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

He is not tired of life at three-and-thirty, if some events are not shaped quite to his liking.

He washes up and tidies himself a little, but his coat he finds rather a wreck after the deadly struggle. He sends one of the men out for some breakfast, and shortly after that is despatched, the Grandon carriage drives up, its occupants more than astonished. The brief alarm in the night has not reached them.

Floyd leads them into the office and the door is closed. He relates his singular story with concise brevity, and the little group listen in amazement.

"The man has been a villain all the way through," declares Eugene, with virtuous severity. "He did actually convince me last summer that St. Vincent's plan would prove a complete failure, and that the business would be nothing, yet he made me what I considered generous offers for so poor an establishment. But for Floyd," he admits, with great magnanimity, "I should have played into his hands."

"I think," Floyd announces, after every one has expressed frank indignation, "that for a day or two we had better keep silent. I will have the damage repaired, and now, it seems, having him at your mercy, you can compel him to a bargain," and he glances at Murray.

They agree upon this plan and go over the building. The machinery is very slightly damaged; the stock, not being inflammable, has been injured more by water, but they find rags and cotton-waste saturated with kerosene. Once under good headway the building would surely have gone.

"Mr. Grandon," and a lad comes rushing up-stairs, "there is some one to see you in a great hurry, down here in a wagon."

It is Marcia's pony phaeton, and two ladies are in it, one a Mrs. Locke, Marcia's neighbor.

"I have been down to Grandon Park," she begins, nervously. "I had some dreadful tidings! What a terrible night! Your sister----"

"What has happened to Mrs. Wilmarth?" he cries, in alarm. Can her husband have wreaked his vengeance upon her?

"Her husband was found dead this morning in his library. He had been writing, and had not gone to bed. She discovered him, and it was an awful shock. She has just gone from one faint to another. Her mother sent me here, though Mrs. Grandon has gone to her."

Are the horrors of this strange night never to cease? For a moment Floyd seems stricken dumb, then the tidings appear quite impossible.

"No one could do anything," Mrs. Locke says. "A physician came, but he was quite dead; and he, Dr. Radford, ordered some members of your family to be sent for immediately."

"Eugene," calls Floyd. "Here, change coats with me if I can get into yours. There is trouble at Marcia's. Remain here until I send you word," and he springs into the large carriage, driving away at full speed.

The house wears an unusual aspect. Several people are gathered on the porch. Floyd hurries within, and goes straight through to the library, lifting the portiere. Dr. Radford is sitting by the window. Jasper Wilmarth is still in his chair, his head fallen over on the desk, pillowed by one arm. The swarthy face is now marble pale, the line of eyebrows blacker than ever, the lips slightly apart.

Radford bows and steps forward. "Mr. Grandon--I am glad you have come, for there is a little--a--I wish to tell _you_--before any steps are taken. It is suicide, beyond doubt, by prussic acid. Can you divine any cause?"

Floyd Grandon is as pale as the corpse, and staggers a step or two; but when the terrible shock abates, an admiration for his enemy pervades his very soul. It is what he would have done rather than meet criminal disgrace.

"I have been treating him for a heart trouble, not anything critical, and a local affection that caused him some anxiety. My first thought was that he had taken an overdose of medicine, but I detected the peculiar odor. Had there better be an inquest?"

Floyd shivers at the thought of the publicity. Death seems by far the best solution of events, but to make a wonderment and scandal--

"Is it absolutely necessary?"

"Not unless the family desire it."

"Doctors are sometimes taken into strange confidences," Floyd Grandon begins, gravely. "A difficulty came to my knowledge last night that supplies the clew. Since the man could not have retained his honor, this is the sad result. But having paid the penalty, if he might go to his last rest quietly----"

"There can be no suspicion of foul play. His wife left him here writing, at eleven. He seemed rather as if he wished her away, and she retired, falling soundly asleep. He has sometimes remained down all night, and even when she entered the room this morning she supposed him still asleep. I should judge the poison had been taken somewhat after midnight. There are various phases of accidental death----"

"Let it be managed as quietly as is lawful," decides Floyd Grandon.

Dr. Radford bows. "A post mortem will be sufficient, though that is not absolutely necessary. You prefer it to pass as an accidental death?"

"The family would, I am positive. Can I intrust the matter with you?"

"Certainly."

"Well. Prepare the body for burial. Mrs. Wilmarth may choose to order the rest."

He finds Marcia still in hysterics, and his mother half bewildered. "It is so horribly sudden!" she cries. "Poor Marcia! she did really love him!"

Let her keep her faith in him if she can. Her short wedded life has been the froth and sparkle on the beaded cup, never reaching the dregs. This man has hated him because he interfered with his plans and unearthed his selfish purposes, but _he_, Grandon, has no desire for revenge. Let him wrap himself in the garment of dead honor, his shall not be the hand to tear it asunder.

