_ CHAPTER XXV
"I watched the distance as it grew,
And loved you better than you knew."
"Violet," Floyd Grandon says, one morning, "I have invited two guests who will come to-day, a Mr. Murray and his daughter. She is a very pretty young girl and fond of society. I think we had better plan some entertainments. What would you like--a garden party? I want to render Grandon Park attractive to Miss Murray."
"Is she like Miss Dayre?" asks Violet, gravely.
"She is a pretty girl with the usual fair hair," and he smiles. "No, I fancy she is not like Miss Dayre, and yet I thought Bertie Dayre oddly entertaining. Miss Murray is fond of dancing. The evening I was there she was full of delight about a German. I don't know but you ought to pay some attention to that," he adds, with a touch of solicitude.
"It is very fascinating," she makes answer. "You know we are invited to Madame Lepelletier's German on Thursday evening."
"I really had forgotten. Why, it is the very thing. I shall go down and get an invitation for Miss Murray, and bespeak madame's favor. They will reach here about two, I think, and must have some lunch. Mother will take charge of that. When Miss Murray is rested you can take her out driving. We might have some kind of gathering on Friday evening."
Violet wonders why so much is to be done for Miss Murray's entertainment, and she shrinks a little at having it on her hands. But Eugene, who has been off on a brief expedition, will return to-morrow, and he can assist her.
Floyd meanwhile saunters out to the hall and takes his hat, with a little kindly nod to Violet, who sits by the window with a book. There has been a quiet week, from various causes, and now the whirl is to begin again. She has not so much heart in it as youth ought to have or her eighteen years would rightly warrant, and she turns idly again to her page. At times some of Bertie Dayre's comments come back to her with a kind of electric shiver. Is she anything to her husband beyond a pet and tenderly guarded child like Cecil? a companion for her, rather than for her husband. Could Madame Lepelletier have been more to him?
Ah, she could, and Violet knows it in the depths of her soul. It is a bitter and humiliating knowledge. Madame has the exquisite art of filling her house with attractive people, of harmonizing, of giving satisfaction, of rendering her guests at home with herself, of charming grave men and wise scholars, as well as gay young girls. It is true Violet has married him, but was not Floyd Grandon's regard brought about by a pique, an opportunity to retaliate the wrong once done to him? What if there were moments when he regretted it?
He goes down the handsome avenue lined with maples, remembering the old times with Aunt Marcia and all the changes, and recalling Miss Stanwood, as he seldom has until Mrs. Dayre talked her over. He can see the tall, slender, dignified girl, just as he can call up the young student with his head full of plans, none of which came to pass, none of which he would care for now. His life has changed and broadened like the old place, and when this business is fairly off his hands there will be new paths of delight opening before him. He will take Violet away somewhere,--to Europe, perhaps, when Gertrude and the professor go. She is such a simple child, she needs training and experience and years. Youth is sweet, but it is not the time of ripeness.
Madame Lepelletier is on the shaded porch, sitting in a hammock; a scarlet cushion embroidered with yellow jasmine supports her head and shoulders, and her daintily slippered feet rest on a soft Persian rug.
"Ah," she says, holding out her hand, but she does not rise, and he has to bend over to take it. "Sit here," and she reaches out to the willow chair, "unless you would prefer going within. I am living out of doors, taking in the summer fragrance and warmth for the coming winter."
"O provident woman!" and he laughs, as he seats himself beside her.
She makes such a lovely picture here in the waving green gloom, with specks of sunshine filtered about, the cushion being the one brilliant mass of color that seems to throw up her shining black hair and dusky, large-lidded eyes. There is a suggestion of affluent orientalism that attracts strongly.
"Well, are blessings so numerous that one can throw them aside broadcast? Do we not need such visions as these to take us through the ice and snow and gray skies of a stinging winter day?"
"With your house at eighty degrees and tropical plants in every corner?"
"You are resolved not to approve of my laying up treasure. I breathe delight with every waft of fragrance, and though you may not believe it, the natural has a charm for me. I have been slowly studying it for a year. Is it a symptom of second childhood,--this love of olden pleasures, this longing to retrace?" and she raises her slow-moving eyes, letting them rest a moment on his face.
