laura and madame, but he did bind them to inviolate secrecy. "If I had seen you I should not have despised you, I should have married you," he says, triumphantly. "If you were free to-day, I should ask you to marry me. I think you the sweetest and most rarely honest girl I have ever met, and you are beautiful, though I wouldn't own that at first. Despise you? Why, I would fight the whole world for you, and I will, if——"

"No," she interrupts. Even his spirited defence cannot restore what has been so rudely wrenched away. She feels so old, so weary, so desolate, that nothing matters. "It is not so bad——" and she looks up with piteous eyes.

"Why, there is nothing bad about it at all," he declares, impatiently. "Don't the English and the French plan marriages, and there are people here whose parents join fortunes, lots of them! Marcia was angry and wanted to mortify you. The idea of marrying Jasper Wilmarth and then lording it over everybody, is too good! And as for flirting—well, I wouldn't dare flirt with you," he says, laughingly. "Floyd would soon settle me. I like you too well, I honor you too much," he continues. "There, will you not be comforted with something? Oh, I have a letter from Floyd, and he will be home to-morrow night! I came to bring it to you."

He takes it from his pocket and hands it to her, but her fingers tremble, and no joy lights up her pale face. Eugene is so sincerely sorry that he holds himself in thorough contempt for his part in the early history of the affair, and he is very angry as well.

"Now," he says, "I am going away, and I shall not be home to luncheon, but I will meet you at the Latimers'. If Marcia dares to make another comment, it will be the worse for her, that's all. My poor child, are you going to keep that dreary face and those despairing eyes for Floyd to see?"

He has a very strong inclination to take her in his arms and shower tenderness upon her; but if he has been drifting that way for the past week, he is rudely awakened now. He looks at her helplessly. If she would only cry; the girls he has seen have been ready enough with their tears.

"Yes, you must go," she says, wearily. "Thank you for the letter, for all." Then she walks slowly out of the room.



CHAPTER XXIV.

What act of Legislature was there that thou shouldst be happy?—CARLYLE.

While Eugene Grandon's anger is at white heat he goes to Madame Lepelletier and taxes her with betrayed trust. He knows very well that Marcia could not long keep such a tidbit to herself. Laura is away, and his mother never has repeated the tale, though to him she has bemoaned his short-sightedness, the more since the fortune has been certain.

Madame is surprised, dignified, and puts down the young man with the steel hand in the velvet glove; explaining that Marcia had it from some other source. There really is nothing detrimental in it to Mrs. Grandon. A handsome young man of good family may be selected without insult to any young woman, and to decline a lady you never saw cannot reflect on the personale of the one under consideration. It seems rather silly at this late hour to take umbrage.

Eugene cools a little, and admits to himself there is nothing in it that ought to make Violet miserable, especially since he has confessed that he would be only too glad to marry her now; and as for the accusation of flirting, he can soon put an end to that by being sweet on Lucia Brade for a week or two. But he really does care for Violet, and no one shall offer her any insult with impunity. He means to go at Marcia when opportunity offers. Ah! can it be her husband who gave her the delectable information?

Violet goes to her room and reads her letter, that is tender with the thought of return, and yet it does not move her. Floyd Grandon is fond of her; he pitied her desolate condition long ago, and since he did not need her fortune he took her simply to shield her from trouble and perplexity. She remembers his grave, fatherly conduct through all that time; his tenderness was not that of a lover, his consideration sprang from pity. Yet why was she satisfied then and so crushed now?

Ah! she has eaten of the tree of knowledge; she has grown wise in love's lore. She has been dreaming that she has had the love, when it is only a semblance, a counterfeit; not a base one, but still it has not the genuine ring. He did not esteem her so much at first but that he could offer her to another, and therein lies the bitter sting to her. It is not because Eugene cared so little. How could he regard a stranger he had not seen, if he who had seen her did not care, whose kindness was so tinctured with indifference? Even if he had wanted her fortune, she thinks she could forgive it more easily.

She sends word down-stairs presently that there need be no lunch, but she will have a cup of tea. She throws herself on the bed and shivers as if it were midwinter. To-night, why even now, he is on his way home; to-morrow morning she ought to give him a glad welcome. She will be glad, but not with the light-hearted joy of yesterday; that can never be hers again. It seems as if she had been tramping along the sea-shore, gathering at intervals choice pearls for a gift, and now, when she has them, no friend stands with outstretched hands to take, and all her labor has been vain. She is so tired, so tired! Her little hands drop down heavily and the pearls fall out, that is all.

She does not go over to the cottage until quite late, and walks hurriedly, that it may bring some color to her pale cheeks. Cecil and Elsie Latimer have come to meet her, and upbraid her for being so tardy. They have swung in the hammock, they have run and danced and played, and now Denise has the most magnificent supper on the great porch outside the kitchen door. But if she could have danced and ran and played with them!

Mrs. Latimer has a cordial welcome, and Eugene makes his appearance. To do the young man justice, he is utterly fascinating to the small host. Violet watches him with a curiously grateful emotion. There is nothing for her to do, he does it all.

"You are in a new character to-night," declares Mrs. Latimer. "It never seemed to me that entertaining children was your forte."

