_ CHAPTER X.
I cannot argue, I can only feel.--GOETHE.
Grandon runs carelessly over his mail before the morning meeting at Mr. Sherburne's. Two letters interest him especially and he lays them aside. One is from Eugene. That improvident young man is out of money. He is tired of Lake George and desires to go to Newport. He is sorry that Floyd is getting himself into such a mess with the business, and is quite sure the best thing would be to sell out to Wilmarth. He has had a letter from him in which he, Wilmarth, confesses that matters are in a very serious strait unless Mr. Floyd Grandon is willing to risk his private fortune. "Don't do it," counsels the younger. "The new machinery is a confounded humbug, but if any one
can make it work, Wilmarth is the man. If St. Vincent wants to get his daughter a husband, why does he not offer her to Wilmarth? If she is as pretty as you say, she ought not go begging for a mate, but when
I marry for a fortune I want the money in hand, not locked up in a lot of useless trumpery."
A pang goes through Floyd's soul. If he never had offered her to Eugene! It seems almost as if he had stabbed her to the heart. He can see her soft, entreating, velvet eyes, and he covers his face with his hands to hide the blush of shame. He will make it all up to her a thousand times. Ah, can mere money ever take out such a sting?
The other letter is from a German professor and dear friend that he left behind in Egypt, who expects to reach America early in September, and find that Herr Grandon has improved his time and transcribed and arranged all the notes, as he has so many more. There will be little enough time, so the good comrade must not idle. They will have a good long vacation afterward, when they can climb mountains and shoot buffaloes, and explore the New World together, but now every day is of value!
Floyd Grandon gives a smile of dismay. The precious days are flying so rapidly. And everything has changed, the most important of all, his own life. How could he?
He is a little late at the lawyer's, and they are all assembled. He gives a quick glance toward Wilmarth. The impassible face has its usual half-sneer and the covert politeness so baffling. Lindmeyer has been explaining something, and stops short with an eager countenance.
The provisions of the will are gone over again. Floyd Grandon is now an interested party in behalf of his wife. There are the books with a very bad showing for the six months. They have not paid expenses, and there is no reserve capital to fall back upon. It looks wonderfully like a failure. Wilmarth watches Grandon closely. He is aware now that he has underrated the vigor of his opponent, who by a lucky turn of fate holds the trump cards. That Floyd Grandon could or would have married Miss St. Vincent passes him. He knows nothing, of course, of the episode with Cecil, and thinks the only motive is the chance to get back the money he has been advancing on every hand. If
he only had signed a marriage contract there in Canada! He could almost subject himself to the tortures of the rack for his blunder.
"Gentlemen," says Lindmeyer, who is a frank, energetic man of about Grandon's age, with a keen eye and a resolute way of shutting his mouth, "I see no reason at present why this should
not succeed. It has been badly handled, not understood. Mr. St. Vincent was not able to make the workmen see with his eyes, and in his state of health he was so excitable, confused, and worried that I don't wonder, indeed, I have this plan to propose. If either of you gentlemen," glancing at Wilmarth and Grandon, "will advance me sufficient means, and allow me to choose my own foreman, perhaps a head man in every department, I will prove to you in a month that the thing is a success, that there is a fortune in it."
The steady, confident ring in the man's voice inspires them all. He is no wild enthusiast. They glance at Wilmarth, as being in some sense head of the business.
He knows, no one better, of all the obstacles that have been placed in the way, so cunningly that no man could put a finger on the motive. It has been his persistent resolve to let everything run down, to bring the business to the very verge of bankruptcy. He did not count on Floyd Grandon being so ready to part with his money to save it, or of ever having any personal interest in it, and he
did count on his being disgusted with his brother's selfishness, indolence, and lack of business capacity; all of which he has sedulously fostered, while attaching the young man to him by many indulgences. This part of the game is surely at an end.
Floyd sits silent. How much money will it take? What if he is swallowed down the throat of the great factory! His father's instructions were to the effect that if he could
not save it without endangering his private fortune, to let it go. There is still ground that he can sell. There might be a new vein opened in the quarry. He
must risk it.
"If Mr. Grandon," says Mr. Wilmarth, with a slow, irritating intonation that hardly conceals insolence, "feels able to advance for the three quarters, I can look after my share. I must confess that I am
not an expert in mechanics, and may have been mistaken in some of my views. My late partner was very sanguine, while my temperament is of the doubting order. I am apt to go slowly, but I try to go surely. I am not a rich man," dryly.
