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

better off, even if she did not care very much for him. But there would be a spice of romance, and somehow she half believes she could love him if she was _sure_, and if he loved her. She has weakly and foolishly come to care for more than one who did not love her, to whom the attention was merely pastime, or perhaps amusement. She will be wary and learn first what his intentions really are.

So at the last moment she has a headache and will not go to Madame Lepelletier's. Mrs. Grandon's invitation is for a week, and Eugene takes her down in the morning, and loiters most of the day in the seductive house. When Floyd and Violet are out of the way, Marcia attires herself in a white cashmere dress and scarlet geraniums, and steals down to the drawing-room wrapped in a Shetland shawl, nervous, curious, and expectant. What if he should _not_ come?

It is not Jasper Wilmarth's intention to slight the gods. He is scrupulously dressed, and understands the courtesies of society, if he seldom has need of them. Marcia looks reasonably pretty in this handsome room, where there is just enough light to suggest, not enough to glare, and a subtile fragrance of heliotrope. He might marry women superior to Marcia Grandon who would not bring him her family prestige. They may dislike him, but they cannot quite crowd him out of everything.

Marcia receives him with much trepidation. Acute as he is, he does not understand her, for the simple reason that he does not give her credit for the shrewdness engendered by much experience. If she cannot have the marriage she will have the flirtation, and she suspects the latter.

He does soon set her mind at rest, and she is surprised at a positive offer of marriage. He makes it because he knows she will be the more ready to devise ways of meeting him.

"It is abrupt, I know," he begins, in a peculiarly apologetical tone, "but I wanted you to know my intentions. Circumstances might be rather against us if we undertook the orthodox courtship," and he smiles. "I am aware that I have not the graces of youth and comeliness, and for various reasons your family might oppose. But I am not a poor man, and I think--if a woman loved me--I want her to love me," he says, with sudden vehemence that looks like passion. "I want her to adore me, I want to know what it is to be loved in spite of my drawbacks!"

He has touched the right chord in Marcia's nature. She is always ready to adore when opportunity offers. And though she has loved numberless times, she is ready to begin over again, and yields to the masterful force that experiments with her. The touch of her hand is soft and tremulous, and her kisses are delicate, sweet. He gives himself up to an idiocy he does not believe in, and really enjoys the blissfulness, as an Eastern despot might enjoy the admiration of a new slave.

Marcia is supremely happy encircled by these strong arms. Before her closed eyes floats in magic letters her new name. She will not be the old maid of the family after all. If she did not know the world so well, she would be moved to show her gratitude, but it is much wiser to show her love.

"I shall want to see you," he says, "and we cannot always count on occasions like these. I must leave the opportunities largely to you. A note directed to my box will escape prying eyes. We can have walks together; why, we could even have drives if you were good enough to invite me."

"I should be delighted!" cries Marcia, exultantly.

"Only, we must not choose public thoroughfares." And his smile is fascinating to Marcia, who of late has had no really impassioned love-making.

He puts his arm around her as he stands up to go, and experiences a sort of tender contempt for her. He certainly could grow quite fond of this willing slave, and he will let himself enjoy all the pleasure that can be drained out of it.

Marcia opens the hall door for her lover and closes it again softly. She meets Briggs coming in from fastening the library windows.

"Briggs," she remarks, "that was Mr. Wilmarth. I had some special business with him. I have been drawing patterns; but I would rather his call should not be mentioned."

Briggs bows obediently.

In her own room Marcia gives way to a wild delight. She is sure she does not look to be over twenty, she is glad to be rather small, and can imagine how she will appear beside Mr. Wilmarth's broad shoulders and frowning face. Quite piquant and fairy-like, and then to love with one's whole soul, unsuspected by the sharp eyes of critical kindred, who do not appreciate her lover; to carry about a delicious secret, to plan and to steal out to promised interviews, and at last,--for he has hinted that he shall be a rather impatient wooer,--at last to surprise them by a marriage. She can hardly compose herself to sleep, so busy and excited are brain and nerves.

The musicale is a success, one of the enviable events of the season, and there is a most charming supper afterward. Violet's enjoyment is so perfect that she takes herself quite to task for not being better friends with madame, since Mr. Grandon really desires it. Why should she allow that old dead-and-gone ghost to walk in this bright present? She is never troubled about Cecil's mother, and Mr. Grandon must have loved her; she is never jealous of Cecil. This is nothing like jealousy, she tells herself; it is a peculiar distrust; she does not want madame to gain any influence over _her_. She is ready enough to admit and to admire her wonderful beauty, but her presence seems like some overpowering fragrance that might lull one into a dangerous sleep.