"I think you have all undervalued me," he answers, with plaintive audacity, while a merry light shines in his dark eyes. He is very handsome, and so jolly and joyous that the children are convulsed with laughter. They lure him down in the garden afterward for a game of romps.

"How Eugene Grandon has changed!" says Mrs. Latimer. "He was extremely moody when Madame Lepelletier first fenced him out a little," and she smiles. "How odd that so many young men should take their first fancy to a woman older than themselves!"

"Do they?" says Violet, simply. Somehow she cannot get back to the world wherein she dwelt yesterday.

"Yes, I have seen numberless instances. Sometimes it makes a good friendship for after life, but I fancy it will not in this case. Indeed, I do not believe a man could have a friendship with her, for there is no middle ground. It is admiration and love. She is the most fascinating woman I have ever met, and always makes me think of the queens of the old French salons."

Violet answers briefly to the talk. "She is thinking of her husband," ruminates Mrs. Latimer. "She is very much in love with him, which is a good thing, seeing that the young man is disenchanted, and ready to lay his homage at the feet of another."

It is quite dusk when they start for home. Cecil nestles close to Violet, who kisses her tenderly. The child's love is above suspicion or doubt, and very grateful to her aching heart.

"You see," exclaims Eugene, as he hands her out, "that I have begun a new role. I love you so sincerely that no idle gossip shall touch you through me."

The tears come into her eyes for the first time. She longs to cling to him, to weep as one might on the shoulder of a brother.

The drawing-room is lighted up, and there are two figures within.

"Oh, you are come at last!" says the rather tart voice of Mrs. Grandon, who has telegraphed to Briggs to meet her at the early evening train, finding that she has made some earlier connections on her journey. "I was amazed to find every one away. Ah, my dear Eugene! Cecil, how do you do?" And she stoops to kiss the child.

"Mrs. Latimer gave a nursery tea-party," explains Eugene, "or garden party, was it not?"

"Here is my old friend, Mrs. Wilbur," she says. "Tomorrow Mrs. Dayre and her daughter will be here. Is not Floyd home yet?"

Violet answers the last as she is introduced to Mrs. Wilbur, a pleasant old lady with a rosy face surrounded by silvery curls.

"What a lovely child!" exclaims Mrs. Wilbur. "Why, she looks something as Gertrude used, and I thought Gertrude a perfect blond fairy. Have you not a kiss for me, my dear?"

Cecil is amiable as an angel, won by the mellow, persuasive voice.

Violet excuses herself as soon as possible. She has a headache and does look deathly pale. Eugene makes himself supremely entertaining, to the great delight of his mother. It is so new a phase for him to do anything with direct reference to another person's happiness or well-being, that he feels comfortably virtuous and heroic. No one shall make Violet suffer for his sake. What an awful blunder it was not to marry her, for, after all, Floyd is not really in love with her!

Violet cannot sleep. A strange impulse haunts her, a desire to escape from the chain, to fly to the bounds of the earth, to bury herself out of sight, to give up, worsted and discomfited, for there can be no fight. There is no enemy to attack. It is kindest, tenderest friend who has offered her a stone for bread, when she did not know the difference. She recalls her old talks with Denise concerning a wife's duty and obedience and respect. Ah, how could she have been so ignorant, or having been blind, why should she see now? That old life was satisfactory! She never dreamed of anything beyond. But she has seen the fine gold of love offered upon the altar. John Latimer is no better, finer, or nobler man than Floyd Grandon, and yet he loves his wife with so tender a passion that Violet's life looks like prison and starvation beside it. If she dared go to Floyd Grandon and ask for a little love! Did he give it all to that regal woman long ago, and does the ghost of the strangled passion stand between?

She tosses wearily, and is not much refreshed when morning dawns. Fortunately it is a busy day. Mrs. Dayre, who is a rather youngish widow of ample means, and who spent her early days at Westbrook, a sort of elder contemporary of the Grandons and Miss Stanwood, is to come with her young and pretty daughter, and take her mother with them to the West. Eugene goes to the station, and finds Miss Bertie Dayre a very stylish young woman, with an abundance of blond hair, creamy skin, white teeth, and a dazzling smile. She has been a year in society, the kind that has made an old campaigner of her already. She is not exactly fast, but she dallies on the seductive verge and picks out the daintiest bits of slang. She is seventeen, but looks mature as twenty; her mother is thirty-six, and could discount the six years easily.

Violet has made friends with Mrs. Wilbur, who finds her old-fashioned simplicity charming. She helps to receive the new guests, not as much startled by Miss Dayre as she would have been six months ago. The world is so different outside of convent walls that it seems sometimes as if she were in a play, acting a part.

In the midst of this Floyd Grandon arrives. Cecil captures him in wildest delight. Violet is glad to meet him first before all these people; alas for love when it longs for no secrecy! She colors and a sweet light glows in her face, she cannot unlearn her lesson all at once. Then she is quiet, lady-like, composed. Floyd watches her with a curious sensation. It is a new air of being mistress, of having a responsibility.

