He says something about making ready for dinner, and they all go up-stairs, leaving her with Cecil. She has that curious, transfixed feeling, as though when she moved she was in a dream. Floyd Grandon has seen her sad, shy, quiet, gay, joyous, and in almost every mood but this. What is it? he wonders. Eugene's eyes wander stealthily now and then, and when she catches them a shiver goes over her.

To-night Cecil is unusually wakeful and very amusing to Mr. Murray. They all sit on the porch and discuss business. Mr. Wilmarth is likely to make a good deal of trouble. To-morrow, it seems, they are to meet at the lawyer's and the matter is to be put in process of settlement. The new partners are in haste to get to work.

At last Violet is glad to rise and bid them good evening. Mr. Murray finally obtains a kiss from Cecil, and is triumphant over so rare a victory.

At the top of the stairs a hand is laid on Violet's arm.

"It was fate," pleads Eugene, weakly, "and your wish. I saw it in your eyes."

"Love her," she answers, with a convulsive shiver,—"love her with your whole soul."

Floyd Grandon knows who entered the hall a moment ago and who now emerges in the soft light.



CHAPTER XXVII.

You have heard with what toil Secunder penetrated to the land of darkness, and that, after all, he did not taste the water of immortality.—SAADI.

The three men talk late. The two young people on the porch have no duenna, for Mrs. Grandon retired early,—indeed, she has left Miss Murray quite to Violet, and she thinks if Eugene lets slip this chance he will be foolish above what is written. He plays at love,—it is no new thing for him,—but he convinces "Polly" without any actual questions and answers that he cares for her, and the next morning there is a delicate little triumph in her demeanor, a tender overflow of pity, as if, after all, she might not take him, and then he would be heart-broken.

Violet is much better. She thrusts her secret out of sight, and Floyd is brief and business-like, something more, but he would be much too proud to own it.

"Violet," he says, "you must go to Mr. Sherburne's with me this morning. Your father deputed that gentleman and myself to act in your behalf if at any time we should have an offer to dispose of his inventions. His dream has been more than realized, and I am glad to have it go into the hands of men who will do justice to it. I shall also dispose of the share in the factory, and that part will be settled."

"Eugene——" she says, with a certain tremulousness, and she cannot keep the color out of her face. "Will he be—will——"

"I have advised Eugene to dispose of his part. He has no head, no desire, and no ambition for business. But whatever he does, it is now in my power to settle my father's estate, and I shall be glad to do it."

There is a discernible hardness in his voice. She seems to shrink a little from him, and he feels strangely resentful.

Mrs. Grandon has a talk with her son before he goes. The new firm have made her an offer to pay down a certain amount, or, if she insists, the stated income shall be kept for the present.

"I certainly should take their offer," says Floyd. "Your income will not be as large, but on the one hand it would die with you, and on the other you are more independent. I will add to it ten thousand dollars."

"You are very kind," she says, with a touch of gratitude. "But Eugene will be thrown out of business, and your father did hope it would remain in the family. He was so proud of his standing."

"I have counselled and besought Eugene, and it is pouring water in a sieve."

"He should have married Violet," she says, in a tone that avenges madame. "If you had waited——"

Floyd is deathly pale for an instant. If he had waited. If this useless money could belong to Eugene.

"You will be ready this afternoon," and he leaves the room.

Has he defrauded his brother? He could have held out a hope to the dying man and temporized. As his ward, Eugene might have come to admire her, or been tempted by the fortune. He hates himself that he can put her in any scale with mere money, and yet, does she not care for Eugene? What has the varying moods of the last six weeks meant, if not that? What the little interchange of glances last night? Curiously enough, Mr. Murray is quite taken with Eugene. Perhaps the elder brother does not do full justice to the fascinations of the younger. Has he been too tried and vexed and suspected, until his whole nature is warped and soured? Perhaps he is unfit for civilization, for domestic life in the realms of culture and fashion, and he wishes with much bitterness of spirit that he was back in his congenial wilds and deserts.

Violet is waiting for him, attired faultlessly. She looks pale and troubled, he can see that, and the sweet, frank expression with which she has always challenged his glance is no longer there. It is not altogether suspicion, but she really does evade his glance. She has the miserable secret of a third person, that, if known, might work incalculable harm, and she must keep it sacred. Beside, she is training herself to believe that Eugene will recover from his ill-fated passion and truly love Pauline Murray.

"Are you ready?" Grandon briefly asks, and hands her to the carriage. The drive is quite silent. They find all the parties engaged at Mr. Sherburne's, and proceed at once to business. On behalf of Messrs. Haviland and Murray the offer is made for all right and title possessed by Violet St. Vincent Grandon, and by Floyd Grandon, her husband, in all interests, inventions, etc., with much legal verbiage that alike confuses and interests Violet. But the sum offered seems enormous to her! She gazes blankly from one to another, as she hears again that all income thereof is to be hers, that no one can touch the principal until she is twenty-five, that it is settled solely upon her and her children forever.

"Oh!" she exclaims, with a vague glance at her husband, but his face is absolutely impassible.

Mr. Sherburne takes her into his private office and questions her after the usual formula as to whether force or persuasion or bribes have been used, and whether she does all this of her free consent, and smiles a little at her utter innocence. It is well she and her fortune are in the hands of a man of such perfect integrity as Floyd Grandon. Then they both sign all necessary papers, and the morning's work is completed. Violet goes home, a rich woman beyond any doubt or question, but a very miserable one. She would like to give at least half the money to Eugene, but she does not dare make the least proposal. She feels afraid of Floyd Grandon's steady, searching eyes.

In the afternoon she and Pauline are left together, but the lawyers have a rather stormier session than in the morning. Mrs. Grandon has a vague suspicion that Eugene will come out of this much worsted. He will spend his money and there will be nothing left. The young man is in a curious mood. He is well aware that he never can or will confine himself to business routine, that he is the product of the nineteenth-century civilization, termed a gentleman, rather useless, it may be, but decidedly ornamental.

The showing of the last nine months has been profitable beyond expectation. It is true there has been no income used for family expenses, and the legacies can be paid. Mrs. Grandon finally decides to dispose of her claim, and everything is adjusted for the law's inspection, approval, and ultimate signature. Floyd Grandon has redeemed his trust, has obeyed his dead father's wishes, and circumstances have proved that the dying man did not over-estimate the worth of what he was leaving. But it has been a severe and distasteful duty, and only the closest attention, the best judgment, and most wary perseverance, have saved the family from ruin. He gives his advisers full credit for their help and sympathy; but it has been a great strain, and he is immensely relieved. The dissolution of the old firm and the arrangement of the new one are matters for time, but happily he will be out of that. Wilmarth and Eugene take the first, and the others are quite capable of managing the last. He has a secret pity for Wilmarth, and yet he knows he has been Eugene's worst enemy, that he would not have scrupled at any ruin to attain his end. That he is Marcia's husband he must always regret, and they have not yet reached the end of dissensions.

Eugene drives slowly homeward, ruminating many matters. He has his college education and various accomplishments, and in the course of a month or so will have some money. He has no more taste for a profession than for business; and though various phases of speculation look tempting, he is well aware that he has not the brains to compete with the trained athletes in this department. He can marry Pauline Murray, and he will, no doubt, end by marrying some rich woman. He looks covetously at Violet's fortune and calls himself hard names, but that is plainly out of his reach. He could love Violet so dearly, with such passion and fervor, but it is too late, and he sighs. She would like him to marry Miss Murray; he will please her and Polly, who is undeniably charming, and do extremely well for himself. Why not, then? He cannot hang here on Floyd forever.

Polly is wandering through the grounds in the late summer afternoon, her blue-lined parasol making an azure sky over her golden head, her white dress draping her slender figure in a strikingly statuesque way. She is the kind of girl to madden men and win admiration on the right hand and on the left, and he does like the women on whom the world sets a signet of approval. No sweet domestic drudge for him, and if Violet has a fault, it is this tendency. When a man begins to discover flaws in his ideal the enchantment is weakening.

He saunters up to her, and she blushes, while a touch of delight gleams in her eye.

"Do you know," he begins, in a melancholy tone, "that I have sold my birthright, but not for a mess of cabbages, as the camp-meeting brother called it."

They both laugh,—Polly with a mirthful ring, Eugene lazily.

