_ CHAPTER XXIII
Men comfort each other more easily on their Ararat, than women in their vales of Tempe.--JEAN PAUL.
Wilmarth learns nothing from Eugene the next day, from the simple fact that the young man neither knows nor cares what took Floyd off so suddenly. Wilmarth has a slight clew in the departure of some person for Europe, and he is quite sure that it relates to the sale of the factory, but in this matter Floyd Grandon, as executor of both parties, is not compelled to discuss the plans long beforehand with him. Floyd does not like the business any better, and Eugene is quite indifferent to it. There is not the slightest prospect of his being able to take the head of the management, and he was certain of that a year ago. He has not been blind to the young man's infatuation for Madame Lepelletier, and he secretly hopes now that it will be transferred to Mrs. Grandon. Certainly such dissipations are much less expensive than fast horses and champagne suppers. As for himself, he sees that he must go as circumstances dictate. He will make some money, but he can never be master here, with his name up in plain solid gilt letters over the entrance, as he once allowed himself to dream. He can strike back a few blows to the man who has interfered with his ambitious projects and understood them to some extent, how far he cannot decide. He is secretly amused at Marcia's warm partisanship, and cautiously feeds the fire he has kindled.
Violet makes herself contented for the next two days in a kind of dreamy fashion, when a note comes from her husband, iterating his regret at not saying good by, and hoping Marcia's party proved a pleasure.
"I shall tell him it did not," she says, rather dolefully, to herself, "but it was not Marcia's fault. Everything was charming and picturesque."
"Do you know," asks Eugene, at dinner, "that we are invited to the Dyckmans' this evening."
"I
had forgotten it, and I ought to have sent regrets. But you will go?" and she glances up with animation.
"It will be no end of a bore without you."
"How long since my presence has added such a charm to festive occasions?" she asks, saucily.
"Well, I ought to stay at home with you," he answers, reflectively.
"I am not afraid. The servants will be here."
"I don't want to go," he returns, candidly. "I would much sooner remain at home."
"I wonder," Violet says, "why you have taken such a fancy to me? Is it because you think Madame Lepelletier treated you badly? After all, you ought to have known----" and she pauses, with a furtive glance at Cecil, who is deep in the delights of chocolate ice. "You were so much younger."
"I have been a fool," says the young man, candidly. "But you need not take her part. If you could have seen the way she dropped down upon us last summer, the swift dazzle she made everywhere! I had to drive her out and play the agreeable, for Floyd couldn't stir without Cecil, and he was full of business beside. Then she never seemed much older than--why, Gertrude was ages older than either of us. So she smiled and smiled, and I was an idiot. She was always asking me to come, and the truth is, she is a handsome and fascinating woman, and will have adoration. Look at Ward Dyckman. He is only twenty-six, and he is wild about her, but he has piles of money." And Eugene sighs--for the money.
"Yet she never seems to
do anything," reflects Violet.
"To
do would be vulgar and would not fascinate well-bred people. It is in her eyes, in her voice, in the very atmosphere about her, and she
is wonderfully beautiful. She isn't the spider, she does not spin a net, but she looks at the mouse out of great, soft eyes, and he comes nearer, nearer, and she plays with him, until he is dull and maimed and tiresome, when she gently pushes him away, and is done with him."
Violet shivers. How strange that Mr. Floyd Grandon should not have yielded to her fascination!
"There, let her go," says Eugene, loftily. "And since I don't care to see her to-night, nor the two cream-and-sugar Dyckman girls, nor--anybody, we will stay at home."
Violet makes no further protest. Cecil is sleepy, and begs to go to bed, so Violet plays and sings, and they talk out on the porch in the soft summer night. Eugene indulges in some romantic views, slipping now and then into affected cynicism, out of which Violet gently draws him. He is so much nicer than she used to think him. And, indeed, now that Marcia is gone, there is none of that shameful bickering. She almost wishes Mrs. Grandon
mere could remain away indefinitely; they would all be quietly happy.
At the Dyckmans' they discuss the Grandon defection. Laura Dyckman thinks Eugene Grandon such a "divine dancer," and to-night young men are at a premium, though there are some distinguished older ones who do not dance.
