"You will spoil her," he says, in a low tone.

If they could go on this way forever! But one morning brings Marcia, and the same evening Eugene, who is jaunty, handsome, and with a careless fascination that seems his most liberal inheritance. It is a very warm September evening, and Violet has put on one of her pretty white gowns that has a train, and has a knot of purple pansies at her throat. The elbow sleeves show her pretty dimpled arm and slender wrist, and her hair is a little blown about as he comes up the steps and sees her leaning on the balcony rail. What a pretty vision! Have they guests at the house?

She knows him from his picture and comes forward. He guesses then who it is, but certainly Laura has not done her half justice.

"Mrs. Floyd Grandon!" bowing with infinite grace.

She smiles at the odd sound of the name she so seldom hears.

"Yes."

He takes the soft, warm hand in his and is tempted to press it to his lips, but wisely refrains.

His mother has seen this little tableau from the window and comes out.

Even now, if Violet were Eugene's wife, she could forgive her, quite forgetting that it is not so much her fault or her election.

The delightful harmony comes to a sudden end. That very evening another spirit reigns, a something intangible that makes Violet shrink into silence, and Floyd uneasy. Even Gertrude is less social. Marcia has a curious faculty of making people uncomfortable, of saying wrong things, of being obtrusive. She quite takes possession of the professor, and he hardly knows how to understand her small vanities and delusions, and is glad when the dainty French clock tolls nine, as that is their hour for working. Cecil has been remaining up, much against her grandmamma's wishes, who would have an argument every evening on the subject if she could. So Violet takes the child by the hand and wishes them good night, the gentlemen go to their study, Marcia flits away, and Eugene is left with his mother.

"Upon my word," he says, "I had no idea the St. Vincent was such good form. Floyd has the lucky card everywhere. Is it really true the patent is a success and that there are fortunes in it?"

"Eugene," his mother begins, severely, "it would have been much better for you to have stayed at home instead of wasting time and money as you have done this summer! The lucky card, as you call it, is only taking advantage of circ.u.mstances, and if you are going to let Floyd rule everything----"

"Well, what can I help? I had no money to bolster up affairs! Wilmarth was awfully blue. I didn't suppose anything could be made of the business, it was in such a muddle. And it couldn't now, mother, if Floyd had not sunk thousands; I don't see how he expects to get it back if _we_ have anything."

"You threw away your chance!" She must say this, much as she loves him.

"But how could I know that she was pretty and lady-like, and would not mortify a man with her blunders? You do not suppose Floyd is really in love with her?"

"He had the wisdom to marry her," she responds, tartly, loath even now to hear her praised. "It gives him as much interest in the business as--well, more than _you_ take."

"I should like to take his money and let him manage it all, since he has turned into such a splendid hand."

"And what would you do?"

"Why, live on my money." And the young man laughs lightly.

His mother feels at that instant as if her whole life was wasted, her affection despoiled. Eugene is careless, heartless, and yet she cannot in a moment change the habit of her motherhood and unlove him. She feels that he cares very little for their welfare, that for everything she must depend upon her eldest son, and the dependence is bitter. It should not be so, and yet she has been curiously jealous of Floyd since the day Aunt Marcia took him under her wing. He has so much, the rest will have such a trifle in comparison! Yet she feels sure it would slip through Eugene's fingers in no time and leave him a poor man again. But our inclination does not always follow our judgment.

CHAPTER XIII.

For two enemies the world is too small, for two friends a needle's eye is large enough.--BULWER.

The brothers spend nearly all of the next morning in the factory. Floyd has left his subst.i.tute with the professor, and sent Cecil to ride, so that she shall not distract Violet's attention. He tries to explain to Eugene all that he has done, the money he has advanced, and the future that seems possible. "It will be a long pull," he says, "but when you get through, the result will be a handsome business. Three years ought to do it."

"Three years," Eugene repeats, with a sigh.

