Floyd Grandon's Honor Part 12

Mr. St. Vincent is ill, but expects to be sufficiently recovered to return soon.

All these matters occupy a good deal of Floyd Grandon's time. Cecil learns to do without him and allow herself to be amused by Jane and Auntie Gertrude, who is her favorite. Marcia teases her by well-meant but very injudicious attention. Guests and friends come and go, wedding gifts begin to be sent in, and that absorbing air of half-mystery pervades every place.

They have all come to adore Madame Lepelletier. Even Mrs. Grandon is slowly admitting to herself that Floyd could not do better, and half resigns herself to the inevitable second place. Laura takes up the idea with the utmost enthusiasm. Gertrude does not share in this general wors.h.i.+p; she is too listless, and there is a feeling of being distanced so very far that it is uncomfortable.

Strange to say, with all her irresistible tenderness she has not won Cecil. She feels curiously jealous of this little rival, who, wrapped in a shawl, often falls asleep on her father's knee in the evening. He always takes her to drive, whoever else goes; and it comes to be a matter of course that Cecil has the sole right to him when he is in the house and not writing.

There has been so much summer planning. Laura wants madame to come to Newport for a month, and partly extorts a promise from Floyd that he will give her at least a week. Marcia's "hermits" come up to talk over Maine and the Adirondacks and Lake George, and finally settle upon the latter. Their nearest neighbors, the Brades, own a cottage in the vicinity, and beg Mrs. Grandon and madame and Eugene to bestow upon them a week or two. Miss Lucia Brade is extremely sweet upon Eugene, who thrives upon admiration, but has a fancy for laying his own at madame's feet.

"Why did you not escort that pretty Miss Brade home?" she says one evening, when Lucia has been sent in the carriage.

"Why? because my charm was here," he answers audaciously, imprinting a kiss upon her fair hand.

"You foolish boy. And I am too tired to remain. I should be dull company unless you want to walk."

There is the wandering scent of a cigar in the shrubbery, and they may meet Floyd, who has absented himself since dinner.

Eugene goes for her shawl and they take a little ramble. He is very averse to finding his brother, and madame tires even of the gentle promenade.

But the next morning her star is surely in the ascendant. Cecil sleeps late. Floyd is down on the porch, reading and smoking, when the flutter of a diaphanous robe, with billowy laces, attracts his eyes and he smiles an invitation.

"Shall I intrude?" The voice is soft, with a half-entreaty almost as beguiling as Cecil's.

"Indeed, no." There is something wistful in her face, and he gives a graceful invitation with his hand to a seat beside him. She is so royally beautiful this morning, with her fresh, clear skin, the rose-tint on her cheek, her deep, dewy eyes, that still have a slumbrous light in them, the exquisite turn of the throat, and the alluring smile.

"Do you know," she begins, in the seductive tone to which one can but choose to listen,--"do you know that if you had not the burden of Atlas upon your shoulders, I should feel tempted to add just a very little to a smaller burthen."

"My shoulders are broad, you see," and he laughs with an unusual lightness. Somehow he feels happy this morning, as if it was to be a fortunate day. "You have been so kind to Laura, that if we could do anything in return----"

"Oh, women take naturally to weddings, you know! And Laura is such a sweet girl, but so young! I seem ages older. And, shall I come to the point,--I want to establish myself. I cannot always be accepting the hospitality of my dearest friends, and I have a longing for a home. You see American ways have spoiled me already." And she raises her deep, languorous eyes.

"A home?"

"Yes." She laughs a little now. "And I need some sort of banking arrangement, as well as security for valuable papers. I am quite a stranger, you know, and have no relatives."

"Well, you must take us," he answers, in a frank way. "You do not mean a home quite by yourself?"

"Why not? I am tired of hotels and rooms. I want a pretty place, with some congenial friend, where I can call together choice spirits, musical, literary, and artistic, where I can be gay or quiet, read the livelong day if I like." And she smiles again, with an enchanting grace. "I suppose New York would be better for winter. I should have dear Laura to commence with, and not feel quite so lonely. You see, now, I really do want to be anch.o.r.ed to some sort of steadfastness, to do something with my life and my means, even if it is only making a pretty and congenial place in the world where some tired wayfarer may come in and rest. We are so prodigal in youth," and she sighs with seductive regret, while her beautiful eyes droop; "we scatter or throw away the pearls offered us, and later we are glad to go over the way and gather them up, if haply no other traveller has been before us."

He is thinking,--not of the past, as she hopes,--but of her gifts for making an elegant home. His sisters seem crude and untrained beside her. He can imagine such a lovely place with her in the centre, the Old World refinement grafted on the new vigor and earnest purpose.

"Yes," he answers, rousing himself. She sees the effort, and allows a thrill to speed along her pulses. "But--there is no haste, surely? You would not want to go to the city until cool weather. I hope to be there a good deal myself this winter. I have some plans,--if I can ever get this business off my mind."

There is a curious little exultation in her heart now, but her moods and features are well trained. Her face is full of sympathy as she raises her beguiling eyes.

"It is a difficult place to fill, to give satisfaction," she says, "and you are so new to business. As I remember, you did not like it in the old days."