The next morning Marcia passes Violet and Eugene driving leisurely along. They have had a charming call at the Latimers', and Violet's face is bright and full of vivacity. She bows to them with the utmost dignity, and goes on her way to madame's, whom she finally beguiles out in her pony carriage.
Madame has been extremely complimentary about the garden party, the freshness and unique manner in which it was arranged, and the pretty serving. She heard it again at the Dyckmans', and is now far up the pinnacle of self-complacency.
"I met Eugene and Floyd's wife dawdling along on the road," says Marcia, presently. "I meant to call and see why he was not out last night, but I suppose he had to stay at home and comfort her. I
do hope Eugene isn't going to make a dolt of himself, and I am sure Violet is as fond of admiration as any one. She was always hanging after the professor until he was positively engaged to Gertrude."
"I think Mr. Floyd Grandon is very fond of having his wife admired," says madame, in her sweet, suave tone. "She is such a mere child, after all, and fond of attention. And the sad death of her father, with her mourning, has rather kept her in the background until recently."
"Well,
one ought to be enough," returns Marcia, with asperity. "Floyd should display a little good sense, if she has none."
"He is not a jealous husband," and the accompanying smile is judiciously serene.
"Jealous? Well, there is really nothing for him to be jealous about; a man not in love seldom is jealous."
"Not in love?" Madame glances up with subtle, innocent questioning, just raising her brows with the faintest tint of incredulity.
"Oh," says Marcia, with the airy toss of her head, "it was
not a love-match, although there was so much talk of Violet's heroism, and all that. And I wonder at Floyd, who could have done so much better, taking her after she had been handed round, as one might say, fairly gone begging for a husband!"
"O Mrs. Wilmarth, not so bad as that!" and madame smiles with seductive encouragement.
Marcia is dying to retail her news. If her mother were at hand; but there is no one of her very own, so madame must answer.
"Well," she says, in a low, confidential tone, "Mr. St. Vincent was extremely anxious to have her married. He actually sounded Mr. Wilmarth," and she gives a shrill little laugh of disdain, "and then he offered her to Eugene."
"I think myself it would have been an excellent match for Eugene," says madame, with motherly kindness in her tone. "That was last summer. I should have counselled him to accept if I had been a sister. It does not seem so strange to me. Marriages are always arranged in France."
Marcia is struck with amazement, nay, more, a touch of mortification. Can it be possible that the family have known this since last summer, and she alone has been shut out?
"We Americans are in the habit of choosing our own husbands," she begins, after a pause.
"Yet you see how admirably this would have worked. The business was left to Eugene, and if he had accepted Mr. St. Vincent's daughter he would have had another share, and the right to control the patent. Your brother cares nothing about the business interests further than they concern the family prosperity, though no doubt he is glad to have his wife an heiress. Men seldom object to money."
Marcia sees it all in that light, for she is not dull, and she is also stirred with a sharp pang of jealousy. If Jasper Wilmarth had known more about her,--he
is ambitious, and to control the factory would be a great delight to him. With it all she turns her anger upon the innocent Violet.
"I don't believe Floyd really cared for her money," she says, in an unconvinced tone. "I think he was drawn into it, and she is very ready to--to accept everything that comes in her way."
"Remember that Eugene and she are much nearer in age. I dare say the professor seemed quite like a father to her, and your brother is so grave and scholarly that it is natural to turn to some one young and bright. It seemed to me a great misfortune, and if Eugene had been on the spot I fancy matters would have gone differently. But we really must not gossip about them. They are very happy."
They go on down through the park, and meet acquaintances driving along the boulevard. Eugene and Violet do not choose this well-known way, but Marcia half hopes she shall meet them somewhere and administer a public rebuke in the shape of a frown of such utter disapprobation that both will at once understand. Madame ruminates, as she often has before, on the slender chance that bridged all these matters over before one could utter a dissent. And the most probable sequel will be Eugene's love for his brother's wife. These little incidents are strewn all along life, and are too common to create any particular feeling of surprise.
Marcia will not remain to luncheon, though madame invites her cordially. She is a little late at home, and finds her lord in a rather unamiable state.
"I wonder what Eugene is about?" he asks, sharply. "There are piles of letters to go over, and no end of things to straighten up, and Eugene has not been near the factory this whole morning. He was in only an hour or two yesterday."