"Let it be done, then," returns Grandon. He has no more faith in Wilmarth to-day than he had last week, but he will not work against his own interest, surely!
There are many points to discuss and settle. Lindmeyer will proceed to the factory and get everything in good running order for next week, and hunt up one man who understands this business, an Englishman who is looking around for a permanent position, whom he has known for some years.
"Our superintendent holds his engagement by the year," says Wilmarth, with provoking suavity. "What can we do with him?"
"It is distinctly understood that I am not to be hampered in any way!" protests Lindmeyer.
"Give your man a holiday," says Connery. "Two lords can never agree to rule one household."
"The best thing," decides Grandon.
Then they go to the factory, where an explanation is made to the men. Mr. Brent receives a check for a month's wages in advance, and a vacation. Mr. Wilmarth looks on with a sardonic suavity, saying little, and betraying surprise rather than ill-humor, but he hates Floyd Grandon to the last thread. The man has come between him and all his plans. No mere money can ever make up to him for being thus baffled.
Floyd Grandon takes his way along to the little eyrie. Down in the garden there is a glimpse of a white gown, and now he need pause for no propriety. Violet starts at the step, turns, and colors, but stands quite still. Denise has been giving her some instructions as to her new position and its duties, but has only succeeded in confusing her, in taking away her friend with whom she felt at ease, and giving her a tie that alarms and perplexes.
She is very pale and her deep eyes are filled with a curious, deprecating light. A broad black ribbon is fastened about her waist, and a knot at her throat. She looks so small, so lovely, that he gathers her in his arms.
"My little darling," he begins, in a voice of infinite tenderness, "I seem to neglect you sadly, but there are so many things."
"Do not mind," she answers, softly. "I am quite used to being alone. I missed Cecil very much, though," and her sweet lip quivers. "Oh, are you quite sure, quite satisfied that I can do my duty toward her? I never had a mother of my own to remember, but I will be very good and kind. I love children, and she is so sweet."
"My little girl, you are a child yourself. As the years go on you and Cecil will be more like sisters, companions; and I hope you will always be friends. I must take you home," he continues, abruptly. "My mother and one sister are there; all the rest are away."
She shivers a little. "Am I to live there?" she asks, timidly. She has been thinking how altogether lovely it would be to have him and Cecil here.
"Why, of course. You belong to me now."
He means it for a touch of pleasant intimacy, but she seems to shrink away. In that old time--the brief year--caresses and attention were continually demanded. This new wife does not even meet him half way, and he feels awkward. He can be fond enough of Cecil, and is never at a loss, but this ground is so new that he is inclined to pick his way carefully, with a feeling that she is not at all like any one he has ever known.
They are walking back to the house, and when Denise comes to greet them she sees that the husband has his arm around his young wife's waist. Her Old World idea is that the wife should respect the husband to a point of wholesome fear. They are certainly doing very well. She feels so proud of this great, grave man, with his broad shoulders, his flowing brown beard, his decisive eye, and general air of command.
"Have you had any dinner or lunch?" Violet says, suddenly, moved with a new sense of care.
"Yes. But I think we will have a glass of wine and--Have you eaten anything?"
She colors a little. "No," says Denise. "She doesn't eat enough to keep a cricket alive."
"Then we must have some dinner. Denise will get it. Would you like to come up-stairs with me?"
He has brought home a few papers to put in her father's desk. On the threshold he pauses. The room is in perfect order. The snowy bed, the spotless toilet-table, the clean towels on the rack, with their curious monogram in Denise's needle-work, the table, with an orderly litter of papers, arranged by a woman's hand, and a white saucer filled with purple heliotrope. The arm-chair is a trifle pushed aside, as if some one has just risen, and another chair, as if for a guest, stands there. He understands that she has been busy here. She gives a long sigh.
"My poor darling!"
She is weeping very softly in his arms.
"It is all so sad," she says, "and yet I know he is in heaven with mamma. He loved her very much. Denise told me so. He would not wish to come back even if he could, and it would be selfish to want him. He had to suffer so much, poor papa! But I would like to keep this room just so, and come now and then, if I might."
"You shall. I must talk to Denise." He wonders now how Lindmeyer would like to be here for a month. There are so many things to go over. "Yes," he continues, "this room shall be sacred. No one shall come here but Denise and you."
"Thank you."
They go through to the study. He remembers the picture he saw here one day. Then they continue their walk past her plain little nun's room, with Denise's opening out of it. The house being built on a side-hill makes this just above the kitchen. Down-stairs there are four more rooms.
