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

in the slightly compressed red lips, the broad, dimpled chin, and the straight, resolute brows. The quaint gray costume, nun-like in its plainness, cannot make a nun of her.

"You have saved my child!" and there is a great tremble in his voice. "I do not know how to thank you. I never can."

The statue moves a little, and the red lips swell, quiver, and yet she does not speak.

"I saw you from the cliff. I hardly know how you had the self-command, the forethought to do it."

"You will not scold her!" she entreats.

"My darling, no. For your sake, not a word shall be said."

"But I was naughty!" cries Cecil, in an agony of penitence. "I ran away from Jane."

Grandon sits down on the stump of a tree, and takes Cecil on his lap. Her little hands are scratched and soiled by the gravel, and her arm has quite a wound.

"Oh!" the young girl cries, "will you bring her up to the little cottage over yonder? You can just see the pointed roof. It is my home."

"You are Miss St. Vincent?" Grandon exclaims in surprise. He does not know quite what he has expected, but she is very different from any thought of his concerning her.

"Yes." She utters this with a simple, fearless dignity that would do credit to a woman of fashion. "Her hands had better be washed and her arm wrapped up. They will feel more comfortable."

"Thank you." Then he rises with Cecil in his arms, and makes a gesture to Miss St. Vincent, who settles her wide-brimmed hat that has slipped back, and goes on as a leader. She is so light, supple, and graceful! Her plain, loosely fitting dress allows the slim figure the utmost freedom. She is really taller than she looks, though she would be petite beside his sisters. Her foot and ankle are perfect, and the springy step is light as a fawn's.

This, then, is the girl whose future they have been discussing, whose hand has been disposed of in marriage as arbitrarily as if she were a princess of royal blood. If Eugene only _would_ marry her! Fortune seems quite sure now, and he is not the man ever to work for it. It must come to him.

Once or twice Miss St. Vincent looks back, blushing brightly. She has a natural soft pink in her cheeks that seems like the heart of a rose, and the blush deepens the exquisite tint. They enter the shaded path, and she goes around to the side porch, where the boards have been scrubbed white as snow.

"O Denise," she exclaims, "will you get a basin of water and some old linen? This little girl has fallen and scratched her arms badly." Then, with a sudden accession of memory, she continues, "I believe it is the gentleman who has been to see papa."

"Mr. Grandon!" Denise says in amaze.

"Yes. Your young mistress has saved my little girl from what might have been a sad accident." And he stands Cecil on the speckless floor.

Miss St. Vincent throws off her hat. Denise brings some water in a small, old silver basin, and rummages for the linen. Grandon turns up the sleeve of his daughter's dress, and now Cecil begins to cry and shrink away from Denise.

"Let me," says the young girl, with that unconscious self-possession so becoming to her, and yet so far removed from boldness. "Now you are going to be very brave," she says to the child. "You know how you held on by the tree and did just as I told you, and now, after your hands are washed, they will feel so much better. It will hurt only a little, and you will be white and clean again."

She proceeds with her work as she talks. Cecil winces a little, and her eyes overflow with tears, but beyond an occasional convulsive sob she does not give way. The arm is bandaged with some cooling lotion, and Denise brings her mistress a little cream to anoint the scratched hands. Floyd Grandon has been watching the deft motions of the soft, swift fingers, that make a sort of dazzle of dimples. It certainly is a lovely hand.

"Now, does it not feel nice?" Then she washes the tears from the face, and wipes it with a soft towel that is like silk. "You were very good and brave."

Cecil, moved by some inward emotion, throws her arms around Miss St. Vincent's neck and kisses her. From a strange impulse the young girl blushes deeply and turns her face away from Grandon.

He has asked after Mr. St. Vincent, who is now asleep. He is no worse. Denise thinks him better. He has not fainted since morning.

"Cecil," her father says, "will you stay here and let me go home for the carriage? I am afraid I cannot carry you quite so far, and I dare say Jane is half crazy with alarm."

Cecil looks very much as if she could not consent to the brief separation. The young girl glances from one face to the other.

"Yes, you will stay," she answers, with cheerful decision. "Papa will soon return for you. Would you mind if I gave her some berries and milk?" she asks, rather timidly, of Mr. Grandon.

"Oh, no! I will soon come back." He stoops and kisses Cecil, and makes a slight signal to Denise, who follows him.

"She saved my darling from a great peril," he says, with deep emotion, "perhaps her very life. What can I do for her?"

"Keep her from that terrible marriage," returns Denise. "She is too sweet, too pretty for such an ogre."

"She shall not marry him, whatever comes," he says, decisively.