"I saw him out driving with Mrs. Floyd," says Marcia, with a sneer that is a weak and small edition of her husband's.
A lowering frown crosses Wilmarth's brow, then an expression quite inscrutable to Marcia,--amusement it looks like, but she knows he is angry and has a right to be.
"I will go down there this afternoon," she says, with alacrity.
"You will do no such thing. No doubt your brother has engaged Eugene to entertain his wife in his absence. For business men they are both----"
The servant comes in and the sentence is unfinished. But Jasper Wilmarth is thinking that no doubt the handsome young man is very pleasing to Mrs. Floyd Grandon, and if the husband should wake up some day on the verge of a scandal, why, it will be one of those rare strokes of accidental, otherwise poetic justice.
Marcia
does go "home," as they still call the place. Eugene is not about and Mrs. Latimer is spending the afternoon in an old-fashioned way with a nurse and two children. Marcia's fine moral sense is shocked at the duplicity of Mrs. Floyd, and she announces the fact to her husband at dinner, to which he replies with an uncomfortable laugh.
Eugene brings Violet a letter on his return, and her face is illumined with eager joy. She cannot wait to retire becomingly to her own room, but breaks the seal on the porch, and is deep in its contents.
"Oh!" she cries at first, in disappointment.
"Floyd has gone on to Chicago," announces Eugene. "Wilmarth turned black as a thunder-cloud over the news. He scents treason, stratagems, and conspiracies."
Violet looks up in curious amaze. "Mr. Grandon will never do anything--that is
not right," she adds, after a moment.
Eugene shrugs his shoulders. "What may be right enough for him might hit Wilmarth hard," says the young man, and the tone implies that he would rather enjoy the hard hitting.
Violet hardly hears that. She colors delicately over the remainder of the letter, which is not long, but touches her inexpressibly. He misses her amid all this haste and turmoil, and it is sweet to be so dear to him, that he really wants her, that he would like to be at home with her.
"Papa sends you a dozen kisses," she says, as Cecil comes flying towards her.
She is so gay and vivacious through dinner, and afterwards they go out on the river, rowed by Briggs, for Eugene is much too careful of his hands and his exertion to undertake such work this delicious evening. He and Violet sing duets as the purple film displaces the glories of azure and gold, and the twilight shadows the dusky bits of wood, the frowning rocks, and the indentations of shore that might be nereid haunts. The sky turns from its vivid tints to a dreamy gray, then a translucent blue, and a few stars steal slowly out. How lovely it all is! How kind Eugene is proving himself, and she wonders that she never remarked his pleasant traits before! Was it being so much in love with madame that made him captious and irritable, or was it Marcia's little ways of remarking upon every word or act that did not quite please her?
"We must go back," she says, presently. "Cecil has fallen asleep, and it will not do to keep her out in the night air. How utterly lovely it is!" and she gives a deep inspiration of content.
"It is because you enjoy everything in that keen, ardent sort of way," says Eugene. "You are very different from what I thought you at first."
"What did you think me?" she asks, in spite of Briggs sitting calmly there.
"Well, you seemed such a little girl," answers Eugene, "and you were always so shy, except with the professor. Did you really like him so much? I should have been bored to death with all that prosy writing. Briggs," turning to the rower, as Violet covers Cecil more closely, "we will steer our barque homeward. It is a shame not to stay out this magnificent night."
"We ought to be on the river a great deal more," returns Violet. "It is so tranquil and soothing, and there is a suggestive weirdness in it, as if you were going on to some mystery."
Her voice drops to such a soft key as she utters the last word. The very air seems full of mystery to her, of messages carried back and forth. Will hers go to the one she is thinking of?
When they land, Eugene takes Cecil in his arms and carries her up the terrace with a strange emotion of tenderness. He is fond of teasing her and hearing saucy replies, but ordinarily he does not care much for children.
Violet helps to undress the sleepy girl and gives her more than the dozen kisses. Floyd has said in his letter, "I shall keep yours on interest until I come." And she suddenly hides her blushing face on the pillow beside the child. What does all this eager tremor and expectation mean?
"Violet," calls Eugene up the stairway, "come down. Isn't Cecil asleep?"