There certainly is a very gay week at Grandon Park. Bertie Dayre stirs people into exciting life. She is vivacious, exuberant, has wonderful vitality, and is never still a moment. Eugene has no need to devote himself to Miss Brade, he cannot even attend to Miss Bertie's pressing needs, and Floyd is called in to fill empty spaces. All men seem created with a manifest purpose of adding to her steady enjoyment.

"I think you were very short-sighted to marry so young," says Miss Dayre, calmly, to Violet, as they are driving out one morning. "What kind of a life are you going to have? It seems almost as if your greatest duty was to be a sort of nursery governess to the child, who is a marvel of beauty. How extremely fond her father is of her! Now I should be jealous."

She utters this with a calm assumption of authority bordering on experience. Indeed, Bertie Dayre impresses you with the certainty that she does know a great deal, the outcome of her confident belief in her own shrewd, far-sighted eyes.

"But I love Cecil very much," returns Violet, so earnestly that Bertie stares.

"There are some women to whom children are more than the husband," announces this wise young woman. "I should want to have the highest regard for my husband. In fact, I mean never to marry until I can find a soul the exact counterpart of mine. Marriages are too hurried,—too many minor considerations are taken into account, home, money, position, protection, and all that,—but I suppose every girl cannot order her own life. I shall be able to."

Violet smiles dreamily, yet there is infinite sadness in it. If she could have ordered her life, she would have married Floyd Grandon and made the same mistake fate has made for her. Even now she would rather be the object of his kindly, indifferent tenderness than the wife of any other. Eugene's brilliance and spirited devotion do not touch her in any depth of sentiment, and yet he is so kind, so thoughtful for her, she sees it in so many ways.

All this whirl of gayety has had its effect everywhere. Marcia has come down with unblenching audacity to welcome her mother and take the measure of the new situation. Floyd is very cordial,—then Violet has not gone to him with complaints. Marcia is one of those people on whom generosity and the higher types of virtue are completely thrown away. She is full of clever devices that she sets down as intuitions or the ready reading of character. Violet speaks quietly and resents nothing, therefore she is quite sure the young wife's conscience will not allow her to. Conscience is a great factor in the make-up of other people, but her own seems of a gossamer quality. Indeed, she feels rather aggrieved that her coup de main has wrought so little disaster. "But it will make her more careful how she goes on with Eugene," she comments to herself. Only Eugene seems not to have the slightest desire to go on with her, and that is another cause of elation.

Floyd Grandon is somewhat puzzled about his wife. He has come to understand the shy deference of manner, the frank friendliness, too, has nothing perplexing in it, but this unsmiling gravity, this gracious repose, amuse at first, then amaze a little. It is as if she has been taking lessons of some society woman, and he could almost accuse madame. She is very gentle and sweet. What is it he misses?

After all, he has not studied women to any great extent, his days have been so filled up with other matters, only she has hitherto appeared so transparent. She has liked him, but she has not been passionately in love, and he has never felt entirely certain that he desired it. Why, then, is he not satisfied?

Oddly enough, he has heard about the waltzing from Eugene, who desires to put it in its true light. It occurs one evening when he and Miss Dayre have been spinning and floating and whirling through drawing-room and hall, while Violet plays with fingers that seem bewitched and shake out showers of delicious melody. They have paused to take breath.

"Do you not waltz?" asks Bertie of Floyd, with a dazzling lure in her eyes.

"Oh, yes!" answers Eugene for him. "He and Mrs. Grandon waltz divinely together, but take them apart and I warn you the charm will be gone. I tried it a few evenings ago at my sister's, with Mrs. Grandon, and it was a wretched, spiritless failure. I wish there was some one else to play, and you could see them."

Floyd bites his lips, and wonders if Eugene is paying back a mortification.

"Oh, mamma will play," exclaims Bertie, with alacrity. "She is wonderfully good at such music, though Mrs. Grandon plays in exquisite time. Mamma."

"Don't trouble her," entreats Floyd.

Bertie is resolute, Mrs. Dayre obliging, and comes in from her balcony seat.

"Violet," says Mr. Grandon, "will you waltz awhile? Mrs. Dayre has kindly offered to play."

"I am not tired," answers Violet, in that curious, breathless tone which is almost a refusal.

"But I want you to," declares Bertie. "Mr. Eugene has so roused my curiosity."

Floyd takes her hand with a certain sense of mastery, and she yields. It is not the glad, joyous alacrity she has heretofore evinced. Eugene's half-confession, made with a feeling of honor that rarely attacks the young man, has failed of its mission. Some sense of fine adjustment is wanting.

Mrs. Dayre strikes into a florid whirl that would answer for a peasant picnic under the trees.

"Not that," says Eugene. "Some of those lovely, undulating movements. Oh, there is that Beautiful Blue Danube——"

"Which they waltzed when they came out of the ark," laughs Bertie, "but it is lovely."

The strain touches Violet. The great animating hope for joy has dropped out of her life, but youth is left, and youth cannot help being moved. Mrs. Dayre plays with an enchanting softness, and they float up and down as in some tranced sea.

"She waltzes fairly," comments Miss Dayre, "only she should be taller. I should like to waltz with him myself."

"They are a sort of Darby and Joan couple," says Eugene, evasively, "and his dancing days are about over."