For a moment Floyd is provoked. Does Eugene never expect to put his shoulder to the wheel, to take any real care? Must he fight the matter through for them all? But then, there is Violet.

"I shall expect you to take some part of the business, Eugene, and keep to it. Wilmarth is admirable in his department. He is getting out new patterns, and now that he is really convinced of success he will no doubt throw all his energies into it. Will you keep the books and look after the correspondence? I have so much work of my own to do, and we must economize all we can."

"Well," indolently, "don't expect too much of me."

"How would you like to travel, then?" asks Floyd. "Father, I find, did a good deal himself."

"The travelling would be jolly, but I may as well be honest. I've no knack of selling."

"Then begin at the books," returns the elder, decisively. "You ought to be able to do a man's work somewhere."

"When I made such a blunder about the fortune, eh?" he says, with a half-smile. "Were you really caught, Floyd?"

Floyd Grandon is sorely tempted to knock down this handsome, insolent fellow, even if he is a brother. Oh, if he never had offered Violet to him!

"What I wrote first," he says, "was at her father's desire. Then she did for me a favor of such magnitude that my whole life will not be long enough to repay, but honor led me to be fair to you, or I never should have written a second time. Remember that she is my chosen wife, and forget all the rest."

There is something in the tone that awes the young man, though long afterward he recalls the fact that Floyd did not say he loved her. But he is sobered a little and promises to make himself useful. Floyd has no faith in him or his word. What a heavy burthen it all is!

Laura comes up again, and is all excitement. They are staying at a hotel and Madame Lepelletier is with them, but she is going into her house in a few days, and the Delancys hardly know whether to board or to have a home of their own. There are her beautiful wedding gifts, and there is the pleasure of giving dinners and teas! She discusses it with her mother and Marcia. Eugene, whose advice is not asked, says, "Have a house of your own by all means. Nothing is so independent as a king in his castle."

Violet does not grow any nearer to her new relatives, excepting Gertrude, who has a latent, flabby sense of justice that rouses her now and then when the talk runs too high. There seems to be a grievance all around. If Floyd married her for her fortune, then it is a most shamefully mercenary piece of business; if he married her for a mistress to his home, madame would have been so much more admirable every way, especially now that Floyd is likely to become an attractive and notable member of society.

"Everybody wants to see him," declares Laura, much aggrieved. "Mr.

Latimer was talking yesterday. I think they will give him a dinner. And this house ought to be a sort of headquarters,--made really celebrated, you know. I like a good supper and a German, but it _is_ the fashion to be literary. Everybody travels and writes a book, and just now all these queer old things have come around. I don't care a penny how long the world has stood or what people did two thousand years ago; my good time is _now_, but we must keep in the stream. I count myself a very fortunate girl. I can have all that is best in fashion through Mrs.

Vandervoort, and all that is intellectual through Mrs. Latimer, so you see I come in for both. Then if Floyd had married Madame Lepelletier, there would have been another set here. But that little dowdy, who doesn't even know how to dress decently! Common respect ought to teach her about mourning!"

"Her trousseau ought to be right; it was made by Madame Vauban,"

interposes Gertrude.

"Madame Vauban! Never!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es Laura, in quite a dramatic tone.

"But I tell you it was! And Floyd had all the ordering, I dare say. He isn't fond of mourning."

"And the paying, too," sneers Laura.

"Well, she has the cottage, and if Floyd is going to make such a fortune for her, he _could_ pay himself back, granting he did spend _his_ money, which I very much doubt."

"The fortune is yet to be made," retorts Laura, with a superior air.

"There may never be any. _We_ may not ever get _our_ own."

"Then," says Gertrude, poising her weapon steadily, "he bought _your_ wedding clothes as well."

"He is _my_ brother. I should look well asking Arthur to pay such bills."

"Do let them alone," exclaims Gertrude, angrily. "You married to please yourself, and so did he."

"_If_ he did. I only hope there may be enough in it to keep him pleased. The marriage is utterly incongruous every way."