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

contemptuously. Then hearing her mother's steps, she rejoins her in the long dining-room, where the meal is being prepared in a style that befits the handsome mansion. The table is elegant with plate, cut glass, and china. Mrs. Grandon is lighter of heart now that she knows she is not to be deposed immediately. If the child only were a boy there would be no need of Floyd marrying, and it vexes her.

Laura returns in high good-humor, having done her errand quite to her satisfaction. The bell rings and they gather slowly. Madame Lepelletier is more enchanting still in some soft black fabric, with dull gold in relief. Floyd has washed and brushed and freshened, but still wears his travelling suit for a very good reason. Cecil is in white, with pale blue ribbons, which give her a sort of seraphic look. Yet she is tired with all the jaunting about, and after a while Laura ceases to torment her with questions, as the conversation becomes more general.

While the dessert is being brought in, Cecil touches her father's arm gently.

"I am so sleepy," in the lowest of low tones. Indeed, she can hardly keep her lovely eyes open.

"Will you call Miss Cecil's maid?" he says to the waiter, and, kissing her, gives her into Jane's arms.

"How beautifully that child behaves!" says Gertrude, with sudden animation. "I am not fond of children, but I am quite sure I shall like her."

"I hope you will," her brother answers, with a smile.

"Mr. Grandon deserves much credit," rejoins Madame Lepelletier. "Fathers are so apt to indulge, and Cecil is extremely bewitching. Could you really say 'no' to her?" And the lady smiles over to him.

"If it was for her good. But Cecil's aunt must have the credit of her training." Then he goes back to a former subject, and they sit over their dessert until dusk, when they adjourn to the drawing-room opposite, where the lamps are lighted. Gertrude, as usual, takes a couch. Floyd and his mother pair off, and somehow Laura finds herself growing extremely confidential with their elegant guest, who soon helps her to confess that she is on the eve of marriage.

"Of course we had to wait for Floyd to come home," she goes on. "The property has to be settled, and mamma insists that now Floyd is head of the family and all that. But I was engaged before papa died, and we were to have been married in the spring," at which she sighs. "And I do so want to get to Newport before the season is over. But Floyd is something to papa's will--executor, isn't it?--and we cannot have any money until he takes it in hand."

"How long he has been away!" says Madame Lepelletier, with a soft half-sigh. She would like to believe that she had something to do with it, but the English wife stands rather in the way.

"Yes; he was coming home as soon as his little girl was born, but then his wife died and he joined an exploring expedition, and has been rambling about the world ever since, with no bother of anything. How nice it must be to have plenty of money!" And Laura's sigh is in good earnest.

"You are right there," adds Eugene, who is smoking out on the balcony. "Floyd, old chap, is to be envied. I wish I had been Aunt Marcia's pet, or even half favorite. Business is my utter detestation, I admit. I must persuade Floyd to change about."

"And that makes me think of the wonderful changes here. Why, Grandon Park is a perfect marvel of beauty, and I left it an almost wilderness. I should never have known the place. But the location is really magnificent. Ten years have improved it beyond all belief. I suppose there is some very nice society?"

"In the summer, yes, and yet every one is anxious to get away," returns Laura, with a short laugh.

Marcia joins the circle and the harmony seems broken. Madame Lepelletier wonders why they so jar upon each other. She has been trained to society's suavity, and they seem quite like young barbarians.

Floyd and his mother talk a little at the lower end of the room, then she proposes they shall take the library.

"Or better still," says he, "get a shawl and let us have a turn outside. The moon is just coming up."

She obeys with alacrity. They cross the sloping lawn almost down to the river's edge. Floyd lights a cigar, after learning that it will not be disagreeable. He glances up and down the river, flecked here and there with a drowsy sail or broken with the plash of oars. Over on the opposite shore the rugged rocks rise frowningly, then break in depressions, through which clumps of cedars shine black and shadowy. Why, he has not seen much in Europe that can excel this! His heart swells with a sense of possession. For the first time in his life his very soul thrills with a far-reaching, divine sense of home.

"I am so glad to have you at last, Floyd," his mother says again, remembering her own perplexities. "Nothing could be done about the business until you came. Floyd," suddenly, "I hope you will not feel hurt at--at what your father thought best to do. Aunt Marcia provided for you."

"Yes, nobly, generously. If you mean that my father divided the rest among you all, he only did what was right, just."

There is no uncertain ring in the tone, and she is greatly relieved.

"Poor father! I had counted on being a stay to him in his declining years, as I should have returned in any event in another year or two. I should like to have seen him once more."