She would rather stay there and dream, but she seldom thinks of herself first. Cecil is sleeping soundly, and she glides down to talk a little, play a little, and sing a few songs. Listening to her, Eugene begins to consider himself a consummate fool. He would not marry madame if he could. If it were all to do over again,--but then he was
not prepossessed with Violet when he first saw her, and now it is too late. He has no high and fine sentiments, he simply recognizes the fact that she is the wife of another; and though youth may indulge in foolish fondness, it is generally older and riper natures that are ready for a plunge in the wild vortex of passion.
Their days pass in simple idyllic fashion. Another party is neglected, and even a German passed by, to the great astonishment of Marcia. She has called home several times, but
they have been out, not always together, though she chooses to think so. Violet has spent hours and hours with Mrs. Latimer, whose great charm is that she talks of Floyd Grandon, and she is amused with her ready, devoted listener.
Marcia does find her at home one morning.
"I think it a shame that Eugene did not go to the Brades' last night;" and her voice is thinner, sharper than usual, a sure sign of vexation. "They had counted on him for the German, and were awfully disappointed."
"I did not want to go," replies Violet, in a soft, excusing tone.
"I don't see what that had to do with it," is Marcia's short, pointed comment.
Violet glances up. "Why, yes, he could have gone," she says, cheerfully. "I told him I did not mind staying alone. I do not understand Germans, and----"
"You could have looked on," interrupts Marcia. "It seems extremely disobliging to the Brades, when they have taken the pains to cultivate you."
"I have never been in company without Mr. Grandon," Violet says, in a steady tone, though her cheeks are scarlet, "except at your garden party, and then
he asked Eugene to take me."
"Admirable condescension!" returns Marcia, angrily. "But possibly you may subject yourself quite as much to criticism by staying at home so closely with a young man. It is shameful how Eugene has gone on, hardly a day at the factory, and you two driving about and mooning on balconies and dawdling through the grounds. Very late admiration, too, on his part, when he would not take you in the first instance."
"Would not take me in the first instance?" Violet repeats, in a dazed, questioning way.
"Exactly," snaps Marcia. "Perhaps you are not aware an offer of your hand and fortune was made to Eugene Grandon,
and declined. So you know now what his admiration is worth! He is ready to flirt with any----" silly girl, she means to say, but makes it more stinging--"
any girl who throws herself at his head."
"I do not in the least understand you," Violet begins, with quiet dignity, though her voice has an unsteady sound. "
When was my hand offered to Mr. Eugene Grandon?"
Marcia is a little frightened at her temerity, but she is in for it now, and may as well make a clean sweep of all her vexations. From Mr. Wilmarth she has gathered the idea that Floyd's marriage has been inimical to him, and that business would have been much better served by Violet's union with Eugene. Then, all the family have disapproved of it, and it has been kept a secret from her. All these are sufficient wrongs, but the fact still remains that in some way Floyd is likely to make a great fortune for Violet, while the rest will gain nothing. More than all, Marcia has a good deal of the wasp in her nature, and loves to make a great buzz, as well as to sting.
"Why," she answers, with airy insolence, "Floyd wished him to marry you and he declined, then Floyd married you himself. Your fortune was too valuable to go out of the family, I suppose. It was about the time your father died."
Violet pales with a mortal hurt.
"I think you are wrong there," and she summons all her strength to combat this monstrous accusation. "Mr. Grandon liked me because--because----"
"Oh, yes; saving Cecil gave color to the romance, and it is all very pretty," says Marcia, with insufferable patronage. "But there was some one else, and he could have had quite as much fortune without any trouble. He was a fool for not marrying her."
"You shall not discuss Mr. Grandon in this manner to me," declares Violet, indignant with wifely instincts.
"Oh, you asked me yourself!" retorts her antagonist. "If you were at all sharp-sighted you could have seen----"
Violet stops Marcia with a gesture of her hand. She stands there white as snow, but her eyes are larger, and gleam black, the color and tenderness have gone out of her scarlet mouth, and she seems to grow taller. Marcia is checked in her onslaught, and a half-misgiving comes to her.
"After all," she says, presently, in a more moderate tone, "I supposed you
did know something about it. You really ought to have been told in the beginning, as all the rest were, it seems." And she adds the last a little bitterly, remembering she has been shut out of the family conference.
