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

admiration as any one. She was always hanging after the professor until he was positively engaged to Gertrude."

"I think Mr. Floyd Grandon is very fond of having his wife admired," says madame, in her sweet, suave tone. "She is such a mere child, after all, and fond of attention. And the sad death of her father, with her mourning, has rather kept her in the background until recently."

"Well, _one_ ought to be enough," returns Marcia, with asperity. "Floyd should display a little good sense, if she has none."

"He is not a jealous husband," and the accompanying smile is judiciously serene.

"Jealous? Well, there is really nothing for him to be jealous about; a man not in love seldom is jealous."

"Not in love?" Madame glances up with subtle, innocent questioning, just raising her brows with the faintest tint of incredulity.

"Oh," says Marcia, with the airy toss of her head, "it was _not_ a love-match, although there was so much talk of Violet's heroism, and all that. And I wonder at Floyd, who could have done so much better, taking her after she had been handed round, as one might say, fairly gone begging for a husband!"

"O Mrs. Wilmarth, not so bad as that!" and madame smiles with seductive encouragement.

Marcia is dying to retail her news. If her mother were at hand; but there is no one of her very own, so madame must answer.

"Well," she says, in a low, confidential tone, "Mr. St. Vincent was extremely anxious to have her married. He actually sounded Mr. Wilmarth," and she gives a shrill little laugh of disdain, "and then he offered her to Eugene."

"I think myself it would have been an excellent match for Eugene," says madame, with motherly kindness in her tone. "That was last summer. I should have counselled him to accept if I had been a sister. It does not seem so strange to me. Marriages are always arranged in France."

Marcia is struck with amazement, nay, more, a touch of mortification. Can it be possible that the family have known this since last summer, and she alone has been shut out?

"We Americans are in the habit of choosing our own husbands," she begins, after a pause.

"Yet you see how admirably this would have worked. The business was left to Eugene, and if he had accepted Mr. St. Vincent's daughter he would have had another share, and the right to control the patent. Your brother cares nothing about the business interests further than they concern the family prosperity, though no doubt he is glad to have his wife an heiress. Men seldom object to money."

Marcia sees it all in that light, for she is not dull, and she is also stirred with a sharp pang of jealousy. If Jasper Wilmarth had known more about her,--he _is_ ambitious, and to control the factory would be a great delight to him. With it all she turns her anger upon the innocent Violet.

"I don't believe Floyd really cared for her money," she says, in an unconvinced tone. "I think he was drawn into it, and she is very ready to--to accept everything that comes in her way."

"Remember that Eugene and she are much nearer in age. I dare say the professor seemed quite like a father to her, and your brother is so grave and scholarly that it is natural to turn to some one young and bright. It seemed to me a great misfortune, and if Eugene had been on the spot I fancy matters would have gone differently. But we really must not gossip about them. They are very happy."

They go on down through the park, and meet acquaintances driving along the boulevard. Eugene and Violet do not choose this well-known way, but Marcia half hopes she shall meet them somewhere and administer a public rebuke in the shape of a frown of such utter disapprobation that both will at once understand. Madame ruminates, as she often has before, on the slender chance that bridged all these matters over before one could utter a dissent. And the most probable sequel will be Eugene's love for his brother's wife. These little incidents are strewn all along life, and are too common to create any particular feeling of surprise.

Marcia will not remain to luncheon, though madame invites her cordially. She is a little late at home, and finds her lord in a rather unamiable state.

"I wonder what Eugene is about?" he asks, sharply. "There are piles of letters to go over, and no end of things to straighten up, and Eugene has not been near the factory this whole morning. He was in only an hour or two yesterday."

"I saw him out driving with Mrs. Floyd," says Marcia, with a sneer that is a weak and small edition of her husband's.

A lowering frown crosses Wilmarth's brow, then an expression quite inscrutable to Marcia,--amusement it looks like, but she knows he is angry and has a right to be.

"I will go down there this afternoon," she says, with alacrity.

"You will do no such thing. No doubt your brother has engaged Eugene to entertain his wife in his absence. For business men they are both----"

The servant comes in and the sentence is unfinished. But Jasper Wilmarth is thinking that no doubt the handsome young man is very pleasing to Mrs. Floyd Grandon, and if the husband should wake up some day on the verge of a scandal, why, it will be one of those rare strokes of accidental, otherwise poetic justice.

Marcia _does_ go "home," as they still call the place. Eugene is not about and Mrs. Latimer is spending the afternoon in an old-fashioned way with a nurse and two children. Marcia's fine moral sense is shocked at the duplicity of Mrs. Floyd, and she announces the fact to her husband at dinner, to which he replies with an uncomfortable laugh.