Never was man more at a loss for some of the kindly commonplaces of society. She seems sacred in her grief, and he cannot offer the stern comfort wherewith a man solaces himself; he is too new for the little nothings of love, and so they walk gravely on, down the stairs again, and out on the porch that hangs over the slope. But she likes him the better for his silence, and the air of strength seems to stir her languid pulses.
Denise summons them to their meal. He pours a trifle of wine for her in the daintiest, thinnest glass, she pours tea for him in a cup that would make a hunter of rare old china thrill to the finger-ends. He puts a bit of the cold chicken on her plate, and insists that she shall try the toast and the creamed potatoes. She has such a meek little habit of obedience that he almost smiles.
When the dessert has been eaten and they rise, Denise says, with kindly authority, "Go take a walk in the garden, Miss Violet, while I talk to Mr. Grandon. Pardon me; madame, I mean."
Grandon smiles, and Violet, looking at him, smiles also, but goes with her light movement, so full of grace.
"It is about the child's clothes, monsieur," Denise begins, her wrinkled face flushing. "She has no trousseau, there has been no time, and I am an old woman, but it is all mourning, and she does not like black. It is too gloomy for the child, but what is to be done?"
Floyd Grandon is much puzzled. If madame,--but no, he would not want madame's wisdom in this case, even if he could have it. There is his mother; well, he cannot ask her. Gertrude would not feel able to bother.
"She wore a dress to the funeral," he says, with the vaguest idea of what it was.
"Her father would have her buy some pretty light things when she was in the city, but her other dresses are what she had at school, gray and black. They are not suitable for madame. Some are still short----"
"You will have to go with her," Grandon says. "I can take you both into the city some day."
"But I do not know----"
"I will find out what is wanted. Yes, you will go with her; she would feel more at home with you," he says, in his authoritative manner.
Denise courtesies meekly.
"I am going to keep the house just as it is," announces Grandon. "She will like to come every day until she gets a little settled in her new home. I hope she will be happy."
"She could not fail to be happy with you and your little girl." Denise answers, with confident simplicity.
Floyd bethinks himself. Mrs. Grandon must be taken home in the carriage. He will begin by paying her all honor. There is no one to send, so he must e'en but go himself. He finds Violet in the garden and tells her to make herself ready against his coming.
She would like to go in her white dress, just as she is, but Denise overrules so great a blunder, and when Grandon returns he finds a pale little nun in black, with a close bonnet and long veil. Cecil has come with him, and is shocked at this strange metamorphosis. She draws back in dismay.
"Cecil!" The voice is so longingly, so entreatingly sweet that Floyd Grandon stands transfixed. "You have not forgotten that you loved me!"
"But--you are not pretty in that bonnet. It is just like grandmamma's, and the long veil----"
"Never mind, my dear," says her father, and inwardly he anathematizes fashion. Violet is not as pretty as she was an hour ago. The black makes her sunshiny hair look almost red, and her face is so very grave.
They have a nice long ride first. Cecil presently thaws into the mistress of ceremonies in a very amusing manner.
"My doll is not as large as yours," she confesses, "but I will let you play with it. Can't you bring yours, too, and then we will each have one. You are going to live always at papa's house, you know, and you can tell me stories. Jane said I would have to learn lessons, will I?"
"Oh, I should so like to teach you," says Violet, flushing.
"But you must not scold me! Papa never lets any one scold me," she announces, with a positive air.
"I never should," and Violet wipes away some tears. "I shall always love you."
"Oh, don't cry!" Cecil is deeply moved now, and her own lovely eyes fill. Grandon winks his hard and turns his face aside. They are two children comforting one another.
Violet is quite amazed as they drive around the wide sweep of gravelled way. Floyd hands her out. "This is your home henceforth," he says. "You and Cecil are the two treasures I have brought to it, and I hope neither of you will take wings and fly away. I shall look for you both to make me very happy."
He has touched the right chord. She glances up and smiles, and is transfigured in spite of the dismal mourning gear. If she
can do anything for him! If the benefits will not always lie on his side!
He takes her straight through to the elegant drawing-room. She shall be paid the honors in her own proper sphere. While he is waiting he unties the ugly little bonnet and takes her out of her crape shroud, as it looks to him.
"Mrs. Grandon has gone out to drive," announces Mary, who has been instructed to say just this, without a bit of apology.
