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

does not dream that in this early stage another lover would have comforted Pauline. She is so simple, so absolutely truthful, that her youthful discernment is quite at fault.

"You must let yourself be happy," she says, and then she remembers how she has let herself be happy and the bitter awakening. But in this case there is nothing to break a confidence once established.

"And what are you going to do?" he asks, suddenly.

It is like a great wave and almost takes her off her feet.

"You must not think of me, nor watch me, nor anything"; and an observant man would note the strain of agony in her voice. "It was very good in your brother to take care of me as he did. Mr. Sherburne said to-day that not one man in a hundred would have brought the matter to such a successful issue. And you know if everything had been lost, why, I should have been a burthen on him. Think of _us_ having nothing at all! What could you do?"

He shrugs his shoulders in the dark, and he knows he should not want her or any other woman in poverty.

"I shall have a pleasant life," she continues. "I can do a great deal for Cecil; and I can copy and translate, and Mr. Grandon is so fond of music. I know we shall be happy when this business no longer perplexes him and he has a little leisure. He is always so good and thoughtful. You couldn't expect him to love a little girl like me, fresh from a convent, with no especial beauty," she says, with heroic bravery.

"And you will forget about me," the young man returns, with jealous selfishness.

"I shall forget nothing that is right to be remembered," she says, steadily; "and I like Miss Murray; we shall be friends always. She seems such a young girl and I am only eighteen. We shall love each other and take an interest in each other's houses. Now that Gertrude is away, no one cares very much for me."

"It is a shame!" he interrupts, indignantly. "You and Polly must always love each other. We shall live somewhere around Grandon Park, I suppose."

"And we will all end like a fairy story," she declares, trying to laugh, but it is such a poor, mirthless sound.

She sees with secret joy that he is somewhat comforted, and she trusts to Polly's fascinations to achieve the rest. Love is not quite what poets sing about, unless in such lives as Mr. and Mrs. Latimer.

The air is so fragrant, the night so beautiful, that the moments fly faster than she thinks. The clock strikes ten, and in a little trepidation she insists that it shall be good night, and glides up the path and through the hall, and in Cecil's room comes face to face with Mr. Grandon, who has been home long enough to divest himself of coat, necktie, and collar. She stands quite still in amaze, the quick flush he has always admired going up to the very edge of her hair.

"You are out late walking," he says, in a tone that seems to stab her. "I trust you were not alone."

"I was not alone." He is quite welcome to know all. "I was with Eugene. He----" How shall she best tell it? Alas! the very hesitation is fatal. "He is engaged to Miss Murray."

"He abounds in the wisdom of the children of this world," comments Floyd Grandon, with bitter satire. "It is the best step he could take, but I hope Miss Murray will never regret it. She is young to take up life's most difficult problem, a vain, selfish, handsome man."

Violet's lips are dry and her throat constricted. Mr. Grandon is displeased; he has not been well pleased with Eugene of late. She can make no present peace between them; something in the sad depths of her heart tells her that it is useless to try. That this man before her, her wedded husband, who has never been her lover, should be jealous, is the last thought that would occur to her. She is a little afraid he suspects Eugene, but there never will be any cause again. She will not rest until she sees him devoted to Miss Murray. She can make no confidence, so she kisses Cecil, and begins to take some roses from her hair with untender fingers and the nervousness that confesses her ill at ease.

Floyd Grandon walks over to the window. For perhaps the first time in his life he is swayed by a purely barbaric element. Men beat or shoot or stab their wives under the dominion of such a passion! He is almost tempted to fly down-stairs and confront Eugene and have it out with him. To go at this fragile little wraith, who is now pale as a snow-drop, would be too unmanly. He holds himself firmly in hand, and the tornado of jealousy sweeps over him. Why has he never experienced it before? Can it be that he has come to love her so supremely? His brain seems to swim around, he drops into the chair and gives a gasp for breath at this strange revelation. Yes, he loves her, and she would be happier with Eugene! He has marred the life he meant to shield with so much tenderness.

When his passion is spent an utter humiliation succeeds. He is ashamed at his time of life of giving way to any emotion so strongly; he has clipped and controlled himself, governed and suppressed rigorously, and in a moment all the barriers have been swept away. Is this the high and fine honor on which he has so prided himself?

Some other steps are coming up the stairs. There is a little lingering good night, a parting of the ways, and Eugene goes to his room. What is there in this false, handsome face that can so move the hearts of both these women? Does Violet fancy herself beloved, the victim of a cruel fate? Does Pauline Murray believe she is going to happy wifehood when her husband-elect secretly desires another?

