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

fine-looking man, certainly, with a rather long, oval face, clearly defined brows, and sharply cut nose and mouth; with a somewhat imperious expression that gives it character. The eyes are a deep, soft brown, with curious lights rippling through them like the tints of an agate. Generally they are tranquil to coldness, so far as mere emotion is concerned, but many things kindle them into interest, and occasionally to indignation. Health and a peculiar energy are in every limb, the energy that sets itself to conquer and is never lost in mere strife or bustle.

"Papa!"

"Yes, dear."

"You will wait for me?" entreatingly.

He comes to the door with a smile. Jane is brushing the fair, shining hair that is like a sea of ripples, and Cecil stretches out her hand with pretty eagerness, as if she shall lose him, after all.

"Suppose I tie it so, and curl it after breakfast," proposes Jane. "Miss Cecil is so impatient."

"Yes, that will do." It is beautiful, any way, he thinks. Then she dances around on one foot until her dress is put on, when she gives a glad bound.

"But your pinafore! American children _do_ wear them," says Jane, in a rather uncertain tone.

"I am a little English girl," is the firm rejoinder.

"Then of course you must," responds papa.

"And your hat! The sun is shining."

Cecil gives a glad spring then, and almost drags her father down the wide stairs. A young colored lad is brushing off the porch, but the two go down on the path that is speckless and as hard as a floor. The lawn slopes slowly toward the river, broken by a few clumps of shrubbery, a summer-house covered with vines, and another resembling a pagoda, with a great copper beech beside it. There are some winding paths, and it all ends with a stone wall, as the shore is very irregular. There is a boat-house, and a strip of gravelly beach, now that the tide is out.

Grandon turns and looks toward the house. Yes, it _is_ handsome, grand. Youth and age together did not make any blunder of it. There is the tower, that was to be his study and library and place of resort generally. What crude dreams he had in those days! Science and poesy, art and history, were all a sad jumble in his brain, and now he has found his life-work. He hopes that he may make the world a little wiser, raise some few souls up to the heights he has found so delightful.

Cecil dances about like a fairy. She is at home amid green fields once more, for the ocean was to her a dreary desert, and the many strange faces made her uncomfortable. She is oddly exclusive and delicate, even chary about herself, but alone with her father she is all childish abandon.

There is a stir about the house presently, and Grandon begins to retrace his steps.

"Don't go," entreats Cecil.

"My dear, we must have breakfast. Grandmamma and the aunties will be waiting."

"Are they going to live there always!" with an indication of the fair head.

"Yes, some of them."

"And are we going to live there for ever and ever?"

He laughs gayly.

"I hope we will live there to a good old age."

"And madame--must she stay there, too?"

"Madame will stay for a little while. And Cecil must be kind and pleasant----"

"I can't like her!" interrupts the child, petulantly.

He studies her with some curiosity. Why should the gracious, beautiful woman be distasteful to her?

"I don't really suppose she will care much," he replies, in a rather teasing spirit.

"But if she doesn't, why should she want me to kiss her?"

"I do not believe she will ask you again. You must not be rude to any one. And you must kiss grandmamma or the aunties if they ask you."

Cecil sets her lips firmly, but makes no reply. Grandon wonders suddenly what charm Aunt Dora possessed, and how people, fathers and mothers, govern children! It is a rather perplexing problem if they turn naughty.

They walk back to the great porch, where Mrs. Grandon comes out and wishes her son a really fond good morning. Cecil submits quietly to a caress with most unchildlike gravity. Marcia comes flying along; she is always flying or rustling about, with streamers somewhere, and a very young-girlish air that looks like affectation at twenty-seven, but she will do the same at forty-seven. She is barely medium height, fair, with light hair, which by persistent application she makes almost golden. It is thin and short, and floats about her head in artistic confusion. Her eyes are a rather pale blue-gray, and near-sighted, her features small, her voice has still the untrained, childish sound of extreme youth. She is effusive and full of enthusiasms, rather unbalanced, Floyd decides in a day or two.

"Good morning!" exclaims the bright voice of Eugene. "Upon my word, you make quite an imposing _paterfamilias_, and Cecil, I dare say, has found the weak place and tyrannizes over you. Come to me, little lady," pinching her lovely pink cheek.

But Cecil almost hides behind her father, and is proof against the blandishments of the handsome young man. He is not quite so tall as Floyd, but grace, from the splendidly shaped head to the foot worthy of a woman's second glance. A clear, rich complexion, very dark hair and eyes, and a mustache that looks as if it was pencilled in jet. Laura has these darker tints as well. Certainly Mrs. Grandon has no cause to be dissatisfied with her two youngest on the score of good looks.