Eugene brings Violet a letter on his return, and her face is illumined with eager joy. She cannot wait to retire becomingly to her own room, but breaks the seal on the porch, and is deep in its contents.

"Oh!" she cries at first, in disappointment.

"Floyd has gone on to Chicago," announces Eugene. "Wilmarth turned black as a thunder-cloud over the news. He scents treason, stratagems, and conspiracies."

Violet looks up in curious amaze. "Mr. Grandon will never do anything--that is _not_ right," she adds, after a moment.

Eugene shrugs his shoulders. "What may be right enough for him might hit Wilmarth hard," says the young man, and the tone implies that he would rather enjoy the hard hitting.

Violet hardly hears that. She colors delicately over the remainder of the letter, which is not long, but touches her inexpressibly. He misses her amid all this haste and turmoil, and it is sweet to be so dear to him, that he really wants her, that he would like to be at home with her.

"Papa sends you a dozen kisses," she says, as Cecil comes flying towards her.

She is so gay and vivacious through dinner, and afterwards they go out on the river, rowed by Briggs, for Eugene is much too careful of his hands and his exertion to undertake such work this delicious evening. He and Violet sing duets as the purple film displaces the glories of azure and gold, and the twilight shadows the dusky bits of wood, the frowning rocks, and the indentations of shore that might be nereid haunts. The sky turns from its vivid tints to a dreamy gray, then a translucent blue, and a few stars steal slowly out. How lovely it all is! How kind Eugene is proving himself, and she wonders that she never remarked his pleasant traits before! Was it being so much in love with madame that made him captious and irritable, or was it Marcia's little ways of remarking upon every word or act that did not quite please her?

"We must go back," she says, presently. "Cecil has fallen asleep, and it will not do to keep her out in the night air. How utterly lovely it is!" and she gives a deep inspiration of content.

"It is because you enjoy everything in that keen, ardent sort of way," says Eugene. "You are very different from what I thought you at first."

"What did you think me?" she asks, in spite of Briggs sitting calmly there.

"Well, you seemed such a little girl," answers Eugene, "and you were always so shy, except with the professor. Did you really like him so much? I should have been bored to death with all that prosy writing. Briggs," turning to the rower, as Violet covers Cecil more closely, "we will steer our barque homeward. It is a shame not to stay out this magnificent night."

"We ought to be on the river a great deal more," returns Violet. "It is so tranquil and soothing, and there is a suggestive weirdness in it, as if you were going on to some mystery."

Her voice drops to such a soft key as she utters the last word. The very air seems full of mystery to her, of messages carried back and forth. Will hers go to the one she is thinking of?

When they land, Eugene takes Cecil in his arms and carries her up the terrace with a strange emotion of tenderness. He is fond of teasing her and hearing saucy replies, but ordinarily he does not care much for children.

Violet helps to undress the sleepy girl and gives her more than the dozen kisses. Floyd has said in his letter, "I shall keep yours on interest until I come." And she suddenly hides her blushing face on the pillow beside the child. What does all this eager tremor and expectation mean?

"Violet," calls Eugene up the stairway, "come down. Isn't Cecil asleep?"

She would rather stay there and dream, but she seldom thinks of herself first. Cecil is sleeping soundly, and she glides down to talk a little, play a little, and sing a few songs. Listening to her, Eugene begins to consider himself a consummate fool. He would not marry madame if he could. If it were all to do over again,--but then he was _not_ prepossessed with Violet when he first saw her, and now it is too late. He has no high and fine sentiments, he simply recognizes the fact that she is the wife of another; and though youth may indulge in foolish fondness, it is generally older and riper natures that are ready for a plunge in the wild vortex of passion.

Their days pass in simple idyllic fashion. Another party is neglected, and even a German passed by, to the great astonishment of Marcia. She has called home several times, but _they_ have been out, not always together, though she chooses to think so. Violet has spent hours and hours with Mrs. Latimer, whose great charm is that she talks of Floyd Grandon, and she is amused with her ready, devoted listener.

Marcia does find her at home one morning.

"I think it a shame that Eugene did not go to the Brades' last night;" and her voice is thinner, sharper than usual, a sure sign of vexation. "They had counted on him for the German, and were awfully disappointed."

"I did not want to go," replies Violet, in a soft, excusing tone.

"I don't see what that had to do with it," is Marcia's short, pointed comment.

Violet glances up. "Why, yes, he could have gone," she says, cheerfully. "I told him I