Walking rapidly homeward, he resolves to write again to Eugene. Miss St. Vincent is pretty, winsome, refined, spirited, too; quite capable of matching Eugene in dignity or pride, which would be so much the better. She is no "meke mayd" to be ground into a spiritless slave. They would have youth, beauty, wealth, be well dowered. He feels as anxious now as he has been disinclined before. A strange interest pervades him, and the rescue of the child brings her so near; it seems as if he could clasp her to his heart as an elder daughter or a little sister.

He meets Briggs on horseback, a short distance from the house. "O Mr. Grandon," the man exclaims, "the maid has just come in and Miss Cecil is lost!"

"Miss Cecil is safe. Get me the buggy at once. She is all right," as the man looks bewildered.

Just at the gate he meets the weeping and alarmed Jane and sends her back with a few words of comfort. The house is in a great commotion, which he quiets as speedily as possible. When Mrs. Grandon finds there is no real danger, she turns upon Floyd.

"You spoil the child with your foolish indulgence," she declares. "She pays no attention to any one, she does not even obey Jane."

Grandon cannot pause to argue, for the wagon comes around. He is in no mood, either. He cannot tell why, but he feels intuitively that Miss St. Vincent is quite different from the women in his family.

He finds everything quite delightful at the eyrie. Cecil and Miss Violet have made fast friends, and Duke, the greyhound, looks on approvingly, though with an amusing tint of jealousy. The child has forgotten her wounds, has had some berries, cake, and milk, and is chattering wonderfully.

"What magic have you used?" asks Grandon in surprise.

Miss St. Vincent laughs. She hardly looks a day over fifteen, though she is two years older.

"Will you not let her come for a whole day?" she entreats. "I get so lonesome. I can only see papa a little while, and he cannot talk to me. I get tired of reading and rambling about, and Denise is worried when I stay out any length of time."

"Yes, if you can persuade her," and Grandon smiles down into the bright, eager face. "In England she was with a family of children, and she misses them."

"Oh, are you English?" Violet asks, with a naive curiosity.

"My little girl was born there, but I always lived here until I went abroad, ten years ago."

"And I was born in France," she says, with a bright, piquant smile, "though that doesn't make me quite thoroughly French." Then, as by this time they have reached Cecil, she kneels down and puts her arm around her. "He says you may come for a whole long day. We will have tea out on the porch, and you shall play with my pretty china dishes and my great doll, and when you are tired we will swing in the hammock. Shall it be to-morrow?"

"I think she must rest to-morrow," Grandon replies, gravely.

"Oh, but the next day will be Sunday!"

"If she is well enough I will bring her in the morning," he answers, indulgently.

Violet kisses her and bundles her up in a white fleecy shawl. The sun has gone down and the air has cooled perceptibly. Cecil talks a while enthusiastically, as she snuggles close to her father in the wagon; then there is a sudden silence. She is so soundly asleep that her father carries her up and lays her on her pretty white cot without awaking her. Dinner has been kept waiting, and Mrs. Grandon is not in an angelic temper, but madame's exquisite suavity smooths over the rough places. Floyd feels extremely obliged for this little attention. He makes no demur when she claims him for the evening, and discusses the future, _her_ future, with him. To-morrow she must go to the city.

"I have an errand down, too," he says, "and can introduce you at a banking house. They could tell you better about investments than I."

She is delighted with the result of the evening, and fancies that he is beginning to find the child something of a bore. It was a pretty plaything at first, but it can be naughty and troublesome. Ah, Madame Lepelletier, fascinating as you are, if you could see how his thoughts have been wandering, and witness the passion with which he kisses his sleeping child and caresses the bandaged arm, you would not be quite so certain of your triumph.

He does not write to Eugene, it is so late, and he has a curious disinclination. By this time he has surely decided. A letter may come to-morrow, and it may be better to wait until he hears.

When he wakes in the morning, Cecil is entertaining Jane with a history of her adventures wherein all things are mingled.

"A doll!" exclaims Jane. "Why, is she a little girl?"

"She isn't _very_ big," says Cecil; "not like Aunt Gertrude or madame; and the most beautiful dishes that came from Paris! That's where madame was. And she laughs so and makes such dimples in her face, such sweet dimples,--just a little place where I could put my finger, and she let me. It was so soft and pink," with a lingering cadence. "I like her next best to papa."

"And you've only seen her once!" says Jane, reproachfully.

"But--she kept me from falling on the rocks, you know. I might have been hurt ever so much more; why maybe I might have been killed!"

"You were a naughty little girl to run away," interpolates Jane, with some severity.

"I shall never run away