"And now I must take my bag of gold on one end of a stick and my best clothes done up in a bundle on the other, and go out to the new Territories. A young man grows up governor or senator, or some great personage there. I think it must be in the atmosphere,—ozone or odyle, what is it?"

She laughs again, a pleasant sound to hear. He is so very handsome in this mock-plaintive mood, with his beseeching eyes.

"You know I ought to do the world some good."

"Yes. And the Presidents come from the West. I would rather be a President."

"Oh, you couldn't, you know"; and he laughs again. "Is there nothing else that would satisfy your ambition?"

"Nothing!" She seems to shake a shower of gold out of the waving hair on her brow.

"Nothing," he repeats, disconsolately. "Then I may as well go. You see before you a struggling but worthy young man, born to a better heritage, but cruel fate——"

"Well, cruel fate," she says, as if prompting him.

He turns, and she blushes vividly. He bends lower until the warm cheek, soft as a girl's, touches hers, and the lips meet. Then he draws her arm through his, and takes her parasol.

"I wonder," he says, presently, "if I could get enough together to buy you of your father? Might I try?"

"You mercenary wretch!" she cries, but the tone is delicious.

"See here," he says, "some fellows have the cheek to ask such a gift for just nothing at all. I rate you more highly."

That is very sweet flattery. Her eyes droop and the color comes and goes.

"You might ask him," she says, in a tone of irresistible fascination, "but I do not believe you will have quite enough."

"Then I shall start for Dakota."

They ramble up and down, and Eugene allows himself to sup of delight. Does it make so much difference, after all, whom he marries? Polly is very charming and her lips are like rose-leaves. She loves him also, and she isn't the kind to bore a man.

Late that evening Violet steals out on the porch for a breath of the dewy air. Cecil has been wakeful and the stories almost endless. Floyd has not come home to dinner, and she feels strangely nervous.

Eugene has some idle moments on his hands.

"Come down the walk!" he exclaims, "I have something to tell you"; and he draws her gently toward him, taking the limp hand in his. As they go down in the light Floyd Grandon turns into the broad avenue, unseen by either.

"Well, I have done it," Eugene begins. "If I am miserable for life it will be your fault."

The treacherous wind carries back the last, and Floyd hears it distinctly in one of those electric moods that could translate a quiver in the air.

They are too far away for her answer.

"You will not be miserable," she says, firmly. "No man could be miserable with Pauline Murray, if he did his duty and tried, tried with his very soul to the uttermost. And you will, you will."

Eugene Grandon has an insincere nature, while hers is like crystal. He is extremely fond of sympathy from women, and her urgent tone makes him seem a sort of hero to himself. If he must endeavor earnestly, there is something to be overcome, and that is his love for her. The pendulum vibrates back to it.

"I shall try, of course," he says. Violet St. Vincent, with her fortune, is no light loss, but he does not distinguish between her and the fortune. "It was the best thing to do," he continues, "though I had half a mind to throw up everything and go away."

She feels she should have admired and approved this course, but Pauline would have been wretched. She does not dream that in this early stage another lover would have comforted Pauline. She is so simple, so absolutely truthful, that her youthful discernment is quite at fault.

"You must let yourself be happy," she says, and then she remembers how she has let herself be happy and the bitter awakening. But in this case there is nothing to break a confidence once established.

"And what are you going to do?" he asks, suddenly.

It is like a great wave and almost takes her off her feet.

"You must not think of me, nor watch me, nor anything"; and an observant man would note the strain of agony in her voice. "It was very good in your brother to take care of me as he did. Mr. Sherburne said to-day that not one man in a hundred would have brought the matter to such a successful issue. And you know if everything had been lost, why, I should have been a burthen on him. Think of us having nothing at all! What could you do?"

He shrugs his shoulders in the dark, and he knows he should not want her or any other woman in poverty.

"I shall have a pleasant life," she continues. "I can do a great deal for Cecil; and I can copy and translate, and Mr. Grandon is so fond of music. I know we shall be happy when this business no longer perplexes him and he has a little leisure. He is always so good and thoughtful. You couldn't expect him to love a little girl like me, fresh from a convent, with no especial beauty," she says, with heroic bravery.

"And you will forget about me," the young man returns, with jealous selfishness.

"I shall forget nothing that is right to be remembered," she says, steadily; "and I like Miss Murray; we shall be friends always. She seems such a young girl and I am only eighteen. We shall love each other and take an interest in each other's houses. Now that Gertrude is away, no one cares very much for me."

"It is a shame!" he interrupts, indignantly. "You and Polly must always love each other. We shall live somewhere around Grandon Park, I suppose."

"And we will all end like a fairy story," she declares, trying to laugh, but it is such a poor, mirthless sound.

She sees with secret joy that he is somewhat comforted, and she trusts to Polly's fascinations to achieve the rest. Love is not quite what poets sing about, unless in such lives as Mr. and Mrs. Latimer.

The air is so fragrant, the night so beautiful, that the moments fly faster than she thinks. The clock strikes ten, and in a little trepidation she insists that it shall be good night, and glides up the path and through the hall, and in Cecil's room comes face to face with Mr. Grandon, who has been home long enough to divest himself of coat, necktie, and collar. She stands quite still in amaze, the quick flush he has always admired going up to the very edge of her hair.

"You are out late walking," he says, in a tone that seems to stab her. "I trust you were not alone."

"I was not alone." He is quite welcome to know all. "I was with Eugene. He——" How shall she best tell it? Alas! the very hesitation is fatal. "He is engaged to Miss Murray."

"He abounds in the wisdom of the children of this world," comments Floyd Grandon, with bitter satire. "It is the best step he could take, but I hope Miss Murray will never regret it. She is young to take up life's most difficult problem, a vain, selfish, handsome man."

Violet's lips are dry and her throat constricted. Mr. Grandon is displeased; he has not been well pleased with Eugene of late. She can make no present peace between them; something in the sad depths of her heart tells her that it is useless to try. That this man before her, her wedded husband, who has never been her lover, should be jealous, is the last thought that would occur to her. She is a little afraid he suspects Eugene, but there never will be any cause again. She will not rest until she sees him devoted to Miss Murray. She can make no confidence, so she kisses Cecil, and begins to take some roses from her hair with untender fingers and the nervousness that confesses her ill at ease.

Floyd Grandon walks over to the window. For perhaps the first time in his life he is swayed by a purely barbaric element. Men beat or shoot or stab their wives under the dominion of such a passion! He is almost tempted to fly down-stairs and confront Eugene and have it out with him. To go at this fragile little wraith, who is now pale as a snow-drop, would be too unmanly. He holds himself firmly in hand, and the tornado of jealousy sweeps over him. Why has he never experienced it before? Can it be that he has come to love her so supremely? His brain seems to swim around, he drops into the chair and gives a gasp for breath at this strange revelation. Yes, he loves her, and she would be happier with Eugene! He has marred the life he meant to shield with so much tenderness.

When his passion is spent an utter humiliation succeeds. He is ashamed at his time of life of giving way to any emotion so strongly; he has clipped and controlled himself, governed and suppressed rigorously, and in a moment all the barriers have been swept away. Is this the high and fine honor on which he has so prided himself?

Some other steps are coming up the stairs. There is a little lingering good night, a parting of the ways, and Eugene goes to his room. What is there in this false, handsome face that can so move the hearts of both these women? Does Violet fancy herself beloved, the victim of a cruel fate? Does Pauline Murray believe she is going to happy wifehood when her husband-elect secretly desires another?

Floyd Grandon sits there until past midnight. Violet has breathed her patient, tender, penitent prayer, wept a few dreary tears, and fallen asleep. She looks hardly more than a child, and he could pity her if he did not love her so much, but in its very newness his love is cruel. It is not him for whom she secretly sighs, but another. And a dim wonder comes to his inmost soul—did ever any woman longing, and being denied, suffer this exquisite torture?

The world looks different in the flood of morning sunshine. Mr. Murray's cheery, inspiriting tones are heard in the hall below, Cecil's bird-like treble, Mr. Haviland's slow but not unmelodious tone, and Pauline's witching mockery. Her father has been teazing her, and when Violet comes down, she stands in the hall, golden crowned and rose-red, slim and tall, and is the embodiment of delight.

It all comes out, of course. Eugene bears his honors gallantly, and looks handsomer than ever. Mr. Murray is really proud of Polly's choice, for, after all, the principal duty of the young people will be to charm society. Eugene is a high-bred, showy animal, with regular points and paces, and is not to be easily distanced on the great course of fashion. Violet watches him in dim amaze. Is he assuming all this joy and delight?

