Floyd Grandon's Honor, Amanda Minnie Douglas [you can read anyone .TXT] 📗

TO

DR. AND MRS. THEO. R. LUFF.

Through silent spaces hands may be outstretched,
Remembrance blossom in dim atmospheres; Friends are not less the friends though far apart;
They count the loss and gain of vanished years.


FLOYD GRANDON'S HONOR.


CHAPTER I.

"There is a courtesy of the heart. Is it akin to love?"--GOETHE..

It is the perfection of summer, early June, before the roses have shaken off their sweetness, and Grandon Park is lovely enough to compare with places whose beauty is an accretion of centuries rather than the work of decades. Yet these grand old trees and this bluff, with a strata of rock manifest here and there, are much older than the pretty settlement lying at its base. The quaint house of rough, gray stone, with a tower and a high balcony hung out at irregular intervals, the windows and angles and the curious pointed roof, stamp it as something different from the Swiss villas and cottage _ornees_ at its feet.

Not very near, though; there is a spacious lawn and a wide drive, a grove of trees that can shut out intrusive neighbors to the south, as well as another dense thicket northward. There is the road at a distance on one side, and the broad, beautiful river on the other. Down below, a mile, perhaps, a rocky point juts out into the river, up above another, so this forms a kind of indentation, an exclusive sort of bay for the dwellers therein, and the whole rather aristocratic settlement is put down on the railway map as Grandon Park.

But it is at the stone house on its very brow where the master, Floyd Grandon, is expected home to-day after years of wandering and many changes. In the library his mother and sisters are gathered. It is a favorite place with Gertrude, who spends her days on the sofa reading. Marcia much affects her own "study," up under the eaves, but to-day she is clothed and in her right mind, free from dabs of paint or fingers grimed with charcoal and crayons. Laura is always Laura, a stylish young girl, busy with the strip of an extremely elegant carriage robe, and Mrs. Grandon, a handsome woman past fifty, has a bit of embroidery in her hands. She seems never exactly idle, but now she holds her work and listens, then drops into musing.

"I wonder what _can_ be the matter?" she exclaims presently. "It is full half an hour behind time," looking at her watch.

"Are you in a hurry?" asks a languid voice from the luxurious Turkish lounge.

"Gertrude! How heartless you are! When we have not seen Floyd for seven years!" in a tone of reproach.

"If he were only coming alone----"

"And if we _did_ know whether he is married or not!"

This young, impatient voice is Laura's. Not that it will make any great difference to her.

"We cannot dispossess Floyd," says Marcia, in a queer, caustic tone. "And a new mistress----"

Marcia has a great gift for making people uncomfortable.

"You seem so certain that he has married her," the mother comments in a kind of incredulous impatience.

"Well, he was in love with her before. And now their travelling together, his bringing her here, look wonderfully like it."

"Well, what then? She is rich, handsome, an elegant society woman, and just your age, Gertrude."

That rather stings the pale, listless woman on the lounge, who knows her mother's ambition has been sorely crossed by these single daughters.

"Not quite, mother mine. Even six months is something. She will not be able to twit me with seniority."

"But she may with the fact that she has been twice married," says Marcia.

"I am glad I shall be out of the way of all complications," announces Laura, in a joyous tone. "But for mourning and the miserable lack of money I should have been married sooner."

"Laura! At least you owe some respect to your father's memory!" the mother retorts sharply.

"Nevertheless, I am glad not to be dependent upon Floyd. And, mamma, you surely ought to rejoice at the prospect of having _one_ daughter well married," with a little exultant ring in her voice. She is only eighteen, and has captured both wealth and position, and is longing so ardently to try her new world. These Grandon girls are not particularly amiable with one another. Indeed, life seems to have gone wrong with all of them, and they feel that Floyd alone is to be envied, thanks to great Aunt Marcia.

"There!" the mother exclaims suddenly, then rising, hurries out on the balcony. A carriage has turned into the drive, it sweeps around the gravelled walk with a crunching sound, and the beautiful bays are drawn up at the very edge of the wide stone steps with a masterly hand.

"Here we are!" cries a young man of one or two and twenty. "There was a slight accident to the down train and a detention. And I absolutely did not know Floyd!"

A tall, finely formed man of thirty or so springs out with an elastic step and clasps Mrs. Grandon in his arms. "My dear, dear mother!" is all that is said for a moment, and their lips meet with a tenderness that comforts the mother's heart.

Then he looks a little uncertainly at the two behind her.

"This is Laura, the child when you went away. It is almost nine years since you have seen her. And Marcia."

"How odd to be introduced to your own brother!" laughs Laura. "But, Floyd, you look like a Turkish pasha or an Arabian emir." And she eyes him with undisguised admiration.