"He left many messages for you, and there is a packet of instructions that I suppose explains his wishes. You see he did not really think of dying; we all considered him improving until that fatal hemorrhage. The business is left to Eugene. Then there are legacies and incomes,"--with a rather hopeless sigh.

"Don't feel troubled about it, mother dear. I suppose Eugene likes the business?" in a cheery tone.

"No, I am afraid not very well. He is young, you know, and has had no real responsibility. O Floyd, I hope you will be patient with him!"

"To be sure I will." Patience seems a very easy virtue just now. "There is the partner?"

"Yes, Mr. Wilmarth. And a Mr. St. Vincent has an interest, and there is a good deal about machinery that I do not understand----"

"Never mind. Let us talk about the girls. Gertrude looks but poorly. She has never rallied over her unfortunate love."

"I think she always expected to hear something, and would make no effort. She is not really ill. It is only allowing one's self to collapse. She ought to have done better, for she was really beautiful. I thought her prettier than Irene Stanwood in those old days, but no one would fancy _her_ the older now."

Mrs. Grandon feels her way very cautiously. She is not at all sure what her son's relations with this handsome guest are, or may be, and she desires to keep on the safe side.

"Isn't she marvellous?" He stops suddenly in his slow pacing. "When I stumbled over her in Paris she seemed to me like some of the strange old stories of woman blessed with unfading youth. And yet I do not believe she had a really satisfying life with her count and his family. It must have been something else, some rare, secret philosophy. Yet she seemed so sort of friendless in one way, and was coming to America for the settlement of the business, so I thought we might as well have her here for a little while. I wonder if it will annoy you?" he asks quickly.

"Oh, no!" she answers in a careless tone. "You are the only one who would be annoyed."

"My epidermis has thickened since those days," he returns, with a laugh. "What an unlucky lot we were! Gertrude, Marcia, and I, all crossed in our first loves! I hope Laura's fate will be better."

"Laura's prospects are very bright," says the mother, in a kind of exultant tone. "She is engaged to a young man every way unexceptionable, and was to have been married in the spring. She is very anxious now--you see no one can have any money until----"

"I can soon straighten such a bother. When would she like----"

"Mr. Delancy is very impatient now. It would be mortifying to confess that only a matter of wedding clothes stands between, when everything else is desirable."

"Consider that settled then."

"O Floyd! Laura will be so delighted!" There is relief in her tone, as well. A great anxiety has been dispelled.

The bell in the village up above peals off ten, and the still air brings it down with a touch of soft mystery.

"We ought to go back to the house," confesses the mother. "And I dare say you are tired, Floyd?"

"I have had a rather fatiguing day," he admits, though he feels as if he could fling himself down on the fragrant grass and stay there all night. It would not be the first time he has slept under a canopy of stars.

They retrace their steps, and Mrs. Grandon apologizes to her guest, who is sweetness itself, quite different from the Irene Stanwood of the past. There is a stir, and everybody admits that it is time to retire.

Floyd intercepts Laura in the hall, and wonders he has not remarked the flash of the diamond earlier, as she raises her plump hand.

"Mother has been telling me," he says, with a wise, curious smile. "Let me congratulate you. To-morrow we will talk it over and arrange everything. I will be your banker for the present. Only--are you quite sure I shall like the young man?" And he holds her in a tender clasp.

"You cannot help it! O Floyd, how good you are, and how very, very happy it makes me! I began to feel afraid that I had come under the family ban."

"Dismiss all fears." He thinks her a very pretty young girl as she stands there, and he is pleased that his return is bringing forth good fruit so soon.

There is a pleasant confusion of good nights and good wishes, the great hall doors are shut, and they all troop up the wide walnut staircase quite as if an evening party had broken up. Floyd Grandon, though not a demonstrative man, lingers to give his mother a parting kiss, and is glad that he has returned to comfort her.


CHAPTER II.

When a woman has ceased to be quite the same to us, it matters not how different she becomes.--W. S. LANDOR.

The house is still. Every one is shut in with his or her thoughts. Floyd Grandon goes to the bed of his little girl, where Jane sits watching in an uncertain state, since everything is so new and strange.

How lovely the child is! The rosy lips are parted, showing the pearly teeth, the face is a little flushed with warmth, one pale, pink-tinted ear is like a bit of sculpture, the dimpled shoulder, the one dainty bare foot outside the spread, seem parts of a cherub. He presses it softly; he kisses the sweet lips that smile. Is it really the sense of ownership that makes her so dear?

He has never