"What a—mistake!" and Bertie laughs brightly. "Why, he is magnificent. Do you know I had a rather queer fancy about him; you expect literary men to be—well, grave and severe. The idea of his marrying a child like that! Why did he do it?"

"Because he loved her," replies the young man, with unblushing mendacity.

"Literary men and the clergy always do perpetrate matrimony in a curious manner. Do they go out much?" inclining her head toward the two floating at the other end of the room.

"Oh, to dinners and that sort of thing!" indifferently. "She is very sweet and has lovely eyes, but she is not the kind of person that I should think would attract him."

"What is it—the 'impossible that always happens'?" quotes Eugene, and as they come nearer Miss Dayre has the grace to be silent.

Floyd Grandon feels that some enthusiasm is missing, the divine flavor has gone out of it. Violet is so gentle, so quiet and unstirred by what only a little while ago carried her captive into an enchanted realm.

"Are you tired?" he asks, presently.

"Oh, no!"

She makes no motion for a release, and they go on. Indeed, it has a kind of pungent bitter-sweet elusiveness for her, almost as if she might come up with the lost happiness. "It is all there is, and she must make herself content," she is saying over and over. She has dreamed a wild, impossible dream.

Bertie Dayre is fond of conquests in strange lands. Even Violet comes to be amused at the frank bids she makes for Floyd's favor, but he seems not to see, to take them with the grave courtesy that is a part of his usual demeanor. Yet the preference has this effect upon him, to make him wish that another would try some delicate allurements. He is in a mood to be won to love, and Violet is fatally blind not to see that her day has come and take advantage of it.

From this point the summer festivities go straight on. There are guests at Madame Lepelletier's and a series of charming entertainments. The Brades have a houseful, and Lucia is followed by a train of adorers; but what does it all avail, since Mordecai sits stubbornly at the gate? Violet comes to have a strange, secret sympathy with the girl who cannot be content and choose among what is offered.

Madame Lepelletier is no less a queen here than she was in the city; indeed, the glories may be greater, more intense, from being circumscribed. The Latimers and the Grandons are frequent guests and meet people whom it is a delight to know; and Lucia decides there is no such lawn tennis anywhere, no such enchanting little suppers and dances. Eugene is rather resentful at first, but no one can hold out long against madame, and she finds a new way to please him,—to offer a little delicate incense at Violet's shrine. To her there is something in the way these two young people avoid any pronounced attention. Is it indicative of a secret understanding between them? If it has reached that point, she can guess at the subtle temptation for both. Certainly Floyd Grandon evinces no symptoms of any change in his regard; indeed, he does not seem quite so eprise as some weeks ago, and there is a mysterious alteration in Violet. She watches warily; she has seen so many of these small episodes. This will hardly culminate in a scandal, for Floyd Grandon is too well-bred, but some day Eugene will speak and Violet's eyes will be opened and she will hate Floyd Grandon for having bound her in chains before she had tasted the sweets of liberty.

It is true Floyd Grandon is rather absent and engrossed. There are many cares weighing upon him, and there seems one chance of turning over the business so successfully that his very desire and hope beget a feverish fear. Two manufacturers of large means and established reputation see in the coming success of Grandon & Co. a rival with whom it will be impossible to cope. Their new methods are beyond all excellent, and there is such a cheapening of process that for a while, at least, profits will be simply enormous. Shall they take the fortune at its high tide? Mr. Haviland has gone to Europe, and on the success of some projects there, the answer will depend. Mr. Murray is in correspondence with him and with Mr. Grandon, and since Floyd hopes so much, he grows nervous and uneasy, except when he loses himself in his beloved work or spends a quiet evening with John Latimer. He has so little time for the speculations or the endearments of love, that Violet drops into a soft and twilight background. She has everything; she is coming to be admired and treated with the respect due her position. Cecil and she are inseparables, and with all her fondness she does not spoil Cecil or allow her to become the terror of the household.



CHAPTER XXV.

"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 mere 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.



CHAPTER XXVI.

"And what's the thing beneath the skies We two would most forget?"

Lucia Brade comes over the next morning and renews her invitation to the rather impromptu lawn tennis, including Violet.

"Of course you will go," decides Miss Murray, persuasively, for she must have some one to keep her in countenance with this attractive young man.

It proves rather dull for Violet, though Eugene insists upon giving her a few lessons, and she feels really interested, but she does not want to detach him from Miss Murray. The supper is out of doors and is undeniably gay. Violet obligingly plays most of the evening, accompanied by a violin. She has discussed the German with Lucia, and that evening lays it before her husband.

"Of course," he answers, indulgently. "Let it be Tuesday evening. I wish Eugene would attend to it."

Eugene is elated at being master of ceremonies. They write invitations,—just a young people's party in honor of Miss Murray. Of course madame must be included.

"I don't see why," says Eugene.

"I think Mr. Grandon would rather," Violet replies, with a faint touch of entreaty.

Miss Murray studies on this problem, and afterwards says privately to Eugene, "If I was Mrs. Grandon I should be jealous of that superb woman. Why, she looks as if she could beguile any one."

"Floyd isn't the kind to be beguiled, you see," and he gives a short laugh, but presently admits the old fancy between them.