Floyd lifts Cecil in his arms and admits that she does not make friends easily. Then with a change in his tone, "How finely the place has been kept up! Shall I thank you or mother for it, Eugene? Aunt Marcia's old farm has arrived at great state and dignity. I have seen few places abroad that I like better, though much, of course, on a far grander scale."

"Aunt Marcia 'builded better than she knew.' Grandon Park is the seat of fashion and taste; isn't that right, Marcia? And Floyd, old fellow, _you_ are to be envied. I wish _I_ had been eldest born."

Floyd smiles, yet something in the tone jars a trifle. Then the breakfast-bell rings and they move through the hall just as Madame Lepelletier sweeps down the stairs like a princess in cream cashmere and lace. Her radiance is not impaired by daylight. Marcia seems to shrivel up beside her, and Gertrude looks extremely faded, washed out.

They are all bright and gay. Madame Lepelletier is one of the women who seldom tolerates dulness or that embarrassing awkwardness that occasionally settles even in well-bred circles. She is charming and vivacious, she has resolved that they shall all like her, and though she is not a particularly generous person, she has discerned how she may be of use to them and win herself gratitude and friendship. She is too politic ever to make an enemy, and she keeps her friends so well in hand that their possible defection shall not injure her, but rather themselves. Young, handsome, fascinating, and with abundant means for herself, she has been in no hurry to change her state in life. But Grandon Park and its owner look as tempting this morning as they did in her twilight revery last evening.

"What will you do, Floyd?" asks Eugene, presently. "Come up to the factory, or----"

"Oh," returns Laura, with a kind of merry audacity, blushing a little, "we shall keep him home this morning."

"Well, I must be off. Business, you see. But I shall hold myself free for this afternoon if any of you ladies will honor me," bowing to Madame Lepelletier, who acknowledges it with a ravishing smile that makes every pulse thrill.

Floyd and his mother have the first confidence. There are the sad particulars of the death, now more than six months old. The will has been read, but there is a sealed packet of instruction for Floyd, still in the lawyer's hands. The business seems to be in a rather involved state, what with partners and a patent that Mr. Grandon felt sure would make all their fortunes. The main point relating to Laura is this: While the mother has a yearly income from the business, the girls are to be paid five thousand dollars down, and five thousand more at the expiration of three years. Laura needs hers for present emergencies. But just now there are notes coming due and no money.

"I can easily arrange that," says Floyd, "by advancing Laura's money. How odd this should be the first marriage in the family, and Laura the youngest!"

"You forget your own," remarks his mother, in surprise.

"Why, so I did." And a flush is visible under the bronze. "It is so like a dream to me, over in one short year."

"And you were very much in love, doubtless? It must have been terrible!"

"It was a most unexpected death," ignoring the first remark. "She was so young, a mere child."

Not even to his mother can he express his manhood's views of the whole occurrence. But he knows that he did not love her deeply, and the consciousness will always give him a little shock. At the same time he settles that he is not the kind of man to be swept off his feet by the passion of love.

Then they call Laura in and Floyd explains the ease with which the matter can be settled. "I shall pay you and take your claim against the estate. What kind of a wedding are you to have? You see I must be posted in these matters, so that I shall do myself honor and credit as the head of the family."

"Of course it will have to be rather quiet, as we are still in mourning, and so many of Arthur's family are out of town. He will be up to lunch to-day: I asked him to meet you. But he thought--early in July," and she colors a little, smiling, too. "We are to go to Newport, that is, you know, we really could plan nothing until you came. And, oh, Floyd, it will be so delightful to have Madame Lepelletier! We have been talking it over, and she will help me do my shopping. She is just as good as she is lovely. But if you only could have ordered me some things in Paris!"

"Why, I never bought any such thing in my life," says Floyd, laughingly. "But I have some trinkets among my luggage that you may like, gems and cameos, and some curious bracelets. I did remember that I had some sisters at home."

"Oh, you are really charming! You cannot imagine how doleful we have been. Eugene could not do anything about the money, and he has been in a worry with Mr. Wilmarth and cross if any one said a word."

Floyd laughs at this. The idea of Eugene being cross is amusing.

Laura flits out of the room much elated. She and Arthur can settle everything to-day, and the shopping will be so delightful, for Madame Lepelletier is quite as good as a Frenchwoman.

Mrs. Grandon sighs, and Floyd looks at her questioningly.

"You are so good, Floyd. It is such a relief to have you. I only hope the business will not weary you out, and that--there will be no real trouble."

He kisses Cecil's little