"Mr. Grandon did what was right and best," Violet returns, loyally.
"I suppose we all do what we think best," comments Marcia, with an air of wisdom, and experience sits enthroned on the little strip of brow above her eyes. "Well, I'm sorry you were not at the Brades', and I do think Eugene ought to pay better attention to business, especially now that Floyd is away. And I don't see why he should stay away from parties if you do not want to go."
"There is no reason," answers Violet, coldly.
Marcia bids her good morning, and flies down the steps with the air of one who has performed her whole duty. Now that she has attained to married respectability, she feels quite free to criticise the rest of the world, and she rejoices in the fact that she does carry more weight than a single woman.
Violet stands by the window where Marcia left her. She is very glad to be alone, and thankful that Cecil is at the Latimers' for the day, although she is due there for a kind of nursery tea-party. A whirlwind seems to have swept over her, to have lifted her up bodily and carried her out of the sphere she was in two hours ago, and in this new country all is strange; on this desolate shore where she is stranded the sea moans in dull lament, as if the soul had gone out of that also, and left an aching heart behind. She might dismiss Marcia's tirade as other members of the family are wont to do, but there comes an awesome, shivering fear that it is true in some degree. How many times she has seen Gertrude check Marcia when Floyd was under discussion. She has never tried to pry into family secrets, but she knows there have been many about her; a certain kind of knowledge that all have shared, a something against her. She has fancied that she made some advances in living down the dislike; Mrs. Grandon has been kinder of late, and Marcia, since her marriage, quite confidential. Instead, she has done nothing, gained nothing.
If Gertrude were only here. She has made that one true friend, whom nothing can shake, who, knowing all, came to love her with a tender regard that was not pity. But there is no one, no one. All is a dreary waste.
A step comes up the balcony, and the mellifluous voice is whistling Schumann's Carnival. Whither shall she fly? But even now it is too late, for he meets her in the wide doorway.
"Good heavens! what has happened? You look like a ghost," cries Eugene, in alarm. Then he stretches out his arms, for it seems as if she would fall to the floor.
Violet shrinks back into the room and drops on the divan, making a gesture as if she would send him away.
"I'm not going," he declares, "until you tell me what has happened. Cecil is all right, and you can have had no bad news from Floyd. You were so bright and well this morning, and we are to go to the Latimers' to-night----"
"I cannot!" It would be a shriek if it were not a hoarse whisper, and she covers her face with her hands.
Eugene is amazed. He is not a mysterious young man. He enjoys everything on the surface, and considers it a bore to dive deep for hidden meanings. Something comes to his aid. He skulked out of the road five minutes ago to avoid Marcia, for he knew she would open upon him for his dereliction of pleasure.
"Marcia has been here," he announces. "She has said something to you, the spiteful little cat! See here, I can guess what unmitigated drivel it is. She has accused you of flirting with me, and said I stayed at home to keep you company when I should have been at the German."
The rift of color in Violet's face answers him.
"I believe I should like to wring her neck, the little hussy! Well, you are not to mind a bit of it. In the first place you are a little innocent and do not know how to flirt, even if you have magnificent eyes. You are too honest, too true; and it's all awful stuff, said out of pure jealousy."
He has not comforted her. The awe-stricken face is still ashen, despairing. Any other girl would almost rush to his arms, she seems to go farther and farther away. Her large eyes look him over. He has a handsome face, and now it is kindly, sympathetic.
"Tell me," he says, peremptorily. "You know you've never flirted. Why, you might make yourself more attractive than ten Marcias could possibly be; and, see here, I've never kissed you, though you have been my brother's wife for more than a year, and--bosh!" with the utmost contempt. "Oh, does it trouble you so?" After a moment, "My dear, dear girl, don't worry about it," and his face is full of genuine distress. The common comfort of life will not apply to this case.
"It was wrong," she says, tremulously. "You have stayed home from business, and----"
He laughs, it seems so utterly absurd. Many a day has he been away from the factory and perhaps not half so innocently employed.
"See here," he begins, "we will let Floyd settle it when he comes home. Good heavens, won't he make it hot for Marcia! I shall tell him myself."
"No, no!" and Violet starts up in anguish. "You must not utter a word!"