"Well," says Miss Murray, plaintively, "it was something to be a countess. Still, I couldn't give up the man I loved. I wonder—if he at all resembled you when he was that young?"

"No, indeed," and Eugene assumes an air of serene audacity. "The family beauty was kept inviolate for my sister Laura and your humble servant."

The baby blue eyes have a look of admiration that is extremely gratifying to the young man's vanity.

The three are deeply engrossed day and evening with pleasures of all sorts. Pauline Murray takes them with a zest that quite repays her pretty hostess.

"Your sister-in-law is the sweetest little body in the world!" she declares, enthusiastically. "It is quite ridiculous to think of her being step-mother to that lovely Cecil. I wouldn't be called mamma! Fancy Mrs. Grandon taking her into society a few years hence. Why, they will look like sisters."

"Of course," answers Eugene, tartly. "Only an idiot would imagine it a real relationship."

"Was she very much in love with him?" Miss Murray asks, innocently.

"I don't know," returns Eugene, rather impatiently. "I was away when it happened. I think the marriage was hurried a little on account of Mr. St. Vincent's illness."

Pauline Murray speculates. Eugene is very fond of his pretty sister-in-law.

"Do you always go out together?"

"Go out together?" he repeats, with a show of anger. "Why, we never do. At least I never took her to but one party,—my sister's,—and then Floyd was in Baltimore."

"He and papa went to see Mr. Haviland, who was going to Europe." Miss Murray studies him with her innocent baby eyes. Already she is wise in the lore of women's ways, especially young married women who make a bid for the attention of gentlemen. But she has to admit that Mrs. Grandon is very generous of her brother-in-law, and the most delightful chaperone.

Marcia and Mr. Wilmarth have been to Canada for a week, and return in time to be invited to the garden party, which Floyd honestly regrets. True, no business plans have been agreed upon; when Mr. Haviland comes back, if a formal offer can be made, it will be time to explain.

Eugene and Miss Murray have made the garden party as perfect as zest and large opportunity could avail. The dancing is to be a German, principally, but here they have not madame's experience in selecting and arranging partners. Miss Murray does not mind, since she has secured Eugene. With all her watching she cannot detect any especial fondness on the part of pretty Mrs. Floyd.

Violet is oddly consequential as a chaperone. She has never taken such warm interest in pleasures, and it becomes her youth and vivacity. She is bright and charming, with a touch of authority here and there that renders her quite bewitching.

Yet she has been thinking all this time of her own lot. Had she been alone she would no doubt have brooded over it despondently; but Miss Murray's almost volatile nature kindles the philosophy of hers. She knows now that Floyd Grandon did not marry her for love, that he did not even profess to, and that in most marriages there is at least a profession of love at the beginning, and it is very sweet. Even such half-jesting love as these two young people make unblushingly before her face, in the naughty audacity of youth, is delightful. Mr. Grandon could never do or say such things; he is too grave and sensible.

The house and lawn are lighted up again. There are elegant young men and diaphanous fairies; there is music and dancing; there is nectar and ambrosia and general satisfaction. Violet is too busy to dance, although if she had but known her husband was foolish enough to long to try the seductive atmosphere with her, she would not have been so resolute. Everybody looks happy and content.

"Polly," Mr. Murray says, the next morning, at the late breakfast, "we must be considering our departure. I shall have to go to New York. What part of the earth will it be your pleasure to visit next?"

"Oh," ejaculates Miss Murray, with a regretful emphasis, "the mail has not come in yet?"

"It has not come down. Briggs will be here presently with all personal matters."

Even as he speaks, the supple young fellow, with his well-trained deference, comes in with a budget of letters.

"Hillo!" exclaims Murray, glancing up. "Why, Haviland will be back in about a fortnight! See here, Grandon, can you run out to Chicago with me? The word is favorable, I must go to the city to-day, Polly."

"Why not let Miss Murray remain here, if she is not homesick?" says Grandon.

Pauline Murray's eyes light up with an expression quite the reverse of homesickness.

"I am afraid we shall trespass on a most generous hospitality."

Violet seconds her husband's request. They were to take in Long Branch as they went down, but it will be out of season now, and Pauline must go to her aunt at Baltimore or remain with some friend until the business is settled. So the Grandons' invitation is cordially accepted.

Mr. Murray spends the next two days in the city, while Mr. Grandon is busy with his own affairs, as on the evening of the third they are to start for Chicago. He finds his daughter serenely happy and not yet at the end of pleasures.

"But I think you had better be careful about the young man, Polly," says her father, as they are promenading the lawn at the river's edge, in confidential chat.

"Be careful!" Miss Murray's fair face is a vivid scarlet, and she fans herself violently with her chip hat, as if overcome with the heat.

"Yes, he is a handsome young man, but——"

"And he is pleasant, he has a lovely temper, and—and—I don't know why you should find fault with him, papa," she answers, warmly.

"Why, I have not found fault with him"; and there is a funny twinkle in her father's eye.

"When people say 'but' it always seems like finding fault," says Miss Murray, resentfully.

"Well, don't you break the young man's heart. I have a regard for him myself."

Pauline Murray laughs lightly.

"And keep your own in a good condition," advises her father.

