He has been infatuated with her beauty, her charms of style and manner, her beguiling voice; the very atmosphere that surrounded her was delightful to breathe in concert with her. He has haunted her afternoon teas and her evening receptions, he has attended her to operas, and sometimes lowered savagely at the train that came to pay court to her.

Like a wary general she has put off the symptoms of a.s.sault by making diversions elsewhere, until the feint no longer answered its purpose.

She would not allow him to propose, that would savor of possible hope and encouragement; she has spoken with the friendliness a woman can command. This course of devotion on his part draws attention to them and is ungenerous to her. "How do you know what I mean?" he has asked, in a tone of gloomy persistence.

She gives a little laugh, suggestive of incredulity and a slight flavor of ridicule.

"Because I know it is impossible for you to really mean anything derogatory to me or to yourself," she answers, in a tone of a.s.sured steadiness. "If I were a young girl it might be love or flirtation; if I were a coquette it might be an evil fascination such as too often wrecks young men. As I do not choose it shall be any of these, you must not grow sentimental with me."

She looks at him out of clear eyes that _are_ maddening, and yet he cannot but read his fate in them. It is thus far and no farther.

"Oh," he answers, with a touch of scorn, "I think I have read of marriages with as great disparity of years as between us! It is supposed they loved, they certainly have been happy."

"But I am not in my dotage," she cries, gayly. "Neither am I such a wonderful believer in love. There are many other qualities requisite for what I call a good marriage."

"I do not suppose I shall ever make a _good_ marriage," he says, calmly, but with bitter emphasis.

"And yet you ought. You are handsome, attractive, you can make a fortune if you will; you can grace any society."

"Spare me," he replies, with contempt. "My impression is, that I shall never have faith enough in any woman to marry her."

"Oh, that is so deliciously young, Eugene! It ought to be applauded."

And she laughs lightly.

"Good morning," he says, in a furious temper.

He has not been near her since, and chooses to absent himself on a business trip the first three days she spends at Grandon Park, coming home last evening, and meeting her at the breakfast-table this morning, where she has tact enough to cover all differences. He has not danced with her, though they have met in the quadrilles, and he is moody and resentful, although he knows that she is right. But he puts it on the score of money. "If I were the owner of Grandon Park," he thinks, "she would not so much mind the years between."

Therein he is mistaken. It would hurt Irene Lepelletier's _amour propre_ to make herself conspicuous, to be held up to ridicule or blame. She does not _care_ for marriage; her position is infinitely more delightful in its variety. She can make a world of her own without being accountable to any one, but she has come perilously near to loving Floyd Grandon, when she considered love no longer a temptation, had dismissed it as a puerile insanity of youth.

Eugene catches sight of the two promenaders. Almost beside them now are Miss Brade and Mr. Latimer. There is nothing in it, and yet it stirs his jealousy. Laura has always been so sure that Violet alone interrupted a marriage between them, and in this cruel pang he is grateful to Violet, and glad, yes, exultingly glad that madame never can be mistress here. There is one check for her, even if she triumphs in all things else.

"What an exquisite dancer you are," he says to Violet. "I never imagined you could learn anything like that in a convent."

"I don't think you learn _quite_ like it," she says, with a soft little ripple. "I never danced so before; it is enchantment. And I never waltzed with a gentleman until to-night, except to take a few steps with my teacher."

"You like it?" He is amused by the enthusiasm of her tone.

"Oh," she confesses, with a long sigh, "it is rapturous! I am so fond of dancing. I wonder, do _you_ think it frivolous?" and she glances up with a charming deprecation.

She _is_ very pretty. It must be her dress that makes her so uncommonly lovely to-night, he fancies, but it is all things,--her youth, her joy, her sweet satisfaction.

"Why, no, not frivolous. It is--well, I don't know how society would get along without it," and he gives a short, grim laugh. "We could not have b.a.l.l.s or parties or Germans,--nothing but dinners and teas and musicales and stupid receptions. And there wouldn't be anything for young people to do; the old tabbies, you know, can gossip about their neighbors, and the men can smoke."

"It is all so wonderfully beautiful!" she begins, dreamily. "The lawn is a perfect fairyland, and I never saw so many lovely dresses and handsome people together in my life. And the music----"

The strains floating in the air are quite enough to bewilder one, to steep him in delicious reveries, to transport him to Araby the blest.

"Will you waltz once with me?" he asks, suddenly, taking her hand.

"_Ought_ I?" she inquires, innocently. "You see I do not quite understand----"

"No," he answers, "I will take a galop instead, but it is all right enough. Floyd wouldn't care, I know."

He has a jealous misgiving that Floyd will waltz with madame if Violet thus sets him an example.

The galop begins presently. Floyd is busy with the duties of host, and supper is soon to be announced. Madame dances superbly, but neither of them are up now, except that just at the last Floyd takes a few turns with Cecil, whose time of revelry is now ended.

Eugene takes Violet in to supper; not exactly as Floyd has planned, but as she desires. Her next neighbor is very bright and entertaining, and Eugene really does his best. Between them both Mrs. Grandon is vivacious, sparkling, and radiant with the charms of youth and pleasure. Eugene is quite resolved to show madame that he has not been hard hit, and even devotes himself awhile to Lucia Brade, who is supremely happy. There is more dancing, and Violet and Floyd have another lovely waltz. So with walking and talking and lounging on balcony and lawn, listening to the delicious music, the revel comes to an end.