"Well, why?" asks Eugene, with a kind of obstinate candor. "I'm sure--flirting, indeed! Why, Marcia couldn't be an hour in the room with any fellow, young or old, that she wouldn't make big eyes at him. I like to see people turn saints at short notice. I'll go off and have it out with her myself, and make her keep a civil tongue in the future."
"Eugene!" Violet cries, in distress, as he is half-way through the hall. Oh, what shall she do? Must she go wild with all this pain and shame?
"Well," he ejaculates, again standing indecisively.
"She said other things," and the dry lips move convulsively. "I must know; I cannot live with this horrible shadow over everything. There is no one else to ask."
He comes and seats himself on the divan beside her, and there is a glimpse of Floyd in his face. His voice falls to a most persuasive inflection as he rejoins, "Tell me, ask me anything, and I will answer you truly. There has never been any horrible thing since you came here, or ever that I can remember. What did Marcia say?"
Perhaps, after all, Marcia did not tell the exact truth, and Violet's despairing face lightens. Marcia may have Charles Lamb's way of thinking the truth too precious to be wasted upon everybody, for she is sometimes extremely economizing. And Violet
must know.
"You will tell me if--if Mr. Grandon asked you to marry me--before----"
Eugene springs up and utters a low, angry ejaculation, strides across the floor and then back again. Violet's face is crimsoned to its utmost capacity, and her eyes have that awful beseechingness that cuts him to the soul. If he could, if he dared deny it! but even as this flashes through his brain a stony kind of certainty settles in every line, and he gathers that denial would be useless.
"See here, my dear little sister," and sitting down he takes the small, cold hand in his. "I will tell you the truth. There is nothing horrible or disgraceful in it! Your father proposed that instead of having any business trouble to be years in the course of settlement, I should marry you, as the patent was in such an uncertain state and he had invested everything in it. It simply joined the fortunes, don't you see? Well, I was a dumb, blundering idiot, head over heels in an infatuation, and knew nothing about you, but it will be the regret of my whole life that I did
not come when Floyd sent for me. And I suppose he fell in love with you himself; he could not have cared for the fortune, he had enough of his own."
Violet draws a long, shivering breath, but her very soul seems icy cold with doubt.
"You did not--despise me?" she cries, with passionate entreaty.
"Despise you? Why, I didn't know anything about you." The young man's lethargic conscience gives him a severe prick. He should not have made light of it to Laura and madame, but he
did bind them to inviolate secrecy. "If I had seen you I should not have despised you, I should have married you," he says, triumphantly. "If you were free to-day, I should ask you to marry me. I think you the sweetest and most rarely honest girl I have ever met, and you
are beautiful, though I wouldn't own that at first. Despise you? Why, I would fight the whole world for you, and I will, if----"
"No," she interrupts. Even his spirited defence cannot restore what has been so rudely wrenched away. She feels so old, so weary, so desolate, that nothing matters. "It is not so bad----" and she looks up with piteous eyes.
"Why, there is nothing bad about it at all," he declares, impatiently. "Don't the English and the French plan marriages, and there are people here whose parents join fortunes, lots of them! Marcia was angry and wanted to mortify you. The idea of marrying Jasper Wilmarth and then lording it over everybody, is too good! And as for flirting--well, I wouldn't dare flirt with you," he says, laughingly. "Floyd would soon settle me. I like you too well, I honor you too much," he continues. "There, will you not be comforted with something? Oh, I have a letter from Floyd, and he will be home to-morrow night! I came to bring it to you."
He takes it from his pocket and hands it to her, but her fingers tremble, and no joy lights up her pale face. Eugene is so sincerely sorry that he holds himself in thorough contempt for his part in the early history of the affair, and he is very angry as well.
"Now," he says, "I am going away, and I shall not be home to luncheon, but I will meet you at the Latimers'. If Marcia dares to make another comment, it will be the worse for her, that's all. My poor child, are you going to keep that dreary face and those despairing eyes for Floyd to see?"
He has a very strong inclination to take her in his arms and shower tenderness upon her; but if he has been drifting that way for the past week, he is rudely awakened now. He looks at her helplessly. If she would only cry; the girls he has seen have been ready enough with their tears.
"Yes, you must go," she says, wearily. "Thank you for the letter, for
all." Then she walks slowly out of the room. _