But as they stand together on the porch bidding him good by, they appear quite to belong to each other. Mr. Murray understands him pretty well. He has no great inclination for business, but he seems to have no special vices, and can be easily governed by a liberal indulgence in money matters. There might be worse sons-in-law. The Grandons are a good old family, and carry weight, and Mr. Murray, whose taste is altogether for manufacturing, fancies he sees in this business both interest and profit. So if Polly and the young man decide to like each other—

Eugene Grandon would no doubt fly out indignantly if he fancied his matrimonial matters were being settled by older and as they think wiser heads. For once he is fortunately blind. He likes Pauline Murray because, if she is not the rose, she brings the scent of it continually within his reach. Every day Violet grows more charming and the distance between them lessens. He thinks nothing now of looking her up, of following her about, of planning drives and walks, and while the heads are away, he is cavalier to both ladies. They discuss various tender points and come to love. Eugene no longer sneers and treats it lightly. Violet is touched by the gentle lowering of tone, the faint hesitation, the softness that comes and goes over his face, the dreamy smile, the far light in his eyes, as if his brain was richly satisfied with some vision. This is love, she thinks, exultantly. Mr. and Mrs. Latimer must have had just this blessed experience, but no other marriage, not even Gertrude's, comes up to her ideal. And to think that hundreds must go through the world without this greatest, finest of all joys. She pities them, she pities herself profoundly. There are moments when it seems as if she must throw herself at her husband's feet and tell him that she is famishing for this divine food. And yet in their brief seasons together she grows cold, distant, afraid. She cannot even feel as she did when her ankle was hurt and he so tenderly indulgent. She esteemed that as love, but she knows better now, sad, sad wisdom!

Yet there is something fascinating in this double life she leads. It must be what people take when their great hopes are gone. The diversions of society, the threads of others' lives, the curious, dangerous study of the feelings and emotions of those about her. Only a year ago she was such an ignorant little body, now she is so wise, and she sighs over it.

The days are crowded full of enjoyment. Mrs. Latimer gives the loveliest tea and the most enchanting musicale with amateurs. Violet is asked to play, and proposes that Eugene and Miss Murray distinguish themselves in a duet from "Don Pasquale," which they sing admirably. Pauline Murray has a soprano voice, with brilliant execution.

"I do believe," exclaims Mrs. Latimer, studying Violet, "that you will equal madame as a society woman. I am not sure that I shall admire the cultivated pansy as much as the shy, sweet wood violet, but perhaps it is better. We women with distinguished husbands must keep pace in attractiveness, or the world will take them from us in its sweeping admiration."

"I never did have such a lovely time!" Pauline Murray says, after the musicale. "And you know I never should have thought of Robin Adair for an encore if it had not been for Eugene." She has come to the young man's Christian name. "Wasn't it a perfect success? I never sang it so well in my life. If papa could have heard it!" And she hums over a stanza,—

"After the ball was o'er What made my heart so sore—"

Some tears fill Violet's eyes and she turns away. Then, lest her emotion shall make her appear ungracious, she praises liberally.

Days and nights seem to have wings. The travellers return, and Mr. Haviland, back from Europe, comes up to Grandon Park. The gentlemen retire to the tower and discuss business over cigars, and the result is an offer for all right and title to the interest of Grandon & Co. left by James Grandon to his family, and for Mr. St. Vincent's patent. The last is so liberal that Floyd accepts at once; the rest must be considered by the parties concerned, but it has the consent and advice of Floyd Grandon and Mr. Connery.

It is late when the conclave breaks up, but Grandon goes up-stairs with a lighter heart than he has carried in many a long day. He has hardly dared to believe in this conclusion, and there will no doubt be some hard fighting before the matter is ended, but he indulges in a long, exultant breath of freedom. His life will be his own henceforward.

Passing through Cecil's room, he finds both heads on one pillow. Violet has waked Cecil with her good-night kiss, and the exigeant child has prisoned her with two soft arms and drawn her close to her own pink cheek and rosy, fragrant lips. They seem like a picture, gold and chestnut hair intermingled, complexion of pearl, and the other of creamy tints, soft as a sun-ripe peach. She has fallen asleep there, as she so often does, for youth and health defy carking cares. How lovely they are! Floyd Grandon suddenly counts himself a happy man, and yet he does not waken her with the kisses he longs to shower on brow and cheek and lip. If he did, how brave she would be for the temptation of to-morrow.

After breakfast Floyd summons his mother and Eugene into the library. Lucia Brade calls in her pony phaeton and entices Pauline, who is always ready for a pleasure. Violet flutters about her room, sends Cecil and Jane out for a constitutional, and then picks up a book. Summer is on the wane, and the air has a fragrance of ripening grapes, sun-warmed fruit, and the luxurious sweetness of madeira-blooms. The voices from the library touch her faintly. Mrs. Grandon's has a high, aggressive swell now and then, and Eugene's drops to that sort of sullen key she knows so well in the past. What is taking place? Will there be some new trouble for Floyd?

She walks down to the summer-house from some half-defined, delicate motive. After a while the three gentlemen go away, Floyd giving a questioning glance around. She drops her book on her knee and lapses into a wondering mood, when a step breaks her revery.