"It's just too lovely!" Polly says afterward, when she gets Mrs. Grandon alone. "And do you know, I was jealous last night when you and Eugene meandered up and down the shrubbery;" and a secret elation shines in her eyes. "I made him tell me all you said; did you really want him to marry me? Do you love me, you dear little angel?"

If she is a little struck at Eugene's way of confessing to his sweetheart, she does not betray any suspicion of mendacity. She can truly say she likes Pauline, and that she is glad of the engagement, that she and Polly are certain to be the best of friends. The warms arms around her are so fond, the kisses so delicately sweet, the exaggerations of feeling are so utterly delicious, that Violet yields to the fascination and adores Polly to her heart's content, and Polly promises that Eugene shall dance with her and be just the same real brother that he was before.

It seems as though business had but just begun. The elders talk law: it is the surrogate's office and the orphans' court and published notices. Eugene formally dissolves partnership with Jasper Wilmarth, and for a "consideration," which he insists is Polly, transfers his half to Mr. Murray. Wilmarth is offered a large price for his quarter-share, but he resolves to fight to the bitter end. Of course he must give up, but he means to make all the trouble possible. Marcia flies hither and thither like a wasp, stinging wherever she can, but in these days Violet is guarded a good deal by Polly and her lover. Grown bolder, she at length attacks Floyd, accusing him of treachery and avarice and half the crimes in the calendar. Violet's fortune is flung up,—"The fortune no one else would touch, though it was offered to them," says Marcia, crushingly.

Floyd loses his temper.

"Marcia," he says, "never let me hear you make that accusation! Mr. Wilmarth went to Canada for that deliberate purpose, and urged his suit up to the very last day of Mr. St. Vincent's life. He would have been too glad to have swept the whole concern into his hands, and swallowed up your portion as well. It has been an unthankful office from first to last, and but for my father's sake I should have thrown it up at once."

Marcia is white to the lips. Either Jasper Wilmarth has deceived her, or her brother Floyd standing here does not tell the truth! To foolish Marcia there has been something quite heroic in Mr. Wilmarth refusing so tempting an offer and choosing her.

"He did not care for such a mere child," she says, with obstinate pride.

"But he did care for the money. And in the mean while he was depreciating the business and doing his utmost to ruin it. If you love him," he says, "well and good, but do not insist that I shall. I can never either honor or esteem him. I saw through him too easily."

"I think you are very indiscreet, Marcia," exclaims her mother, when Floyd has left the room. "Do try to keep peaceable. It is a shame to have you quarrelling all the time! How could he help disposing of the business? It was only held in trust until it could be settled."

For Mrs. Grandon has resolved herself into quite a comfortable frame of mind. Eugene will not come to grief; on the contrary, his prospects are so bright that her spirits rise accordingly. He is her darling, her pride. She has no foolish jealousy of the young girl who is to be his wife,—she could not have chosen better herself. Her motherly cares are at an end, her income is assured. She would rather have Madame Lepelletier in Violet's place, but she will not allow the one bitter to spoil so much sweet.

Madame Lepelletier is somewhat amazed at the turn affairs have taken. Eugene has not been the trump card she hoped. There is so much going on at the great house that she is quite distanced.

But one evening Floyd comes down with a message that he has not cared to trust to others. It is a little cool, and she has a bit of fire in the grate, though the windows are open to the dewy, sweet air. All is so quiet and tranquil, and for a month there has been little save confusion and flying to and fro at home.

She remarks that he is thinner and there is a restlessness in the eyes, while the face is set and stern.

"You are working too hard," she begins, in her sympathetic voice. "All this has been a great care. You ought to have something——"

His sensitive pride takes the alarm. Does she, too, think he had his covetous eye on the St. Vincent fortune?

"Don't!" he interrupts, in a strained, imploring tone. "I should hate to have you of all others think I was moved in whatever I have done by any thought of personal gain. I could wish that not one dollar of gain had come to me,—and it has not," he says, defiantly. "I will confess to you that I was moved by the profoundest pity for a dying man, and I was afraid then that we should all go to ruin together."

"Ah," she returns, and a beguiling light plays over her face like some swift ripple, "I never looked upon it in any other light. I knew you better than you believed I did."

He has one friend, he thinks, in a daring, obstinate sort of way quite new to him.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

Desires unsatisfied, abortive hope, Repinings which provoked vindictive thought, These restless elements forever wrought.

SOUTHEY.

"Good night," John Latimer says, as they stand at the gate of the eyrie. They have been spending a delightful evening. Prof. Freilgrath is on his way home, and after a brief visit must make a flying trip to Germany. Latimer has half decided to go with him, and has been persuading Floyd. It looks very tempting,—a two or three months' vacation.

"I ought to go up to the factory," he begins, abruptly. "Our watchman is down with the rheumatism. The foreman stayed last night, and I promised to send in some one to-night. Am I growing old and forgetful?"

Latimer laughs as he asks how much money is in the safe. If half a million, he will go.

"At all events I will walk up and see," Grandon says, and strides along.

There is no moon, but he has been over the road so many times that it is no journey at all. Silence and darkness reign supreme. He unfastens the door with his skeleton key, lights a burner in the hallway and a safety lamp which he carries with him. How weird and ghostly these long passages look! The loom-rooms seem tenanted by huge, misshapen denizens of some preadamic world. He stands and looks, and fantastic ideas float through his brain.

The engine-room is satisfactory. Everything is right, except that once or twice he catches a strong whiff of kerosene, which he hates utterly. The men may have been using it for something. He inspects nooks and corners, even looks into Wilmarth's little den. How often to traverse a man's plans, makes an enemy of him for life, he ruminates.

He turns out the light in the hall and enters the office, remembering two letters he laid in the drawer. How shadowy and tempting the little rooms look! He enters and throws himself on the lounge. A few weeks longer and the place will know him no more except for a chance visit. There have been many cares and trials since the day he sat here and read his father's letter, and his whole life has been changed by them.

"But I have done my duty in all honor and honesty," he cries, softly, as if the dead man's spirit were there to hear. "I have defrauded no one, I have taken no money upon usury, I have been true to the living, true to the dead." And again he seems to see St. Vincent's closing eyes.

The bell tells off midnight. The strokes sound slower and more august than by busy daylight. If ever the ghost of the dead returned—

No ghost comes, however. He may as well throw himself down here and sleep, as to tramp to the park. No one will miss him.

He says that bitterly. Even Cecil is weaned from him. He is no longer her first thought. Is life full of ingratitude, or is he growing morose, doubtful of affection?

He lies there awhile, thinking of Violet and the foolish madness he has resolved to overcome. It is well enough for youth and inexperience, but a man of his years! Is there another woman in the world who could have loved him, would have loved him with maddening fervor? Is the old Eastern story of Lilith true? Does she come to tempt him at this midnight hour?

That is his last thought. When he turns again he is rather cramped, and he knows he has been asleep. But a curious impression is on his mind, as if some one came and looked at him. The lamp burns, the corners of the room are shadowy. An ugly chill creeps up his back, and he rises, stretches himself, whistles a stave of rondeau, and inspects the outer room. All is as usual. He will go back to bed. Or had he better take another turn through the factory?

The door is locked. Did he take out the key? It is always hung in one place, and the nail is empty. He cudgels his brains for remembrance, but surely he left the key on the outside.

What can he do? An old traveller, he ought to be fertile in expedients. He is certainly trapped, and if so, some one is in the factory.

After a moment, he softly opens the iron shutters and vaults out. Some rubbish stands in the corner of the yard; it looked unsightly to him yesterday, but he is thankful now, and scrambles on the unsteady pile until he can spring up to the top of the high street fence and let himself drop on the other side. How odd that the dog should not hear. There is a long ray of light flashing out of a window. Something is wrong.

He lets himself in at the main entrance again. There is a smothering smell, a smoke, a glare. He rushes to the engine-room, but it is up-stairs as well, everywhere, it seems, and he flies to the alarm bell.

Some stalwart grip seizes him from behind and throws him, but he is up in a flash. Ah, now he knows his enemy! He makes a frantic endeavor to reach the rope, and the other keeps him away. Neither speak, but the struggle is deadly, for the one has everything at stake, honor, standing, all that enables a man to face the world, and a revenge that would be so sweet. To-morrow the last business of the transfer is to be completed, to-night's loss will fall on the Grandon family.