"You have been very happy?" Floyd Grandon says to his wife.

"It has been perfect," she makes answer. "I could ask nothing more, nothing."

He kisses her with a little sigh. Is there something more, and does he long for it?

CHAPTER XXII.

"Love and hay are thick sown, but come up full of thistles."

Mrs. Floyd Grandon is considered fairly in society, and the world decides there is nothing detrimental about her. She is admitted to be pretty, she is well-bred, with some little touches of formalism, due to her training, that are really refreshing to elderly people, and sit quaintly upon her. She is charming, both when her natural vivacity crops out, that has been so repressed, and when she is shyly diffident.

Cards and invitations are left for her, and Grandon Park blossoms out into unwonted gayety. The people who go away find no difficulty in renting their houses to those who want to come; perhaps the Latimers have given the impetus, for Mrs. Latimer is one of those women who are always quoted, without having any special desire to achieve a society reputation. The cottage frequently has some visitors of note: its smallness renders large companies impossible.

There is the usual lawn tennis, and croquet, which is rather falling into desuetude, but still affords unequalled opportunities for flirtation. There is boating, and the river looks quite gay with boats with striped and colored awnings to protect the fair ones from the sun.

Grandon and Latimer are famous oarsmen, and often gather an admiring audience which gets greatly excited over the victorious champion, though honors keep evenly divided. Then there are garden parties and musical evenings, so there is no lack of amus.e.m.e.nt.

Violet has become quite an expert driver, and she and her pretty step-daughter, who keep up their adoration of each other, make a lovely picture in the basket phaeton. She rides on horseback very well, and here Eugene is always at her service. In fact, though he never _quite_ confesses it, he lets her fancy that he is an unfortunate moth who has been drawn into the flame when he would not have flown of his own account and desire. He is the kind of masculine who must always be dear to _some_ woman, who floats on the strongest current of fascination or sympathy. It has been the former, it is now the latter. The many frank allurements of youth in Violet charm him insensibly. She has a secret sympathy and a curious misgiving that she cannot overcome,--it grows upon her, indeed,--that Madame Lepelletier is dangerous to man and woman.

Had madame more personal vanity in her conquests, she might feel piqued at the defection of her knight, who has not wavered in his allegiance for the last year. She is rather pleased than otherwise, she even breathes little bits of encouragement and commendation to Violet, as if seconding her efforts; and Violet falls into the mistake that many have made before her, of comforting a young man and a.s.sisting him to overlive his fancy for another woman, as well as secretly blaming the other. Eugene is so fond of shifting burthens upon other people.

Laura and Mr. Delancy go abroad. Mrs. Grandon accepts several invitations for summer visits. She is less the head of the house now that her daughters are married and away, but she does not abate one jot of her dignity, and is secretly mortified to see Eugene so ready to treat with the enemy, as she still considers her.

Mrs. Jasper Wilmarth is at the summit of delighted vanity. They cannot compete with Grandon Park, but they have taken a rambling old country house on the outskirts of Westbrook, and Marcia has certainly managed to acc.u.mulate no end of bizarre articles. The rooms are large and the ceilings low; there are corner fireplaces and high mantels, there are curtains and portieres and lambrequins, there are pictures and brackets and cabinets, easels with their "studies," and much _bric-a-brac_.

Jasper Wilmarth insists that the sleeping chamber and sitting-room shall be kept free from this "nonsense," as he calls it, and does not meddle his head about the rest. Indeed, he rather smiles to himself to see of what consequence his name has made her. He does not even object to being considered a hero of romance in her estimation, knowing her sieve-like nature, and that whatever is in must drip through somewhere.

She adores him, she waits on him with a curious humility that is very flattering, while to the rest of the world she puts on rather lofty airs. They amuse him, and he sees with much inward scorn the respect paid her--for what, indeed? Was she not as wise and as attractive six mouths ago? Yet he means she shall have the respect and the honor. He will not be the rich man that he once dreamed of, but he has enough to afford her many indulgences. So when she makes a rather timid proposition for a party of some kind, he listens with attention as she skips over the ground and makes a jumble of festivities.

"I should choose the garden party," he says, briefly, for in his mind he considers it the prettiest for the expense and the most enjoyable.

There is no velvet lawn, but there is the remnant of an orchard, and the old trees are still picturesque. They need not have the fuss of a regular supper, but refreshments out of doors, with quartet tables, for the evening will be warm and moonlight.

Marcia is delighted. The pony phaeton flies around briskly, and invitations are accepted on nearly every hand. Floyd Grandon would much prefer to decline, but he cannot, without seeming churlish, and Violet takes it as a matter of course.

Is it a special Providence that interferes? That very morning an important telegram comes, and some one must go to Baltimore. It is not a matter he cares to have Wilmarth settle, and Eugene is not to be relied upon. He could take Violet, but it would look absurd this hot weather, and on such a hurried journey, when he has not hesitated to go alone before. Why should he be so reluctant to leave her, he wonders.

"It's just shabby!" declares Eugene. "Wait until to-morrow. Marcia will feel dreadfully put out if you are not there to-night."

"To-morrow would make it too late to see one of the parties, who is to go abroad." And he knits his brows.