"Hardly, in your case," and he smiles.
She likes him to study her as he is gravely doing now. She has not posed for him, and yet she thought of him when she came out and settled herself.
"I have a favor to ask," he says, presently, and it would sound abrupt if the voice were less finely modulated.
"I am in a mood which is either indolent or generous. Try me."
Floyd Grandon prefers his request. It is never any direct aid or benefit to himself. Has this man no little friendly needs?
"Of course," she says. "Then I shall be sure of you as a spectator of the pageant. I was not at all certain you would honor me, since Mrs. Grandon does not participate in Germans."
"But I think she would like them," he says. "I suppose disparity in marriages is generally condemned for kindred reasons, one has gone by the heyday of youth, and the other should be in it. Almost I am tempted to try a German. Would Latimer keep me in countenance, I wonder?"
"Yes," she answers. "And Mrs. Latimer would no doubt take you through the figures. Miss Murray is probably skilled in the art."
"And I must give a garden party for her. Would Friday answer?"
"Too soon, unless--how long does she remain?"
"A week or so. It is possible if Mr. Murray should be charmed with the place he would cast in his lot at Grandon Park."
"Where is Mrs. Murray?"
"There is no Mrs. Murray, and only one daughter. I am not quite equal to the care of young ladies. If Laura were here--so you see I am compelled to trouble my friends."
That is all settled and she leads him to other matters. There are higher subjects than Germans between them,--the new literary work, the return of Prof. Freilgrath, a coming winter of more absolute satisfaction than the last, the possibilty of much time being spent in the city, and bits of half-confidence that she knows he can give to no other. She is his friend, and there is a secret elation in this; more she does not care to claim.
He drives to the station for his new friends. Violet is awaiting his return with her attendant Cecil, who is the embodiment of brilliant health and rare beauty. Mr. Murray is a fine business-looking man, a trifle past forty, with smiling, shrewd gray eyes, a bright complexion, and full brown beard. Miss Murray is tall, with a willowy figure, a round, infantile face, with wondering blue eyes, a dimpled chin, a rather wide mouth, but the lips are exquisitely curved and smiling; not a regular beauty, but possessing much piquant loveliness and the peculiar gift of interesting you at once. Even Violet is curiously moved as she holds the plump, ungloved hand in hers. Miss Murray's voice has a rather plaintive, persuasive note in it, quite different from the independent ring of Miss Dayre.
Violet conducts her up to a pretty guest-chamber, and listens to the events of the journey and a two weeks' stay at Newport, which has been crowded full of pleasure.
"I hope we shall not seem dull here by contrast," says Mrs. Grandon, and Miss Murray notes the especial refinement of this little lady, who is the wife of the somewhat famous Floyd Grandon.
"I do not expect every place to be quite alike," returns Miss Murray, with cheerful good-nature. "And we met several people at Newport who knew Mr. Grandon. Isn't there a learned German who married some one----"
"Professor Freilgrath, whose wife is Mr. Grandon's sister."
"Are you literary, too?" and Miss Murray's childlike eyes accent the question with a perceptible negative hope.
"Oh, no!" and Violet smiles with admirable expression.
"Well, I am glad," returns the young girl, rather hesitatingly. "I am not much used to them, you see, and I like nice jolly times better. I do almost everything in the way of amusement. Do you play lawn tennis?"
"I do not quite understand it, and blunder dreadfully," admits Violet.
"Oh, I adore it!"
"Then Mr. Grandon's brother will be able to entertain you. He is an excellent player."
"The one they call Eugene?"
"Yes, there is but one."
"Papa and Mr. Grandon talked about him. How old is he?"
"Past twenty-three," answers Violet, "and very handsome."
"Dark or light?"
"Dark, brilliant, with a splendid figure and perfect health."
"I adore dark men," says Miss Murray. "And does he dance?"
"He is an elegant dancer. We are all to go to a German to-morrow evening. Eugene is away now, but will return in the morning."