Neither speak. The man who has been detected in a crime fights desperately; the life of his more fortunate rival is as nothing to him. If the place burns and Grandon's dead body is found there, who is to know the secret covered up? If his dead body is not there, it is disgrace and ruin for his enemy, and he will struggle with all the mastery of soul and body, with all the inspiration, of revenge, of safety to himself.

Grandon is strong, supple, and has a sinewy litheness, beside his height. His antagonist has the solidity of a rock, and though his body is much shorter, his arms are Briarius-like, everywhere, and more than once Grandon is lifted from his feet. It seems as if the awful struggle went on for hours while the fire is creeping stealthily about with its long blue and scarlet tongues. He hears a crackling up-stairs, it grows lurid within, and he remembers stories of men struggling with fiends. There floats over his sight the image of Irene Lepelletier; of Violet, sweet and sad-eyed. Will it be too late for her to go to happiness? Will Pauline Murray's love be only a green withe binding the Samson of these modern days. One more desperate encounter, and Wilmarth comes down with a thud. He seizes the rope and rings such peals that all Westbrook starts. Then he runs through the passageway, but is caught again. Whatever Wilmarth does he must do quickly.

Some voice in the street shouts, "Fire!" Grandon with a free hand deals his adversary a blow, and the next instant he has the street door open.

"What's wrong?" cries a voice. "Who is here?" And the man, a workman, though Grandon does not recognize him, rushes through in dismay, but his presence of mind saves worse disaster. The hose in the engine-room is speedily put in motion, and the hissing flames seem to explode.

Grandon follows in a dazed manner. There are other steps, and an intense confusion like pandemonium prevails. One stentorian voice orders, and men go to work with the forces at hand. The dense smoke is enough to strangle them, but the waves of fire are beaten down. In a moment they rise again, and now it is a fight with them. Fortunately they can be taken singly, they have not had time to unite their overmastering forces.

By the time the engines have reached the spot, the fire is pretty well conquered. They open the windows to let out the thick, black smoke. Every one questions, no one knows.

"Wait until to-morrow," says Floyd Grandon, who looks like a swarthy Arab, he is so covered with grime.

Farley, who is foreman of one department, and lives almost in the shadow of the building, who was first on the spot, is much puzzled. "There is something wrong about all this," he declares. "The fire broke out in four separate places. That was no accident!"

The morning soon dawns. The smoke dissipates slowly, and they find the damage very small to what it might have been, but the signs of incendiarism are unmistakable. Grandon goes carefully through the place, searches every nook and corner, but discovers no trace of Wilmarth. Then he despatches a messenger for Eugene and the two gentlemen still at Grandon Park.

Meanwhile he walks up and down the office in deep thought. It seems easy enough to tell a straightforward story, but what if Wilmarth should deny all participation in it, treat it as a dream or a false accusation on his part? He was here alone, he cannot deny that, and he has no means of proving that Wilmarth was here with him. He found the office door locked on the outside, as he supposed he should. No one could believe for a moment that he would set fire to the place when he had just disposed of it to his advantage, and yet not made a complete legal transfer, but never was a man placed in more confusing circumstances. Shall he attack Wilmarth with the power of the law? He is his sister's husband, and it will make a family scandal just when he believed he had all difficulties settled, and how is he to prove his charge? Wilmarth is not a man to leave a weak point if he can help. His plans have all been nicely laid. Floyd feels certain now that he did enter the office, attracted perhaps by a gleam of light. What if he had not wakened until the fire was under full headway! Locked in, confused, his very life might have been the forfeit, and he shudders. He is not tired of life at three-and-thirty, if some events are not shaped quite to his liking.

He washes up and tidies himself a little, but his coat he finds rather a wreck after the deadly struggle. He sends one of the men out for some breakfast, and shortly after that is despatched, the Grandon carriage drives up, its occupants more than astonished. The brief alarm in the night has not reached them.

Floyd leads them into the office and the door is closed. He relates his singular story with concise brevity, and the little group listen in amazement.

"The man has been a villain all the way through," declares Eugene, with virtuous severity. "He did actually convince me last summer that St. Vincent's plan would prove a complete failure, and that the business would be nothing, yet he made me what I considered generous offers for so poor an establishment. But for Floyd," he admits, with great magnanimity, "I should have played into his hands."

"I think," Floyd announces, after every one has expressed frank indignation, "that for a day or two we had better keep silent. I will have the damage repaired, and now, it seems, having him at your mercy, you can compel him to a bargain," and he glances at Murray.

They agree upon this plan and go over the building. The machinery is very slightly damaged; the stock, not being inflammable, has been injured more by water, but they find rags and cotton-waste saturated with kerosene. Once under good headway the building would surely have gone.

"Mr. Grandon," and a lad comes rushing up-stairs, "there is some one to see you in a great hurry, down here in a wagon."

It is Marcia's pony phaeton, and two ladies are in it, one a Mrs. Locke, Marcia's neighbor.

"I have been down to Grandon Park," she begins, nervously. "I had some dreadful tidings! What a terrible night! Your sister——"

"What has happened to Mrs. Wilmarth?" he cries, in alarm. Can her husband have wreaked his vengeance upon her?

"Her husband was found dead this morning in his library. He had been writing, and had not gone to bed. She discovered him, and it was an awful shock. She has just gone from one faint to another. Her mother sent me here, though Mrs. Grandon has gone to her."

Are the horrors of this strange night never to cease? For a moment Floyd seems stricken dumb, then the tidings appear quite impossible.

"No one could do anything," Mrs. Locke says. "A physician came, but he was quite dead; and he, Dr. Radford, ordered some members of your family to be sent for immediately."

"Eugene," calls Floyd. "Here, change coats with me if I can get into yours. There is trouble at Marcia's. Remain here until I send you word," and he springs into the large carriage, driving away at full speed.

The house wears an unusual aspect. Several people are gathered on the porch. Floyd hurries within, and goes straight through to the library, lifting the portiere. Dr. Radford is sitting by the window. Jasper Wilmarth is still in his chair, his head fallen over on the desk, pillowed by one arm. The swarthy face is now marble pale, the line of eyebrows blacker than ever, the lips slightly apart.

Radford bows and steps forward. "Mr. Grandon—I am glad you have come, for there is a little—a—I wish to tell you—before any steps are taken. It is suicide, beyond doubt, by prussic acid. Can you divine any cause?"

Floyd Grandon is as pale as the corpse, and staggers a step or two; but when the terrible shock abates, an admiration for his enemy pervades his very soul. It is what he would have done rather than meet criminal disgrace.

"I have been treating him for a heart trouble, not anything critical, and a local affection that caused him some anxiety. My first thought was that he had taken an overdose of medicine, but I detected the peculiar odor. Had there better be an inquest?"

Floyd shivers at the thought of the publicity. Death seems by far the best solution of events, but to make a wonderment and scandal—

"Is it absolutely necessary?"

"Not unless the family desire it."

"Doctors are sometimes taken into strange confidences," Floyd Grandon begins, gravely. "A difficulty came to my knowledge last night that supplies the clew. Since the man could not have retained his honor, this is the sad result. But having paid the penalty, if he might go to his last rest quietly——"

"There can be no suspicion of foul play. His wife left him here writing, at eleven. He seemed rather as if he wished her away, and she retired, falling soundly asleep. He has sometimes remained down all night, and even when she entered the room this morning she supposed him still asleep. I should judge the poison had been taken somewhat after midnight. There are various phases of accidental death——"

"Let it be managed as quietly as is lawful," decides Floyd Grandon.

Dr. Radford bows. "A post mortem will be sufficient, though that is not absolutely necessary. You prefer it to pass as an accidental death?"

"The family would, I am positive. Can I intrust the matter with you?"

"Certainly."

"Well. Prepare the body for burial. Mrs. Wilmarth may choose to order the rest."

He finds Marcia still in hysterics, and his mother half bewildered. "It is so horribly sudden!" she cries. "Poor Marcia! she did really love him!"

Let her keep her faith in him if she can. Her short wedded life has been the froth and sparkle on the beaded cup, never reaching the dregs. This man has hated him because he interfered with his plans and unearthed his selfish purposes, but he, Grandon, has no desire for revenge. Let him wrap himself in the garment of dead honor, his shall not be the hand to tear it asunder.