Eugene is flushed and angry, yet it does not make him the less handsome, though it is very different from his usual indolent ease.

"What is the matter?" she asks, for form's sake, for she almost knows.

"Matter!" and he kicks viciously at a pebble that has dared to rear its head in the smooth walk, sending it over on the grassy lawn. "The matter is that Floyd is selling us all out with a high hand. That is what Murray's visit and all this going to and fro mean. He has had an offer, and he doesn't care for anything so long as you come out on the topmost round."

"I?" Violet flushes and her eyes grow moist.

"Well, it isn't your fault, after all, and one need not grudge you anything," he says, strangely moved. "Yes, these men want to buy out the whole thing, and you'll have a private fortune of your own that will be stunning! Floyd isn't green at bargain-making. Now they have gone over to tackle Wilmarth, and a sweet time they will have of it. I should like to see the fun. But what am I to do afterward?" and he studies the greensward gloomily.

"You?" she repeats, and the matter settles itself beautifully to her vision. "Why, you will marry Miss Pauline Murray."

"Marry!" Eugene strides up and down with a grim sense of the irony of fate. Once he was asked to marry Miss St. Vincent to save his fortune, now it is Miss Murray. He is a part of the business, to be bandied about and knocked down to the highest bidder.

"You do love her?"

Violet says this with the rarest, tenderest entreaty.

"Love her? No, I do not." He comes nearer to Violet with his eyes aflame, his face pale, and his lips savagely compressed. "Have you been so blind? Did that show deceive you? Why, you must guess, you must know it is you and not she whom I love."

Violet sits astounded. She is too much amazed even to resent this. Surely he cannot have been so deceitful, so false-hearted.

"You like me," she begins, tremulously, "and I am your sister, your brother's wife——"

"And you might have been mine! It maddens me when I think of it."

"And it humiliates me."

"Oh, my darling, you must forgive it!" and Eugene throws himself at her feet. "If I could have seen you, could have known you——"

"You did not like me when you first saw me," she interrupts, with quiet dignity.

"No, because I held to an obstinate, hateful prejudice! But when I came to know you——"

"And through all this time, Eugene, you have been offering a false admiration to Miss Murray," she continues, with a grave, sad demeanor, "and you have been thinking of me in a manner that will make me despise myself forever. How do you suppose I shall meet Mr. Grandon's eyes?"

"As if he cared! Oh, you know he doesn't, Violet. That is the wretched part of it all."

She turns so pale and sways to and fro in her willow chair, like a lily, when something has struck the stem but not broken it off, her lips and pretty dimpled chin quivering, as if in an ague, her eyes strained, imploring. To be told of that. To have no power to deny it.

"I am his wife," she says, and she tries to rise but falls back.

"Oh, my poor girl, my miserable little darling, don't I know that! But, see here, Violet, I'm not a villain if I am an unfortunate wretch. I never thought of any wrong or harm; you are too dear to me, you are like some sweet little baby that a man wants to take in his arms and kiss and comfort and hold forever. That is how you ought to be loved. But I know a good deal better than you that going off and setting one's self up against the law and society and respect, kills a woman. There isn't any love worth such a sacrifice; only—I wish I had come to know you well before you belonged to any one. And you ought to give me some credit that I never made a fool of myself or did a single act that Floyd mightn't see. You've been to me like a little angel. See here, you are worth ten of Madame Lepelletier, with all her beauty. Why didn't Floyd marry her? She has about as much real soul as he."

"Oh, don't!" she cries, in the depths of her anguish. "You wrong him. You can never know how gentle and kind he was when papa died, and how good he has always been to me. I am not so beautiful and fascinating, or learned like Mrs. Latimer, but Cecil loves me."

She is crying now, not in any great sobs, but her eyes are wind-blown lakes of crystal tears whose tide overflows. She has fallen back on the one great comfort, the one pearl saved from the wrecked argosy.

"A man who could be cruel to you ought to be hanged!" he says, passionately, and her tears move him beyond description. "Floyd isn't cruel; he is simply cold, indifferent. Oh, my poor little girl, how can I comfort you?"

"You cannot comfort me," she says, drearily. "I read a long while ago, in the convent,—I think it was,—that it is not given to every one to be happy, that one can be upright and honest and pure, and do one's duty, but that happiness is a blessing of God that is given or withheld, and we must not waver on that account. Now let me go, and you must never again say any of these things to me."

She rises feebly, but he is still on the floor of the summer-house at her feet. Something about her awes him; he is vain and weak and fond of trying on emotions, he has little sense of present responsibility, but, as he has said, he does love her, and it is perhaps the best experience of his whole life. A weak or silly woman would have dragged him down in spite of his worldly common-sense, but she seems to stir the manliness within him. At this instant he could really lay down his life for her; it is the one supreme moment of his indolent, vacillating manhood.

"I have made you still more miserable," he cries, remorsefully. "Oh, what shall I do! Why is it that you may know a thing in secret all your life, and yet the moment you speak of it, it is all wrong? I oughtn't have said a word, and yet it doesn't really make anything different. See, I haven't so much as touched your hand; you are different from other women, you are like a pure little angel shut in a niche. And I mean to do whatever will make you happiest. If you would like me to marry Miss Murray——"

"Oh," she sighs with a great gasp, "don't marry any woman unless you love her!"