Miss Murray confesses that she "adores" Germans and rowing and riding. She has a magnificent horse at home. She is not going to school any more, but may consider herself regularly in society.
After all these confidences Violet leaves her to make any change in her attire that she deems desirable, and Miss Murray comes down in a blue silk that is wonderfully becoming. It makes her complexion more infantile, her hair more golden, and her eyes larger. She has a soft, languishing aspect, and really interests Violet, who does not feel so utterly lacking in wisdom as she did with Miss Dayre, for Miss Murray makes girlish little speeches and "adores" generally.
There is an elegant luncheon of fruit and delicacies, and Mrs. Grandon
mere presides. Afterward the gentlemen betake themselves to the tower and smoke; Violet and her guest divide between the shady end of the drawing-room and the porch, with its beautiful prospect. When the midday heat begins to abate they have their drive and some trotting on the boulevard. Miss Murray grows quite confidential, not in a weak or silly manner, but with the frank
insouciance of youth. She seems so generally bent upon having a good time and being liked, admired. She is simply frank where Miss Dayre was independent. She does everything, rows and rides and plays out-of-door games, even to belonging to an archery club. But needlework is her abhorrence, and with all her restless youth she has a great grace of repose as she sits in the willow veranda chair.
Eugene comes through in a night train,--time is so valuable to him,--and is set down, with all his traps, at the door of the mansion just after the gentlemen have had breakfast and departed. Violet catches a glimpse of him and flies up from the summer-house.
"Oh, you have come!" she cries. "I am so glad."
He takes both hands in his, and if the servants were not about, he would draw down the sweet, blooming face and kiss it. There is an eager light in her eyes, a quiver about the rose-red mouth, a certain abandon that is very fascinating.
"Yes," he replies. "It was an awful bore! No game, nor anything but stupid card-playing. Wished myself home fifty times. How lovely you look!" and his eyes study her so closely that she flushes in a ravishing fashion.
"Are you tired to death? I have so much for you to do. There is a German to-night at Madame Lepelletier's, and we are all going. We have a guest, a young lady."
He gives a whistle, and the delight in his face vanishes more rapidly than it ought.
"A Miss Murray," Violet goes on. "You cannot help liking her: I do."
"Then I shall," he returns, with a meaning laugh.
"When you are rested----" Violet begins.
"Oh, I slept like a top! Nothing
could keep me awake but a troubled conscience. When I get the dust of ages washed off and make myself presentable I will hunt you up. Where shall I look? Only--I'd like to have you a little glad for your own sake. You might care that much."
"Why, I
am glad, I did miss you," she says, daintily. "We are in the summer-house reading novels."
He unclasps her hands reluctantly. He has been thinking of her day and night when he was not asleep. Madame would be very well satisfied at the completeness with which her rival has dethroned her. His callow passion for her has turned his attention from over-much racing and gaming, and therein was a benefit, but it has also implanted within his breast an intense desire for some woman's admiration, and circumstances have led him to Violet. He has been allowing himself to think that if he
had met her while she was free he would have cared. She is so lovely and beguiling, how could he have helped it? And he sees in this Miss Murray's coming an opportunity to be more devoted to her, without exposing her to any unfavorable comments.
Violet wonders how he could get through with his toilet so rapidly when he stands in the doorway of the summer-house, fresh, brilliant, his lithe figure the embodiment of manly grace, his dark eyes bright, imperious, and winning, and his smile captivating. A curious light goes over Miss Murray's face at the introduction. Evidently she is surprised and satisfied.
They drop into a gay little chat. The sun comes round with such intense heat that they are driven up to the shady balcony and the hammocks. Violet is in a new and enchanting mood; she is of their kind to-day, bright with youth and enjoyment. She even surprises herself. She hardly knew there was so much merry audacity in her nature, such a capability of riotous delight.
The gentlemen do not return to lunch.
"I suppose Miss Murray's father is one of the literary sort," says Eugene, afterward. "Nothing of the bluestocking about her, though. Isn't she jolly?"
"I am so glad you like her," Violet answers. "I don't know what Mr. Murray is, only he doesn't seem like a--that kind, you know, but I suppose he must be," she settles in her own mind. "They are very wealthy."