He takes the tidings back to the factory with him. They look over Wilmarth's desk. There are no private papers, but they find two notices that the insurance policy has expired. For almost a week the place has been uninsured.

"Well," he comments, with a grim smile, "we shall at least escape an inquisitorial examination. Jasper Wilmarth planned better for us than he knew. But this must be renewed to-day, and the damage repaired as speedily as possible. The transfer will have to wait until after the funeral. As for the rest, we may as well keep our own counsel."

They all agree with him. The factory will be closed for repairs. That it was an incendiary fire they must perforce admit, but beyond that they will make no unnecessary talk. Eugene drives down home and does a few errands, but the others are busy all day arranging matters for the future. Before Floyd goes home he visits Marcia, who is still wild with her grief. The house is full of friends. The library is closed and watchers are there. Mrs. Grandon will remain.

So it is almost night when Floyd reaches home. Violet and Pauline know there was a fire that would have worked complete devastation if Floyd had not fortunately gone to the factory. Eugene has given him the setting off of a hero, and would like to picture to their wondering eyes that deadly struggle, but is bound by a sacred promise. They are horrified, too, by Mr. Wilmarth's sudden death. Violet's heart swells with pity as she sees the pale, tired face and heavy eyes. She would like to fly to his arms with infinite sympathy, but he is never very demonstrative, and now it seems ill-timed. She starts to follow him up-stairs, but Briggs intercepts her,—cook wants to know something, and she has to give a few orders. There seems some difficulty about dessert, and she attends to its arrangement, then the bell rings.

Dinner topics are quite exciting. The Brades come in afterward, and several of the near friends.

"I must beg to be excused," Floyd says, after smoking a cigar with the gentlemen. "I am dead tired and half asleep. Good night," softly, with a little pressure on Violet's arm. Cecil runs for a kiss, and he passes through the group on the porch. Violet's heart swells and for an instant she forgets what she is saying. When, three hours afterward, she steals noiselessly to his room, he is locked in slumber. If she dared bend and kiss him! If only he loved her!

The excitement does not in any wise die out, but the one incident seems to offset the other. Mr. Haviland returns to his family, as some time must elapse before the completion of the matter, but they are to take full possession on the first of October. Mr. Murray is planning some kind of a home for Polly that will presently include her husband. Eugene really blossoms out in a most attractive light. Prosperity and freedom from care are the elements on which he thrives serenely. He could never make any fight with circumstances,—not so much from inability as sheer indolence. For such people some one always cares. "Life's pure blessings manifold" seem showered upon them, while worthier souls are left to buffet with adversity.

Marcia is inconsolable, Mrs. Grandon advises a little composure and common sense, but it is of no avail. Madame comes, with her sweet philosophy and sweeter voice, and Violet with tears, but nothing rouses her except the depth of crape on her dress and the quality of her veil. Grandon Park and Westbrook are shocked by the awful suddenness. There is always a peculiar awe about an accidental death, and it passes for an overdose of powerful medicine Mr. Wilmarth was in the habit of using.

The dead face holds its secret well. A rugged, unhandsome one at the best, it is softened by the last change; the sneer has gone out of it, and an almost grand composure settles in its place. Floyd Grandon studies it intently. A few trifling circumstances roused his distrust, and—was it destined beforehand that he should cross Wilmarth at every turn? He has saved his enemy's honor as well as his own, and a great pity moves him.

Floyd attends Marcia; no one else can control her. Eugene takes Violet and his mother, Mr. Murray has his own pretty daughter and Madame Lepelletier. Besides this there is a long procession to the church, and carriages without number to the beautiful cemetery two miles distant. The world may not have much admired Mr. Wilmarth, but it knows nothing against him, and his romantic marriage was in his favor. So he is buried with all due respect in that depository of so many secrets, marred and gnarled and ruined lives.

Marcia is brought home to her brother's and takes to her bed. The day following is Sunday, a glorious, sun-ripe September day. The air is rich with ripening fruit, the pungent odor of drying balsams, chrysanthemums coming into bloom, and asters starring the hillsides. The sky is a faultless blue overhead, the river takes its tint and flows on, a broad blue ribbon between rocky shores. A strange, calm day that moves every one to silence and tender solemnity.

But to Sunday succeeds the steady tramp of business. Fortunately for Marcia, and Floyd as well, Mr. Wilmarth has made a will in the first flush of marital satisfaction, bequeathing nearly everything to her, except a few legacies. It increased her adoration at the time, and did no harm to him since he knew he could change it if he saw passionately, decorously, and she can also enjoy her new found liberty.

Laura's return is next in order, and she is not a little surprised at the changes. The Murrays are still at Grandon Park; Floyd insists upon this, as he really does not want Marcia to return, brotherly kind as he proves to her. The Latimers go to the city, and the professor is again domiciled a brief while at the cottage that seems so like home. Laura and Mr. Delancy set up a house of their own, and Marcia has a craze about the furnishing, making herself quite useful. Laura considers her rather picturesque, with the brief romance for background. But Eugene's engagement delights her.

"Upon my word, mamma," she exclaims, "you are a singularly fortunate dowager! Just think; less than a year and a half ago we were a doleful lot, sitting around our ancestral hearth, which was Floyd's, spinsters in abundance, and a woful lack of the fine gold of life, without which one is nobody. And here you have two distinguished married daughters, an interesting widow, a son who will serenely shadow himself under the wings of a millionnaire, and—well, I can almost forgive Floyd for marrying that red-haired little nonentity. Who ever supposed she was going to have such a fortune? And if she should have no children, Eugene may one day be master of Grandon Park! Who can tell?"

For, after all, Floyd's interests seem hardly identical with their own.



CHAPTER XXIX.

Passion is both raised and softened by confession. In nothing perhaps were the middle way more desirable than in knowing what to say and what not to say to those we love.—GOETHE.

All this time Floyd Grandon has scarcely had an hour's leisure. When the last paper is signed, he draws a long breath of satisfaction. He has done his whole duty and succeeded better than any sanguine hopes he has ever dared to entertain. He has settled, so to speak, the lives that pressed heavily upon him, and they can sustain themselves. He has come out of it with the honor he prizes so highly. And what else? What has he saved for himself?

That the distance should widen between himself and Violet was not strange. He has a horror of a jealous, suspicious husband, and believes thoroughly in the old adage, that if a woman is good she needs no watching, and if bad she can outwit Satan himself. But this is no question of morals. He could trust Violet in any stress of temptation. She would wrench out her heart and bleed slowly to death before she would harbor one wrong thought or desire. In that he does her full justice. She has seen the possibility and turned from it, but nothing can ever take away the vivid sense, the sweet knowledge that there might have been a glow in her life instead of a colorless gray sky.

He makes himself accept the bald, hard fact. He will not even trust himself to long for what is denied, lest he be stirred by some overmastering impulse as on that one night. She shall not suffer for what is clearly not her fault. She has no love to give him, nothing but a calm, grateful liking that almost angers him. That is his portion, and he will not torment her for any other regard.

They drop into an almost indifferent manner toward each other, except that it is so kindly solicitous. There are no little bits of confidence or tenderness in private, as there used to be, indeed, they are so seldom alone. He seems to leave her with Eugene and Polly, as they have all come to call her by way of endearment, and there is something wonderfully fascinating about these young people; they make love unblushingly; they can pick a quarrel out of the eye of a needle just for the purpose of reconciliation, it would seem, and they make up with such a prodigal intensity of sweetness; Polly strays down the walk to meet him or fidgets if he stays a moment longer than usual; Eugene hunts the house and grounds over to find her just to say a last good-by for an hour or two. Violet suspects at times that Polly runs away for the pleasure of being found. He puts flowers in her hair, and she pins a nosegay at his lapel, she scents his handkerchief with her own choice extract, and argues on its superiority and Frenchiness. They take rides; her father has bought her a beautiful saddle horse, and they generously insist that Violet shall accompany them because Floyd is always busy. It may be foolish, but it is very sweet, and Violet's heart aches with a pain thrust out of sight, for the heart of eighteen has not yet learned to despise sweetness. The level, empty years stretch out so interminably.