And yet Violet finds, as the time goes on, that she does come into her life and smooths it mysteriously. Laura has less of that insolent superiority when madame is present, and Mrs. Grandon seems more gentle. Then madame can convey bits of society counsel so delicately, she always seems to know just when Violet is not quite certain of any step.

"I should really have loved her at first," Violet half admits to herself, "if nothing had been said."

Gertrude and the professor are going to Mexico, and will not be back for some time. Everybody is planning for summer. Laura talks of a run over to Europe; the Vandervoorts take Newport as a matter of course, and send thither carriages and horses. Mrs. Latimer spends a few days at Grandon Park, and ends by taking the cottage with Denise, after she has had a luncheon within its charmed precincts. Madame lingers and is undecided, then what she considers a very fortunate incident settles her at Grandon Park, with a lovely cottage, horses, and an elderly half invalid for companion.

About the middle of May, Marcia Grandon makes her grand _coup de grace_. She fancies she has had it all her own way, that she has planned; but some one behind was gently manipulating the cords of his puppet. There have been delicious stolen interviews, notes, and the peculiar half-intrigue, half-deception Marcia so loves. Violet has remarked an odd change in her; Mrs. Grandon has been a good deal occupied, and has grown accustomed to her daughter's vagaries, so no one has paid any special heed. Marcia has ordered a _trousseau_ in the city, and one fine morning goes down in her airiest manner, and in pearl silk is made Mrs. Wilmarth. From thence they send out cards, and Marcia writes to her mother, to Laura, who comes in haste, and is both angry and incredulous; angry that Jasper Wilmarth should have been brought into the family, when she had done it the honor to connect it with the Vandervoorts and Delancys.

Marcia is quite resplendent in silk and lace, and does look blissfully content.

"What an awful fool you have made of yourself!" is the tender salutation, since Mr. Wilmarth is not present. "What you ever could see in _that_ man passes my comprehension! He may do for business, but if _I_ understand rightly, Floyd is not over-fond of him. I suppose that was why you married on the sly?"

"I married to please myself," says Marcia, bridling, "and I dare say you did the same. I have a husband who is kind and generous and noble, who loves me and whom I love, and if fate has in some ways treated him unkindly, he shall learn that there is one woman in the world brave enough to make it up to him."

She repeats this almost like a lesson learned by rote.

"Bosh," returns Laura, with contemptuous superiority. "I dare say you thought it would be the last chance!"

"Oh, I have heard of women marrying even at forty," retorts Marcia, with a shrill little laugh.

"And to do it in that way! Whatever possessed you to make such an idiot of yourself. To bring _that_ man in the family!"

"You forget he is my husband, Mrs. Delancy," and Marcia braves her resolutely.

At this moment the door opens and the obnoxious person enters, having heard his wife's last sentence. He walks straight up to Laura, with determination in every line of his countenance.

"Ah, Mrs. Delancy," he says, and then adds in a meaning tone, with a kind of bitter suavity, "I suppose we do not need to be introduced. Although I never was much of a visitor in my late partner's household, I have known you all, and I suppose am entitled to a little friendly recognition for Marcia's sake. We have taken our step in a most unorthodox manner, but it suited ourselves, our only apology."

"Extremely unorthodox," says Laura, in a biting tone.

"But we propose to make it orthodox as soon as possible. Marcia, brave girl, would have married me in the face of any staring audience. She might have had a younger and handsomer bridegroom, but she can hardly have a husband who will care more tenderly for her."

Laura is rather checked in her angry career. She dare not brave these steel-gray eyes.

"We are all very much surprised; at least I am, having heard no word or hint of it."

"We did keep our secret pretty well, I believe," and he glances fondly at Marcia.

"Well," replies Laura, rising, "I suppose the best wish of all is that you may not regret your step in haste."

"It was not so hasty as that," and he laughs, with the flavor of one who has won.

Laura makes her adieus coldly, feeling outgeneralled by his evident determination not to be put down.

"What are we to do?" she asks of madame, half an hour later. "This horrid reception staring us in the face! Of course people will go out of curiosity. Marcia always did delight in being talked about."

"But is her husband so horribly unpresentable?" and madame's beautiful eyes are filled with sympathy.

"Oh, you can present _anything_ here in New York, that is the worst of it!" cries Laura, angrily. "That is why I like Newport. And Marcia is so utterly silly."

"But Mr. Wilmarth?"

"I hate the sight of him, and Marcia used to say everything about him. He's humpbacked or something, and looks like a tiger. Well, I _do_ wish her joy if ever he should get in a tantrum.