Gertrude stands in the doorway. She nearly always wears long white woollen wrappers that cling to her figure and trail on the ground, and intensify the appearance of attenuation. A pale lavender Shetland shawl is wrapped about her. She has had quite a discussion with her mother, in which she had evinced unwonted spirit. Floyd has been good to them, and it will be dreadfully ungenerous to begin by treating his wife badly.
Her brother's face is flashed with indignation. "I am glad you had the grace to come, Gertrude," he exclaims, pointedly, and takes her over to Violet, who looks up entreatingly at the tall figure.
"Oh," she says, confusedly, "what a little dot you are! And Violet is such a pretty name for you."
"I hope you will like me. I hope----"
"If you can put up with me," is the rejoinder. "I am in wretched health and scarcely stir from my sofa, but I am sure I
shall like you"; and Gertrude resolves bravely that she will be on the side of the new wife, if it does not cost her too much exertion.
"What a lovely house!" and Violet draws a long, satisfied breath. "And the river is so near."
"You must never go without Jane," annotates Cecil; "must she, papa?"
They all smile at this. "I should not like to have her lost," says papa, gravely.
"Do you ever go out rowing or sailing?"
"I never do," and Gertrude shudders. "I cannot bear the heat of the sun or the chill of evening. But we have boats."
"And I am a crack oarsman," says Grandon. "I shall practise up for a match."
They begin to ramble about presently. It really is better than if Mrs. Grandon was at home. Out on the wide porches, through the library, up the tower, and Violet is in ecstasies with the view. Then they come down through the chambers, and the young wife feels as if she had been inspecting a palace. How very rich Mr. Grandon must be! If papa had lived he might have made the fortune he used to study over.
Violet is quite bright and flushed when the dinner-bell rings, and is introduced to her husband's mother at the head of the elegantly appointed table. She is in rich black silk, with crape folds, and very handsome jet ornaments, and Violet shrinks into herself as the sharp eyes glance her over. Why should they be so unfriendly? All conversation languishes, as Cecil is trained not to talk at the table.
Violet returns to the drawing-room and walks wistfully about the grand piano. Floyd opens it for her and begs her to amuse herself whenever she feels so inclined. "Is he quite certain no one will be annoyed?" "Quite." Then she seats herself. She has had no piano at the eyrie. This is delicious. She runs her fingers lightly over the keys and evokes the softest magic music, the sweetest, saddest strains. They stir Floyd's very soul as he sits with Cecil on his knee, who is large-eyed and wondering.
Mrs. Grandon saunters in presently. "How close it is," she exclaims, "and I have such an excruciating headache!"
"Ah," says Violet, sympathetically. "I had better not continue playing, it might distress you."
"Oh, no, you need not mind." The tone is that of a martyr, and Violet stops with a last tender strain. Floyd Grandon is so angry that he dare not trust his voice to speak. Violet stands for a moment undecided, then he stretches out his hand, and she is so glad of the warm clasp in that great lonely room.
"Let us go out to walk. It is not quite dark yet. Cecil, ask Jane to bring some shawls."
Cecil slips down. Floyd draws his wife nearer. He would like to hold the slight little thing, but his mother is opposite, and he must not make Violet seem a baby.
"I have put an end to that!" exclaims Mrs. Grandon, vindictively, going back to Gertrude. "That is Laura's piano, and it shall not be drummed on by school-girls. What Floyd could see in that silly little red-haired thing to bring her to a place like this, when he could have had a lady----"
"After all, if he is satisfied," begins Gertrude, deprecatingly.
"He wanted her fortune! He doesn't care a sixpence for her. It was to get the business in his hands, and now we can all tramp as soon as we please."
"Mother, you
are unjust."
"And you are a poor, spiritless fool, who can never see anything beyond the page of a novel!" is the stinging retort.
She goes to her own room, and the morning's mail carries the news to Eugene and Laura.
Floyd has letters to write this evening, and when Cecil's bedtime comes, Violet goes up with her. They have a pretty romp that quite scandalizes Jane, who is not at all sure how much respect she owes this new mistress.
"O you sweet little darling!" Violet cries for the twentieth time. "You are the one thing I can have for mine."
"I am papa's first," says Cecil, with great dignity. "He loves me best of anything in the wide world,--he has told me so, oh, a hundred times! And I love him best, and then you. Oh, what makes you cry so often, because your papa is dead?"
No one but poor old Denise will ever love her "best of all." She has had her day of being first. Even in heaven papa has found the one he so long lost and is happy. She can never be first with him again. He hardly misses her, Violet; he has had her only at such long intervals, such brief whiles.
In the silence she cries herself to sleep the first night in her new home. _