She has tried to comfort herself with the sorrows of others as a medicine. Lucia Brade, who has carried her preference for Eugene so openly, must be secretly brokenhearted, she thinks, and she looks for heavy eyes and a smileless face. But no, while there was hope Lucia waited; now that he is gone irrevocably, she bestirs herself instead of donning sackcloth. She is twenty, and of the eligibles about she must select a husband; so she no longer snubs the young men, but makes herself amiable and seductive, is always going or having company. There is no grave buried in her heart, only a rather mortifying sense of failure that she will eradicate as soon as possible.

Even Eugene seems to recover from the passion she feared would blight his life. She is sincerely glad, and yet—is she incapable of inspiring a lasting regard? Is there some fatal lack in her? Gertrude is delightfully pleasant, but she misses some old grace in her. It is her husband who has taken possession of the empty soul and filled it to the exclusion of others. What the professor says and does and thinks is paramount and right. There is no appeal from his judgment, so far as others are concerned, though she reserves little rights for herself. Gertrude is very much married already; the stronger will has captured the weaker. She can admire the professor with out stint, so there is nothing to militate against her regard.

Violet always comes back to Polly. The naive, wondering eyes, the soft, sweet lips abloom with kisses, the limpid, purling voice that goes through pleasant meadows, shaded woods, little interruptions of stones and snags and dead grasses of yesterday that must be swept away, over cascades laughingly, dripping sweetness, and never seeming to settle. She calls upon Violet to see faults in Eugene—"for I know he is not perfect," she says, with her pretty worldly wise air; and when Violet has timidly ventured to agree, she proceeds to demolish and explain away such a monstrous fancy!

Mr. Murray declares every day that he must send Polly to Baltimore, but instead Polly goes to the city and buys ravishing fall costumes, and Violet pleads to have her stay. Mr. Haviland purchases a house in the park and brings his family, a wife and two sisters and six children, and the two ladies have to be amiable to them. Polly, Violet, and Eugene visit every house that is even suggested as for sale, and make wonderful plans.

Not that Eugene is in the house from "early morn till dewy eve." He develops quite a business capacity, and can follow a strong lead excellently. He is no longer tossed to and fro by Wilmarth's sneers and innuendoes, or bracing himself to fight against what he considers Floyd's inexperience. Mr. Murray belongs to the wise children of this world, and possesses the secret of suavity, good-humor, and judicious commendation. Already he is an immense favorite in the factory, and the men are willing to run at his slightest beck. Eugene makes himself useful in many ways with the books and correspondence.

By the time Floyd is at liberty, Violet seems to have settled into a placid routine, and it is youth with kindred youth. Floyd is nearly twice her age, he remembers with dismay, but he does not feel old; on the contrary, it seems as if he could begin life with fresh zest. Neither would he have her emerge too rapidly from youth's enchanting realm. Only—and the word shadows so wide a space—can he do anything to make good the birthright he has unwittingly taken? She is rich, accomplished, and pretty, worth a dozen like Polly, it seems to him. Must her life be drear and wintry, except as she rambles into the pleasaunce of others? He could give up the seductive delights that have never been his, yet he has come to a time when home and love, wife and child, have a sacred meaning, and are the joys of a man's life.

The garden parties begin to wane, but there is no lack of diversion for the young. Mr. Murray is not insensible to the charms of society, such as he finds at Madame Lepelletier's. He has travelled considerably, has much general information as to art and literature, men and events. With madame, the professor and his wife, and Floyd Grandon, the evenings pass delightfully.

Violet is left out of them more by accident than design. The elders simply light their cigars and stroll down the avenue. Gertrude accepts madame's hospitality with an air of perfect equality that sits admirably upon her. She has attended dinners at San Francisco and various other centres, given in honor of the professor, and more await them in Europe. She is not so dazzling and has not the air of courts, but she has the prestige of a famous husband and has recovered some of her youthful beauty. Irene Stanwood has not distanced her so immensely, after all.

If madame has been surprised at some turns of fate, there is one that has no flavor of disappointment thus far, and the crisis has nearly passed. She has attained all that is possible; she is Floyd Grandon's friend; she can gently crowd out other influences. He defers to her, relies upon her judgment, discusses plans with her, and she secretly exults in the fact that she is nearer to the strong, daring, intellectual side of his nature than his girl-wife can ever be. The danger of a love entanglement has passed by, he will settle to fame and the society of his compeers, and she will remain a pretty mother to his child, and the kind of wife who creates a wonder as to why the man has married her.

Eugene finds her in the corner of the library one evening, alone, and with a pat on her soft hair, says tenderly,—

"You poor little solitary girl, what are you doing?"

She glances up with bright, brave eyes, and with a bit of audacity that would do credit to Polly, says,—

"How dare you call me poor when you know I am an heiress! As for being little, you can tell me the more easily from Polly," and she laughs over the chasm of solitude that she will not remark upon.

"Yes," he answers, mirthfully, "it would be sad to make a mistake now, for I can't help loving Polly."

"Why should you? I am so glad you love her with your whole soul, for you do. She will always be my dearest friend, and if you neglect her or make her unhappy——"

"Oh, you are an angel, Violet!" he cries, with actual humility. "You are never jealous or hurt, you praise so generously, you are always thinking how other people must be made happy. You give away everything! I am not worth so much consideration," the crust of self-love is pierced for a moment and shows in the tremulous voice, "but I mean to make myself more of a man. And I can never love you any less because——"

"Because you love Rome more," and she compels herself to give a rippling laugh. "That is the right, true love of your life, the others have been illusions."

"Not my love for you," he declares, stoutly. "It will always hold, though it has changed a little. Only I wish you were——" Can he, dare he say, "happier"?

"Don't wish anything more for me!" and she throws up her hand with a kind of wild entreaty. "There is so much now that I can never get around to all. You must think only of Polly's happiness."

"Which will no doubt keep me employed"; and he laughs lightly. "By Jove! there won't be much meandering in forbidden pastures with Polly at hand! You wouldn't believe now that she was jealous last night, because I fastened a rose in poor Lucia's hair that had come loose. Wouldn't there have been a row if I had given it to her? But she is never angry jealous like some girls, nor sulky; there is a charm—I cannot describe it," confesses the lover in despair. "But we three shall always be the best of friends."

"Always," with a convulsive emphasis. She has no need to insist that he shall thrust her out of his soul. She can take his regard without fear or dismay. She slips down from her seat on the window ledge, and they go to find Pauline and devote the remainder of the evening to music.

A few days after the two go to the city to see a wonderful picture of Gerome's just arrived. They stop at Mrs. Latimer's, who promises to accompany them if they will stay to lunch, and they spend the intervening time in the nursery. A rollicking baby is Polly's delight, a baby who can be pinched and squeezed and kissed and bitten without agonizing howls.

At the table Gertrude's departure is mentioned.

"Oh," exclaims Mrs. Latimer, "has Mr. Grandon resolved to go? John is so anxious to attend some great gathering at Berlin. If they do go I must give a little farewell dinner, and we," with a gay laugh, "will be up on exhibition, as widows of that indigenous plant having a tubular stem, simple leaves, and secondary color."

Polly laughs with bewitching humor and heartiness.

It is well for Violet that of late she has been trained in a Spartan school. Last summer her flower-like face would have betrayed her in its changing tints. Now she steadies her voice, though she must answer at random.

"He has not quite decided, I think."

"It would be a nice little run for them, though I have made John promise to be back by Christmas."

All the afternoon Violet ponders this in a sore, bewildered state. She has enough wifely pride to be hurt at the lack of confidence. Once he said when the cares of business were over they two would have a holiday. Will he ever desire one with her?

That evening Cecil climbs upon her lap and puts her soft arms about Violet's neck, and she presses the child in a long, passionate embrace.

"Oh, why do you hug me so tightly?" Cecil cries, with a touch of wilfulness.

The hands suddenly unclasp. Is her love to prove a burthen even here? Does no one want it?

"Mamma——" Cecil bends down to kiss her. "O mamma, are you crying? Don't cry, sweetest." She has caught this from the lovers. "Oh, you know I love you—better than anybody!"

The ambiguity is almost like a stab. The child has told the truth unwittingly. Violet is like a person drowning in a wide dreary ocean, when some stray spar floats thitherward. It is not a promise of rescue, yet despair clutches it.

"Not better than—papa?" Then a mortal shame crimsons her face and she despises herself.

Cecil draws a long, quivering breath. "I did love papa best," she whispers, "but now——"

"No, you must still love him best," Violet cries, in all the agony of renunciation.

"But who will love you best?" she asks, innocently. "Mamma, I shall love you best until I grow to be a big lady and have a lover like Polly. Then you know I shall have to care for him!"