"Birds of a feather," laughs Eugene, adverting to Floyd.
The afternoon is a good deal taken up with dresses; Miss Murray has half a dozen that are simple yet extremely elegant. She finally selects a lace robe made over pale pink silk, and she looks bewitching in it.
Eugene is rather puzzled about Mr. Murray at first, but before dinner is ended he learns that the bent of the man's mind is business. What new project has Floyd on hand? There has been some talk of reopening the quarry; at least Floyd has had offers. Or does he mean to build up the remainder of Grandon Park?
Violet is in a soft white silk, with some remarkable pearls and opals that Floyd has had set for her, and a few magnificent roses. Her color and vivacity have come back to her, and as Floyd watches her, a curious remembrance seems to dawn on him. Has she not been well of late that she has seemed so grave and silent, so pale and sad-eyed? Ever since his return she has appeared changed, but now he has his own little fairy back again. What charm in Miss Murray has worked the transformation? Is it kindred youth and sympathy and pleasure?
Miss Murray and Eugene have been explaining the figures to her, even to the extent of practising them in the library, where they idled away much of the afternoon.
"You will try it with me?" Eugene pleads. "I know I can find a partner for Miss Murray."
"No, you must take Miss Murray; some other time we will--yes, you must," peremptorily. "She is my especial guest. I am her chaperone, you know, and am duty bound to provide her with the best and handsomest partner I can find."
"Do you really think so? Then for the sake of the compliment I must do my best."
She smiles upon him, and the young man is unwillingly persuaded. Miss Murray cannot remain forever, but Violet is a part of the present life, and he does not mean that she shall slip out of his reach. Nothing on his part shall crowd her out.
The rooms are lovely, the night and the music enchanting. Violet's face grows unconsciously wistful as she listens and watches the dancers taking their places. Eugene comes for a word.
"I hate to leave you," he declares. "Are you just going to stand and look on?"
She waves him away to his duty, but other eyes note the reluctance.
"Are you not going to allow Mrs. Grandon to dance?" asks madame, in a soft, half-reproachful tone. "She stands there looking like a Peri at the gate, forbidden to enter youth's paradise."
"She is not forbidden," answers Grandon, quickly, with a nervous sense of marital tyranny which he repudiates now and always.
"She is enough to tempt an anchorite," declares Mr. Murray, gallantly. "I could sigh for the days of past and gone youth. Have you forsworn such gayeties, Grandon? But I need hardly ask a man of your stamp----"
"As we have no advantages of acquiring Germans in deserts," interrupts Floyd, with a smile.
"They are the offshoots of civilization," says Latimer, "the superior accomplishments of the men who stay at home. With your permission, Mr. Grandon, I will induct Mrs. Grandon into the enchanting mystery."
Floyd bows with pleased acquiescence, and conducts Latimer to his wife. Her soft, dark eyes express her delight, and something else that he wonders about but does not understand.
Madame executes a little manoeuvre which brings them to Miss Murray's vicinity. The young girl nods and smiles. She is serenely happy with her partner, the handsomest man in the room, and he has been saying some extremely pretty things to her.
"You little match-maker," whispers Latimer. "For a first attempt it is audacious."
"I have not attempted," and she colors vividly. "How could I know
you would offer, or that Miss Murray would accept such an objectionable partner?" she says, archly.
"I suppose I must believe you," slowly, as if he were making an effort, while a mirthful smile gleams in his eye. "But in the place of the stage father, I 'bless you, my children,'" and he raises his brows, indicating the two. "Eugene Grandon's mission in life is to be purely ornamental; he must have been born with an incapacity for doing anything of any real service to the world, and his manifest destiny is to be some rich woman's husband. Now here is an opportunity too good to lose. My advice is to go on as you have begun."
"But I have not begun," she says, a little nervously.
"Then I advise you to begin."
The band strikes up a few bars with a preliminary flourish, and the music vibrates enchantingly on the summer night air. They take their places.
"I shall blunder horribly," Violet insists. "You will soon be ashamed of me."