"No." He gives a short laugh. "And, thinking of myself, I find more excuse for Eugene's distaste. Yet if I were to let it go, the family fortunes would go with it, and I might justly be blamed. I must keep it for the year, at all events."

"Is it--very bad?" she asks, timidly.

"I cannot seem to get any true understanding of the case. When Mr. St.

Vincent comes back we shall go at it in real earnest. And, in any event, your portion shall be made safe."

"Oh, do not think of that, it is such a mere trifle! I supposed mamma had drawn it all out until I looked over her papers. Then I had a notice of the settlement, but I should have come home in any event.

I had grown tired of Europe, very tired. I dare say you think me _ennuied_, whimsical."

"Indeed, I do not," warmly. "Home is to a woman what the setting is to a diamond. And though the advice of such a rambler may not be worth much, still, whatever I can do----"

He pauses and his eye rests upon her, takes in her exceeding beauty, grace, and repose; the admirable fitness for every little exigency that society training gives. She seems a part of the morning picture, and akin to the fresh, odorous air, the soft yet glowing sun, the rippling river, the changeful melody of flitting birds. He is fresh now, not vexed and nervous with the cares of the day; he has been reading an old poet, too, which has softened him.

An oriole perches on the tree near him and begins an enchanting song.

Both turn, and she leans over the railing, still in range of his eyes.

He remembers like a sudden flash that they were here years ago, planning, dreaming, hoping, she his promised wife. Does it stir his soul? Was that merely a young man's fancy for a pretty girl, engendered by friendly companions.h.i.+p? She glances up so quickly that he flushes and is half ashamed of speculating upon her.

"It is delightful! Ah, I do not wonder you love this morning hour, when beauty reigns supreme, before the toil and moil of the world has begun.

It stirs one's heart to wors.h.i.+p. And yet we, senseless creatures, dance through starry midnights in hot rooms, and waste such heavenly hours in stupid slumber. Do you wonder that I am tired of it all?"

"Papa, papa!" Cecil comes dancing like a sprite of the morning, and clasping his hand, springs upon his knee, burying her face in his beard, her soft lips sweet with kisses. Then as if remembering, turns, says, "Good morning, madame," with a grave inclination of the head, and nestles down on his lap. Madame could strangle her, but she smiles sweetly, and speaks with subtle tenderness in which there is a touch of longing. Floyd wonders again how it is that Cecil is blind to all this attraction.

Then the conversation drops to commonplaces, and the breakfast-bell rings. There is so much to do. To-morrow is the wedding morning, and the guests will begin to come to-day. Floyd will give up one of his rooms and take Cecil. Eugene is in his glory, and is really much more master of ceremonies than Floyd can be. There is nothing but flurry and excitement, but madame keeps cool as an angel. Mrs. Vandervoort and Mrs. Latimer, the bridegroom's sisters, both elegant society women, do not in the least s.h.i.+ne her down, and are completely captivated by her.

"Of course she must come to Newport, Laura," says Mrs. Vandervoort.

"She is trained to enjoy just such society. And next winter she will be the social success of the city. I delight in American belles," says this patriotic woman, who has been at nearly every court in Europe, and can still appreciate her own countrywomen, "but they do need judicious foreign training."

The wedding morning dawns auspiciously. The house is sweet with flowers. Gertrude is roused from her apathy, and looks an interesting invalid. Marcia is airy and childish, Madame Lepelletier simply magnificent, and the bride extremely handsome in dead white silk and tulle, with cl.u.s.ters of natural rosebuds.

Floyd gives the bride away, and, much moved, breathes a prayer for her happiness. The vows are said; they come home to an elegant wedding breakfast, managed by colored waiters who know their business perfectly. There are some friendly, informal neighborhood calls, and all is very gay and bright. Eugene, Marcia, and the Brades are going up the river with them; Mr. and Mrs. Delancy will travel leisurely through Canada and come down to Newport to be Mrs. Vandervoort's guests for the remainder of the summer. Madame Lepelletier has some business to settle, and will rejoin them as soon as possible.

There is very great confusion afterwards, but by dusk matters get pretty well settled in their olden channel. Madame declares it an extremely pretty wedding, and praises Laura's self-command, which, after all, was largely compounded of perfect satisfaction.

And now there will be a lull, and it shall go hard indeed if Madame Lepelletier cannot use some charm to draw this indifferent man towards her. She is beginning to hate the child who always rivals her; but certainly she can circ.u.mvent the little thing when she has all her time to herself and can use her eyes for her own advantage.

It seems odd to have such a small, quiet breakfast-table, to see his mother in her black gown again, and Gertrude's morning dress tied with black ribbons. They all talk rather languidly, when an interruption occurs. Briggs brings in a note for Mr. Grandon.

"An old woman brought it," he announces, "and she is waiting outside for an answer. She would not come in."

Floyd remarks that it is unsealed. Its contents are brief, but written in a fine, irregular hand.

"_Will Mr. Grandon come at once to Mr. St. Vincent, who is ill in bed?_"

Grandon rises suddenly and goes out. On the wide step of the porch sits the old housekeeper, but she glances up with dark, bright eyes.

"You will come?" she begins, eagerly.

"Yes. When did Mr. St. Vincent return?"