Is her best of all love to come from a child not of her own blood, instead of the husband of her vows?

"Yes," Violet answers, in a strange, mirthless tone, while there is a smile on her dry lips. "You must care for him so much that he cannot help loving you. Oh, my darling, the only joy of all this dreary world is love!"

If Denise could hear her young mistress utter that in such a soul-rending tone, her heart would break.

Grandon meanwhile ponders the future, their future. He has had one impulse of the heroically sentimental order, a possible freedom for Violet in the years to come, while she is still young, and a chance with life and fortune to retrieve the mistake into which she was hurried through no fault of her own. Would it be a violation of the divine law? This is not a usual case. She has clearly been defrauded of a great right. Can he restore it to her? If she were poor and dependent, he could give her so much she would hardly miss the other.

He is angry that Eugene and Pauline should flaunt their happiness in her sad eyes. For they have grown very sad. She goes clad in lovely soft raiment now, yet he can recall the little girl in her gray gown, holding up her arms with strength and courage to save Cecil from disaster. He smiles as he calls up the flash in the spirited eyes, as she said, with true motherly instinct, "You shall not scold her!" If the eyes would only flash again!

When he remembers this he cannot relinquish her. It would take too much out of his life. He could not see any other man win her, even if the law made her free. He should hate to think of other lips kissing her with lover's kisses. Ah, he is selfish, jealous still, a man among men, no more generous, just as eager to quaff the beaker of love as any other. Since she is his, he will not give her up. But to keep her in this cold, passive fashion, to have her gentle, obedient, affectionate, when he knows she has a woman's fond, warm soul!

Would a separation awake any longing, any desire? This is one reason why he entertains the plan of the six weeks abroad, yet it is horribly awkward to discuss it with her. Still, it must be done.

It is a rainy Sunday afternoon, and he roams about the house unquietly. Mr. Murray has gone to his partner's, Mrs. Grandon is with Laura, the lovers are in the drawing-room, with Violet at the far end playing propriety. Does it hurt her, he wonders, to have Eugene so foolishly fond of another?

He catches up Cecil, who is running through the hall, and carries her out to the conservatory, where she culls flowers at her own sweet will. "This is for Polly, this for Eugene, and this for mamma."

"Cecil," he asks, suddenly, "have you forgotten Auntie Dora, and Lily and Fen and Lulu? Do you never want to see them?"

"Will they come here?" she asks, with wide-open eyes.

"How would you like to go there? to sail in a great ship again?"

"With madame?" she questions, laconically.

The color mounts his brow. "No," he replies, gravely, "with papa."

"And mamma?"

"What if mamma does not want to go?"

The lovely face grows serious and the eyes droop, as she answers slowly,—

"Then I should stay with mamma. She would have no one."

"But I would have no one either," he says, jealously.

"Then why do you not stay with mamma? She cries sometimes," and Cecil's voice has a touch of pitiful awe. "Why do you not put roses in her hair and kiss her as Uncle Eugene does Polly? She is sweetest."

"When does she cry?" he asks, smitten to the heart.

"At night, when it is all soft dark, and when she puts her face down on my pillow."

"Take your flowers in to them," he cries, suddenly. Is it because any love has gone out of Violet's life that she weeps in the soft dark? He strides up and down with his blood at fever heat. Is it for Eugene? The idea maddens him!

When he enters the room, Violet has the red rose at her throat. He sits down by her and finds her grave, composed. No lovely warm color flutters over her face. She has trained herself so well that she can even raise her eyes without any show of embarrassment. Her exquisite repose would rival madame's; indeed, she might almost be a statue with fine, clear complexion, proudly curved lips, and long-fringed lids that make a glitter of bronze on her rose-leaf cheek. How has this girl of eighteen achieved this passionless grace?

As the night sets in the rain pours in torrents. There is dinner, music, and Cecil makes various diversions up and down the room. Eugene and Polly make love in their usual piquant fashion in dim obscurity, he audaciously stealing kisses under cover, for no earthly reason except that stolen kisses have a more delicious flavor.

Violet goes up-stairs with Cecil; for though Jane is equal to toilet purposes, there is a certain seductive way of tucking up and smoothing pillows, of stories and good-nights in which Violet is unsurpassed.

"Come down in the library after you are through," Grandon says. "I want to see you." He wonders if people can divine what is in each other's soul unless eyes and lips confess it. Intuition, forsooth!

She finds the room in a soft glow from the large lamp on the library table. Mr. Grandon is seated on one end of the divan, pushed a trifle from the window, and motions her hither. He has been thinking somewhat bitterly of having to leave his lovely home when he has just won the right to stay in it tranquilly. A sense of resentment swells up in his soul.

She listens with gentle respect to his proposed journey, that seems definitely settled, and replies in a grave, steady tone, not devoid of interest, "that it will no doubt be very pleasant for him." Objecting or pleading to accompany him does not really enter her mind.

"What will it be for you?" he asks, in a manner that would be savage were his breeding less perfect.

Ah, she dare not say! People live through miserable times, sorrow does not kill them!

He is chagrined, disappointed at her silence. It is unnatural for her to be so calm. She may even be glad—monstrous thought! His impatience and resentment are roused.

"Violet," he begins, with a certain asperity, "there occasionally comes a time in life, married life, when the mistake one has made is realized in its full force. That we have made a mistake becomes more apparent as time goes by. If I could give you back your liberty"—and his voice softens unconsciously—"God knows I would gladly do it. I could not see how events would shape themselves when I took it from you, and your father during his illness——"

Her calmness breaks. She throws up her hand in pitiful entreaty, her old gesture to shelter herself in time of trouble. She cannot have her father indirectly censured, she cannot listen to that humiliating episode from his lips. If she understood him better she would know the almost brutal frankness, a kind of family usage, is not one of his faults.

"Oh," she cries, in anguish, "I know! I know! You were very good, you were generous. I know now it was not as most people marry, and that you could not love me, that you did it to save me, but almost, I think, it would have been better——" for Jasper Wilmarth to have taken me, she is on the point of saying, but she ends with a strong, convulsive shudder.

Who has been so cruel and dastardly as to tell her this? Ah! he guesses wildly.

"This is Eugene's tale!" he cries, angrily, his face in the white heat of passion. "He shall answer to me as surely as there is a heaven!" and he springs up.

Her arms are round him in their frantic endeavor to drag him back, her face is pressed against his breast, her silken hair blinds his very eyes.

"You shall not!" she declares, in her brave, unshrinking voice, that, somehow, she has found again. "There shall be no disturbance on my account! Eugene did not tell me until I compelled him, it was some one else. I think you have wronged him in your mind. He was kind, tender, brotherly."

"Whom then?" he demands, in a tone that terrifies her, and she sways like a lily.

"It was Marcia; she was vexed about something, but you will forgive her. And Denise told me about Mr. Wilmarth—in all honor to you. She adores you. And, I could not remain blind, there were many things. But I do not want to be free, indeed I do not. I will be content"; and she gives a long, heart-breaking sob.

"My poor child! my little darling!" and his arms enclose her with a fond clasp, though her face is still hidden. It is so easy to go through a labyrinth with a clew. This is what Eugene's fondness meant, and he forgives him much. This is why she has grown grave and cold and retiring! He is back again with her dying father—has he kept faith? She has been his wife, it is true, but was there not a higher meaning in the bond? Her heart beats against his like some prisoned bird. She is so near—are they to be kept asunder all their lives? If she did not love Eugene, may she not learn to love him?

"You said I could not love you," he cries. "How do you know, who told you? Is your wisdom of so blind a quality?" and he raises the face full of tears, that shrinks from being seen with all its secrets written in a burning blush.

"Violet! Violet! are we both to blame? Is there not some certainty when people love each other?" He bends his face to hers, and kisses into the lips the sweet and sacred knowledge that electrifies her, that seems to rend the horizon of remembrance with a flash. Out there on the porch in that first entrancing waltz he half told his secret, that he had begun to love her! The knowledge comes with a thrill of exultation.

"I think you love me a little," he says, "but, Violet, I want no grateful, gentle, passive regard. I must have my wife sweet, fond, adoring! Am I not as worthy of love as other men?"

She raises her face and they glance steadily into each other's eyes, then hers droop under the stronger and more imperious will, the lip quivers, the flush deepens.