He rises then, though he still stands in the doorway. "Forgive me for being such a brute," he implores. "I shall never hurt or offend you again. I would give my right hand to see you happy. You must, you do believe this!"

"I believe it," she says, and they look into each other's eyes. A great crisis has come and gone, they both think, a lightning flash that has revealed so much, and then shut again in blackness. Could she have loved him? she wonders.

She walks slowly towards the house, and going to her room throws herself on the lounge, pressing her throbbing temple upon the pillow. All the wretchedness of her life seems to have culminated, the little doubts she has thrust out or tried to overlive. Somehow she appears to have worked a great and unwitting change in the Grandon family. Once, when Denise was in a discursive mood, she told Violet of Mr. Wilmarth's proposal of marriage. What if she had married him? Violet thinks now. Marcia talks about her "Vulcan" with a curious pride, and he certainly is indulgent. In that case Violet would have marred no lives.

A soft rustle comes up the stairs, and she knows who stands in the doorway.

"Oh, are you ill?" Miss Murray kneels by the couch and tosses her hat aside. "How pale and wretched you look! Does your head ache?"

"Yes," Violet admits.

"And you were so well this morning! Where is everybody? What has become of Eugene?"

"They have all been talking business," says Violet, "and have gone——"

"I suppose Mr. Grandon told you long ago, like a good husband, but you have been very discreet. Papa and Mr. Haviland are to take the business, and I suppose I shall come to live at Grandon Park. I just adore it! I never had so nice a time anywhere. Did Eugene go with them?" abruptly flying round to the subject of most importance to her.

"I think not," Violet says, slowly.

"Let me bathe your forehead"; and the soft fingers touch her gently. "Now, if I shut out the sun you may fall asleep. Don't get really ill!"

"I shall soon be better," Violet returns, faintly.

Miss Murray glides down-stairs, searches the porch, the summer-house, and the shady clump of trees. There is no Eugene visible. None of the gentlemen are home to lunch, but there are some calls to break the afternoon silence. Mrs. Grandon drives out. Violet has dressed herself and comes down, wan and white, making a pretext with some embroidery. Cecil is to take tea with Elsie Latimer, a regular weekly invitation.

Pauline Murray fidgets. Her father has imparted some other knowledge, confidentially, that he shall not object to the young man for a son-in-law if his daughter so wills. She has stoutly declared that she does not mean to marry anybody, and her father has laughed, but a whole day without Eugene seems interminable. She has asked about him at least a dozen times. An awful fear fills Violet's soul. Is it right that Eugene should marry her with no real love in his heart for her? and if he does not—how will she take it? He has been tender and lover-like, but how much of it was meant? Oh, why is the world all in a tangle? Her heart beats and her pulses throb, her lips are dry and feverish, and she has a presentiment of some ill or trouble to come. How will she meet Mr. Grandon? When she thinks of him she feels like a traitor.

The three return together, but Floyd goes to the stable to see about one of the carriage-horses slightly lamed, and when he comes Mr. Haviland sits talking to Violet. Mr. Haviland is older than Mr. Murray, a tall, rather spare man, with gray hair and close-cropped gray beard, that give him a military air. A little color comes into her face, and Grandon remarks nothing amiss; indeed, she looks very pretty and interesting, as she sits talking of her father.

"Where is Eugene?" he asks presently, as he sees Mr. Murray and his daughter walking in the grounds.

It seems to Violet as if she must scream. Is she his brother's keeper? Oh, what if—and it seems as if she must faint dead away at the horrible suspicion that he may never come back. No wonder her voice is tremulous. But even as she gasps for breath Eugene appears around the winding walk, and she is reprieved.

"What is the matter?" Floyd Grandon asks, startled by all these changes.

"My head aches."

"I thought Mrs. Grandon looked pale," says Mr. Haviland.

Miss Murray has caught sight of Eugene and waves a square of lace sewn around a centre of puzzling monogram. He has been desperate, moody, savage, and repentant by turns. He has meant to kneel at Violet's feet and confess his sins, and never love any other woman while the breath of life is in his handsome body. But the first is utterly impracticable, and after having been Miss Murray's devoted cavalier he cannot snub her in the face of all these eyes. He waves his hand and turns toward them, feeling that Violet is watching him and positively impelling him to this step; so he goes on and on to meet his fate. The cordial greeting of Mr. Murray, who thinks none the worse of him for his outburst of the morning, in a few words restores the easy footing of yesterday. Pauline smiles with winning tenderness; it does almost seem as if he was being crowded out of his rights, and there is enough to make amends. He sees it all; what does it matter? One never comes up to any high ideals, and ideals are for the most part tiresome, unattainable.

When the first bell rings they saunter up the path, Miss Murray on Eugene's arm. Her eyes have a kind of exultant softness; she has misread the pain and pallor of his face and her power of bringing back its warm, joyous tints, but ignorance is bliss. Violet looks up and meets the dark, questioning eyes, with their half-resolve, and Floyd Grandon intercepts it all. Why does she turn so deadly pale?