"We will see. Of course if you are dreadful I shall scold you, and tell your husband in the bargain. He and Mr. Murray ought to take a turn. I have seen men waltz splendidly."
She laughs, then bethinks herself in time to save the undesired blunder, and they float gracefully through the first figure. It is enchanting. The sunny lustre comes back to Violet's eyes, and her cheeks are abloom, her lips part in a half-smile. As she floats down to where Mr. Grandon and Mr. Murray stand, her husband takes in the supple grace, the happy young face, the half-abandon, and feels that it is the right and the power of youth. Has he cut her off from a full participation of its pleasures? More than once he has questioned his kindness of a year agone.
Mr. Murray is watching his daughter with a vague satisfaction,--his little "Polly," as he sometimes calls her, to whom his life is devoted. All day he has talked business with Mr. Grandon, and they have gone deep into the mysteries of trade and manufacturing. He sees himself that the right parties could control vast interests in this matter. When his friend George Haviland returns from Europe, a few weeks later, a decision will be made, for he understands how troublesome the matter is to Grandon, and how anxious he is to have his father's estate settled. If these two young people should choose to settle another point? He must inquire into the young man's character and habits; but if Mr. Floyd Grandon is a sample of the manhood of the family, there can be no trouble on that score. Grandon Park is aristocratic, undeniably elegant, and, so far as he can see, less given to "shoddy" than many of the new places.
The evening is perfection to those who dance and full of enjoyment to those who do not. There are card-tables, and a disused conservatory is transformed into a luxurious smoking-room, from which the mazy winding German can be seen. There are no wall-flowers, no dissatisfied young women with scorn-tipped noses, and the promenaders, mostly married guests, are well paired. Mr. Murray, who has seen society almost everywhere, is charmed with this.
"What a magnificent woman Madame Lepelletier is," he says to Grandon. "We have some friends who met her in New York last winter, and I do not wonder at their enthusiasm. I little thought I should have the pleasure. There are not many of our countrywomen who could give so charming an evening."
Grandon is pleased with the praise. His eyes follow the regal woman.
"If I had been in his place I would have made a bid for her," says Mr. Murray to himself, and he wonders what induced Grandon to marry such a child as Miss St. Vincent must have been a year ago.
After the supper there is some miscellaneous dancing, a few new steps the younger portion are desirous of trying, and a waltz that delights Violet, since she has her husband for a partner. She is full of pleasurable excitement, and seems alive with some electric power. He goes back to their first waltz; what is it that has fallen between and made a little coldness? Why does he study her now with such questioning eyes, and why is she, with all her brilliance, less tender than a month or two ago? That quaint little touch of entire dependence has merged into a peculiar strength, and she seems quite capable of standing alone. He is strangely roused, piqued as it were.
Violet has been studying a rather ponderous subject for a ball-room, and she is somewhat elated at having arrived at a conclusion unaided, except by the trifling suggestion Mr. Latimer has thrown out. It was Mr. Murray whom Mr. Grandon had some business with awhile ago; she remembers seeing his name in a letter. His friend went to Europe, and this is the Mr. Haviland they talk about. She can almost guess the rest. How odd if Eugene should marry into the new business house, as his brother married the daughter of a member of the old one. Violet resolves that he shall love her. She is sweet and engaging and quite captivated by him, as is evident by her girlish frankness and admiration.
The two go up-stairs together, while the gentlemen indulge in a last cigar.
"It was delightful!" Miss Murray says. "Why, I never saw anything really lovelier at Newport, though there is more magnificence. And Mr. Grandon's dancing is perfection. I never enjoyed a partner better. How very handsome he is! I
was envied," she cries, with eager delight; "I saw it in the eyes of the other girls. Tell me if you think he is given to flirting; but you know girls
do run after such a handsome young fellow! I never should," she declares, naively. "Oh, Miss Brade has asked us to lawn tennis to-morrow, with tea and a little dancing in the evening! And if you want to give
me a pleasure," she adds, with a seductive smile, "let it be a German. I do adore Germans."
She kisses Violet good night in a sweet, girlish way, and her last thought is of Eugene Grandon's handsome face. _