"If you will—be glad—to have me love you," she murmurs, brokenly.

"Glad!" And the tone tells the rest.

He brings her back to the seat where they were so cold and grave a brief while ago. Is there any need of envying Polly in the great drawing-room? The rain pours in torrents, but it is a divine summer within.

"Violet," he says, a long while afterward, "we have never been real lovers, you know. I am not sure but it would be better for me to go abroad. We could write letters, and you could decide how much you cared."

She glances up in a dismay so wild that he feels inclined to laugh in pure joy. She studies out the meaning: it is for her to say whether he shall go or not.

"Oh, I shall keep you here! I shall be jealous and exigeant like Polly, and you——"

She is the bright-eyed, sunny-faced girl he found on the rocky shore, and there is the same buoyant ring in her voice.

"I shall be a jealous, tyrannical husband," he rejoins, giving the rose-leaf cheek a soft pinch. "You will hardly dare dream your soul is your own."

"No, I shall not dream it," she answers, with gay audacity.

John Latimer is greatly disappointed, as well as the professor, at Grandon's defection. There is a charming dinner party at the Latimers', and Mrs. Latimer dolefully declares that she must be the single spear of grass. The following Saturday the friends go to see the travellers off. Gertrude may remain abroad several years, "Unless," says the professor, "I grow homesick for my little cottage among the cliffs and my good Denise."

If her husband's eyes study all the changes that make Violet's face radiant and fascinating, some other eyes watch them with a vague suspicion. Has the chasm been bridged over? Has the man found the chords of his own soul, and united them in the divine melody to which exceptional lives are set? He may have friends among women, for he is chivalrous, high-minded, and attractive, but he will never need any one friend greater than the rest. There is no secret niche for her, they are all open-columned temples, that the world may see, except the Holy of Holies where he will keep his wife.

The world is all before Madame Lepelletier. She can marry well, if she chooses, she can make a charmed circle for herself if she so elects, but she feels strangely old and ennuied, as if she must have lived in centuries past, and there was no new thing. Yet the face in the mirror does not tell that story. How curiously she has come into the lives of these Grandons a second time, and gone out with as little result. Is the stone of Sisyphus the veiled myth of life?

Violet and Grandon are not unblushing lovers like Polly and Eugene, and their most pronounced honeymoon hours are spent in the little cottage, under Denise's rejoicing eyes. There are always so many things to talk over, and the years to come must be the more crowded to make up for one lost in the desert.

Polly's engagement gets shortened from two years to six months. Mr. Murray sets up a house, and Eugene is an important factor. He fits admirably into the life that has come to him; men of this stamp are saved or lost simply by the result of circumstances, and his are sufficiently strong to save him.

Marcia will flit and flutter about until she captures another husband. She makes an attractive heroine of herself, but how near she came to tragedy she will never know. Floyd Grandon dismisses these ugly blots on the old life; he can well afford it in the perfect enjoyment that comes to him, a little fame, much honor, and a great deal of love.



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LEE AND SHEPARD'S POPULAR FICTION

AMANDA M. DOUGLAS' NOVELS.

Osborne of Arrochar. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price, cloth, $1.50. Popular edition, $1.00.

"In this novel, the author introduces us to an interesting family of girls, who, in default of the appearance of the rightful heir, occupy an old, aristocratic place at Arrochar. Just as it has reached the lowest point of dilapidation, through lack of business capacity on the part of the family, Osborne appears to claim his inheritance, and the interesting problem presents itself of marrying one of the daughters or turning the family out. The author thus gives herself a fair field to display her skill in the painting of character, the management of incident, and the construction of the dialogue. She has been in a large degree successful. We feel that we are dealing with real persons; and, as to the management of the story, it is sufficient praise to say that the interest is cumulative. The book will add to the author's reputation."—School Journal, N.Y.

The Heirs of Bradley House. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price, $1.50. Popular edition, $1.00.

"The author has won a most honorable place in the literary world by the character as well as cleverness of her work. Her books are as clean and fresh and invigorating as a morning in May. If she is not deep or profound, she stirs in the heart of her reader the noblest impulses; and whosoever accomplishes this has not written in vain."—Chicago Saturday Evening Herald.

Whom Kathie married. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price, $1.50. Popular edition, $1.00.

Miss DOUGLAS wrote a series of juvenile stories in which Kathie figured; and in this volume the young lady finds her destiny. The sweetness and purity of her life is reflected in the lives of all about her, and she is admired and beloved by all. The delicacy and grace with which Miss DOUGLAS weaves her story, the nobility of her characters, the absence of everything sensational, all tend to make this book one specially adapted to young girls.

A Woman's Inheritance. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price, $1.50.

"Miss DOUGLAS is widely known as a writer of excellent stories, all of them having a marked family likeness, but all of them bright, fascinating, and thoroughly entertaining. This romance has to do with the fortunes of a young woman whose father, dying, left her with what was supposed to be a large property, but which, under the management of a rascally trustee, was very near being wrecked, and was only saved by the self-denying devotion of one who was strictly under no obligation to exert himself in its behalf. The interest of the story is well sustained to the very close, and the reader will follow the fortunes of the various characters with an absorbed fascination."—New Bedford Mercury.

Sydnie Adriance. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price $1.50. Popular edition, $1.00.

In this book, the heroine, being suddenly reduced to poverty, refuses an offer of marriage, because she thinks it comes from the condescension of pity rather than from the inspiration of love. She determines to earn her living, becomes a governess, then writes a book, which is successful, and inherits a fortune from a distant relative. Then she marries the man—But let us not tell the story. The author has told it in a charming way.

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Nelly Kinnard's Kingdom. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price, cloth, $1.50. Popular edition, $1.00.

"Nelly Endicott, a bright, lively girl, marries Dr. Kinnard, a widower with two children. On going to her husband's home, she finds installed there a sister of his first wife (Aunt Adelaide, as she is called by the children), who is a vixen, a maker of trouble, and a nuisance of the worst kind. Most young wives would have had such a pest put out of the house, but Nelly endures the petty vexations to which she is subjected, in a manner which shows the beauty and strength of her character. How she surmounted the difficulty, it would not be fair to state."—New York Evening Mail.

From Hand to Mouth. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price, $1.50. Popular edition, $1.00.

"This is a thoroughly good, true, pure, sweet, and touching story. It covers precisely those phases of domestic life which are of the most common experience, and will take many and many of its readers just where they have been themselves. There is trouble in it, and sorrow, and pain, and parting, but the sunset glorifies the clouds of the varied day, and the peace which passes understanding pervades all. For young women whose lives are just opening into wifehood and maternity, we have read nothing better for many a day."—Literary World.

A Modern Adam and Eve in a Garden. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price $1.50.

Bright, amusing, and sensible. A story of two people who set out to win their share of the world's wealth, and how they did it; which, as a critic says, "is rather jolly and out-of-door-y, and ends in a greenhouse,"—with some love and pathos, of course, and much practical knowledge.

The Old Woman who lived in a Shoe. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price $1.50.

This is not a child's story, nor a comic view of household life,—as some might think from its title—but a domestic novel, full of the delights of home, of pure thoughts, and gentle virtues. It has also sufficient complications to keep the thread of interest drawn, and to lead the reader on. Among Miss DOUGLAS' many successful books, there is none more beautiful or attractive, or which leaves a more permanent impression.

Claudia. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price, $1.50. Popular edition, $1.00.

This is a romantic story, with abundant incidents and strong situations. The interest is intense. It concerns two half sisters, whose contrasted character and complicated fortunes are the charm of the book.

Seven Daughters. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price $1.50.

The "Seven" are daughters of a country clergyman who is not greatly blessed with the good things of the world. The story is related by the eldest, who considers herself far from brilliant or witty, but who makes charming pictures of all who figure in the book. The good minister consents to receive a number of bright boys as pupil-boarders, and the two families make a suggestive counterpoise, with mutual advantage. Destiny came with the coming of the boys, and the story has naturally a happy end.

The Foes of her Household. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price $1.50.

"This is an exceedingly entertaining book. A simple girl, of beautiful character, marries a young man in poor health out of pure love, and ignorant of the fact that he is rich. His death occurs not very long after the marriage, and the young widow becomes the object of practical persecution by his relatives, who misunderstand her motives entirely. With a nobility of character, as rare as beautiful, she destroys their prejudice, and at last teaches them to love her."—Central Baptist, St. Louis, Mo.

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