Gertrude now crawls slowly out in a long white cashmere robe, with a pale blue fleecy wrap about her shoulders. She looks tall and ghostly, and her brother's heart fills with pity, as he seems more closely drawn to her than to the others.

Then there is a curious little halt, and with one accord they glance toward the carriage. Floyd flushes under all his wealth of bronze.

"Oh," he says, suddenly, "I have brought you an old friend. I could not bear to leave her in a great city among strangers, and promised her a welcome with you. Indeed, I do not believe she has any 'nearer of kin,' after all."

They all take a step forward, still in wonder. Floyd hands her out,--a very elegant woman, who is one handsome and harmonious line, from the French hat down to the faultless kid boot.

"I told Mr. Grandon it would be awkward and out of order," she says in a slow, melodious voice that has a peculiar lingering cadence. "But he is most imperious," and her smile dazzles them. "And you must pardon me for allowing myself to be persuaded. It was so tempting to come among friends."

Clearly she is not his wife now, whatever she may be in the future. Mrs. Grandon draws a breath of relief, and there is a pleasant confusion of welcome.

"Yes, I told her such scruples were foolish," says Floyd, in a straightforward way that is almost abrupt. Then turning to the carriage, adds, "And here is my little English daughter, Cecil!"

"O Floyd! what a lovely child! Does she really belong to you?" And Laura glances from one to the other, then dashes forward and clasps Cecil, who shrinks away and clings to her father.

"She is rather shy," he says, half proudly, half in apology; but Laura, who does not care a fig for children in general, kisses Cecil in spite of resistance. "Mother, I have added to your dignity by bringing home a granddaughter." Then, with a tender inflection, "This is grandmamma, Cecil."

Cecil allows herself to be kissed this time without resistance but she clings tightly to her father.

"What magnificent eyes! true twilight tint, and such hair! Floyd, how odd to think of you as----"

"You are warm and tired," Mrs. Grandon is saying. "Your rooms are ready up-stairs."

"Don't send away the carriage, Eugene," cries Laura, "I want it a little while." Then she follows the small throng up the broad steps and into the spacious hall, while the visitor is keeping up a delicate little conversation with her hostess. Gertrude looks old and faded beside this regal woman. Perhaps she feels it, for she goes back to her couch and her novel.

"Oh," exclaims Eugene, springing up the steps two at a time, "here is Madame Lepelletier's satchel! You left it in the carriage," handing it to her.

They are all relieved to actually hear her name. Laura leads her to the state chamber, which has been put in elegant order for a possible bride. Then her trunk is sent up, and Laura flits about as only a woman can, uttering gracious little sentences, until, finally excusing herself, she runs down to the carriage and is whirled away upon her errand.

Mrs. Grandon has followed her son to his room. He is master of the house and yet he has never been possessor. Almost ten years ago it was being finished and furnished for the splendid woman in the opposite room, and by a strange travesty of fate he has brought her here to-day. But he has no time for retrospection. He hardly hears what his mother is saying as he stands his little girl on a chair by the window and glances out.

"Yes," he returns, rather absently. "It will be all right. How wonderfully lovely this spot is, mother! I had no real conception of it. What would Aunt Marcia say to see it now? It is worthy of being handed down to the third and fourth generation."

"What a pity your child is not a boy, Floyd; you would have nothing more to ask," his mother says, fervently wishing it had been so.

"I would not have Cecil changed," he responds, with almost jealous quickness. "Where is Jane?" and the young girl lingering in the hall presents herself. "We shall just shake off a little of the dust of travel and come down, for I am all curiosity to inspect the place."

"Will this room do for your little girl and her nurse?" asks Mrs. Grandon. "We hardly knew what arrangements to make----"

"Yes, it is all very nice. Our luggage will be up presently; there was too much for us," and he smiles. "What are your household arrangements?"

"Dinner is at six generally. I delayed it awhile to-night, and now I must go and look after it."

"Thank you for all the trouble." He clasps both of his mother's hands in his and kisses her again. He has dreaded his return somewhat, and now he is delighted to be here.

Down-stairs Gertrude and Marcia have had a small skirmish of words.

"So he isn't married," the former had said, triumphantly.

"But engaged, no doubt. He wouldn't bring her here if there was not something in it."

"I would never forgive her for throwing me over," declares Gertrude.

"But it is something to have been a countess, and she is wonderfully handsome, not a bit fagged out by a sea voyage. Why, she doesn't look much older than Laura. Women of that kind always carry all before them, and men forgive everything to them."

"Floyd doesn't look like a marrying man."

"Much you know about it!" says Marcia,