He takes the tidings back to the factory with him. They look over Wilmarth's desk. There are no private papers, but they find two notices that the insurance policy has expired. For almost a week the place has been uninsured.

"Well," he comments, with a grim smile, "we shall at least escape an inquisitorial examination. Jasper Wilmarth planned better for us than he knew. But this must be renewed to-day, and the damage repaired as speedily as possible. The transfer will have to wait until after the funeral. As for the rest, we may as well keep our own counsel."

They all agree with him. The factory will be closed for repairs. That it was an incendiary fire they must perforce admit, but beyond that they will make no unnecessary talk. Eugene drives down home and does a few errands, but the others are busy all day arranging matters for the future. Before Floyd goes home he visits Marcia, who is still wild with her grief. The house is full of friends. The library is closed and watchers are there. Mrs. Grandon will remain.

So it is almost night when Floyd reaches home. Violet and Pauline know there was a fire that would have worked complete devastation if Floyd had not fortunately gone to the factory. Eugene has given him the setting off of a hero, and would like to picture to their wondering eyes that deadly struggle, but is bound by a sacred promise. They are horrified, too, by Mr. Wilmarth's sudden death. Violet's heart swells with pity as she sees the pale, tired face and heavy eyes. She would like to fly to his arms with infinite sympathy, but he is never very demonstrative, and now it seems ill-timed. She starts to follow him up-stairs, but Briggs intercepts her,--cook wants to know something, and she has to give a few orders. There seems some difficulty about dessert, and she attends to its arrangement, then the bell rings.

Dinner topics are quite exciting. The Brades come in afterward, and several of the near friends.

"I must beg to be excused," Floyd says, after smoking a cigar with the gentlemen. "I am dead tired and half asleep. Good night," softly, with a little pressure on Violet's arm. Cecil runs for a kiss, and he passes through the group on the porch. Violet's heart swells and for an instant she forgets what she is saying. When, three hours afterward, she steals noiselessly to his room, he is locked in slumber. If she dared bend and kiss him! If only he _loved_ her!

The excitement does not in any wise die out, but the one incident seems to offset the other. Mr. Haviland returns to his family, as some time must elapse before the completion of the matter, but they are to take full possession on the first of October. Mr. Murray is planning some kind of a home for Polly that will presently include her husband. Eugene really blossoms out in a most attractive light. Prosperity and freedom from care are the elements on which he thrives serenely. He could never make any fight with circumstances,--not so much from inability as sheer indolence. For such people some one always cares. "Life's pure blessings manifold" seem showered upon them, while worthier souls are left to buffet with adversity.

Marcia is inconsolable, Mrs. Grandon advises a little composure and common sense, but it is of no avail. Madame comes, with her sweet philosophy and sweeter voice, and Violet with tears, but nothing rouses her except the depth of crape on her dress and the quality of her veil. Grandon Park and Westbrook are shocked by the awful suddenness. There is always a peculiar awe about an accidental death, and it passes for an overdose of powerful medicine Mr. Wilmarth was in the habit of using.

The dead face holds its secret well. A rugged, unhandsome one at the best, it is softened by the last change; the sneer has gone out of it, and an almost grand composure settles in its place. Floyd Grandon studies it intently. A few trifling circumstances roused his distrust, and--was it destined beforehand that he should cross Wilmarth at every turn? He has saved his enemy's honor as well as his own, and a great pity moves him.

Floyd attends Marcia; no one else can control her. Eugene takes Violet and his mother, Mr. Murray has his own pretty daughter and Madame Lepelletier. Besides this there is a long procession to the church, and carriages without number to the beautiful cemetery two miles distant. The world may not have much admired Mr. Wilmarth, but it knows nothing against him, and his romantic marriage was in his favor. So he is buried with all due respect in that depository of so many secrets, marred and gnarled and ruined lives.

Marcia is brought home to her brother's and takes to her bed. The day following is Sunday, a glorious, sun-ripe September day. The air is rich with ripening fruit, the pungent odor of drying balsams, chrysanthemums coming into bloom, and asters starring the hillsides. The sky is a faultless blue overhead, the river takes its tint and flows on, a broad blue ribbon between rocky shores. A strange, calm day that moves every one to silence and tender solemnity.

But to Sunday succeeds the steady tramp of business. Fortunately for Marcia, and Floyd as well, Mr. Wilmarth has made a will in the first flush of marital satisfaction, bequeathing nearly everything to her, except a few legacies. It increased her adoration at the time, and did no harm to him since he knew he could change it if he saw passionately, decorously, and she can also enjoy her new found liberty.

Laura's return is