Floyd Grandon sits there until past midnight. Violet has breathed her patient, tender, penitent prayer, wept a few dreary tears, and fallen asleep. She looks hardly more than a child, and he could pity her if he did not love her so much, but in its very newness his love is cruel. It is not him for whom she secretly sighs, but another. And a dim wonder comes to his inmost soul--did ever any woman longing, and being denied, suffer this exquisite torture?

The world looks different in the flood of morning sunshine. Mr. Murray's cheery, inspiriting tones are heard in the hall below, Cecil's bird-like treble, Mr. Haviland's slow but not unmelodious tone, and Pauline's witching mockery. Her father has been teazing her, and when Violet comes down, she stands in the hall, golden crowned and rose-red, slim and tall, and is the embodiment of delight.

It all comes out, of course. Eugene bears his honors gallantly, and looks handsomer than ever. Mr. Murray is really proud of Polly's choice, for, after all, the principal duty of the young people will be to charm society. Eugene is a high-bred, showy animal, with regular points and paces, and is not to be easily distanced on the great course of fashion. Violet watches him in dim amaze. Is he assuming all this joy and delight?

"It's just too lovely!" Polly says afterward, when she gets Mrs. Grandon alone. "And do you know, I _was_ jealous last night when you and Eugene meandered up and down the shrubbery;" and a secret elation shines in her eyes. "I made him tell me all you said; _did_ you really want him to marry me? Do you love me, you dear little angel?"

If she is a little struck at Eugene's way of confessing to his sweetheart, she does not betray any suspicion of mendacity. She can truly say she likes Pauline, and that she is glad of the engagement, that she and Polly are certain to be the best of friends. The warms arms around her are so fond, the kisses so delicately sweet, the exaggerations of feeling are so utterly delicious, that Violet yields to the fascination and adores Polly to her heart's content, and Polly promises that Eugene shall dance with her and be just the same real brother that he was before.

It seems as though business had but just begun. The elders talk law: it is the surrogate's office and the orphans' court and published notices. Eugene formally dissolves partnership with Jasper Wilmarth, and for a "consideration," which he insists is Polly, transfers his half to Mr. Murray. Wilmarth is offered a large price for his quarter-share, but he resolves to fight to the bitter end. Of course he must give up, but he means to make all the trouble possible. Marcia flies hither and thither like a wasp, stinging wherever she can, but in these days Violet is guarded a good deal by Polly and her lover. Grown bolder, she at length attacks Floyd, accusing him of treachery and avarice and half the crimes in the calendar. Violet's fortune is flung up,--"The fortune no one else would touch, though it was offered to them," says Marcia, crushingly.

Floyd loses his temper.

"Marcia," he says, "never let me hear you make that accusation! Mr. Wilmarth went to Canada for that deliberate purpose, and urged his suit up to the very last day of Mr. St. Vincent's life. He would have been too glad to have swept the whole concern into his hands, and swallowed up your portion as well. It has been an unthankful office from first to last, and but for my father's sake I should have thrown it up at once."

Marcia is white to the lips. Either Jasper Wilmarth has deceived her, or her brother Floyd standing here does not tell the truth! To foolish Marcia there has been something quite heroic in Mr. Wilmarth refusing so tempting an offer and choosing _her_.

"He did not care for such a mere child," she says, with obstinate pride.

"But he _did_ care for the money. And in the mean while he was depreciating the business and doing his utmost to ruin it. If _you_ love him," he says, "well and good, but do not insist that I shall. I can never either honor or esteem him. I saw through him too easily."

"I think you are very indiscreet, Marcia," exclaims her mother, when Floyd has left the room. "Do try to keep peaceable. It is a shame to have you quarrelling all the time! How could he help disposing of the business? It was only held in trust until it could be settled."

For Mrs. Grandon has resolved herself into quite a comfortable frame of mind. Eugene will not come to grief; on the contrary, his prospects are so bright that her spirits rise accordingly. He is her darling, her pride. She has no foolish jealousy of the young girl who is to be his wife,--she could not have chosen better herself. Her motherly cares are at an end, her income is assured. She would rather have Madame Lepelletier in Violet's place, but she will not allow the one bitter to spoil so much sweet.

Madame Lepelletier is somewhat amazed at the turn affairs have taken. Eugene has not been the trump card she hoped. There is so much going on at the great house that she is quite distanced.

But one evening Floyd comes down with a message that he has not cared to trust to