Floyd Grandon's Honor Part 22

They go through to the study. He remembers the picture he saw here one day. Then they continue their walk past her plain little nun's room, with Denise's opening out of it. The house being built on a side-hill makes this just above the kitchen. Down-stairs there are four more rooms.

Never was man more at a loss for some of the kindly commonplaces of society. She seems sacred in her grief, and he cannot offer the stern comfort wherewith a man solaces himself; he is too new for the little nothings of love, and so they walk gravely on, down the stairs again, and out on the porch that hangs over the slope. But she likes him the better for his silence, and the air of strength seems to stir her languid pulses.

Denise summons them to their meal. He pours a trifle of wine for her in the daintiest, thinnest gla.s.s, she pours tea for him in a cup that would make a hunter of rare old china thrill to the finger-ends. He puts a bit of the cold chicken on her plate, and insists that she shall try the toast and the creamed potatoes. She has such a meek little habit of obedience that he almost smiles.

When the dessert has been eaten and they rise, Denise says, with kindly authority, "Go take a walk in the garden, Miss Violet, while I talk to Mr. Grandon. Pardon me; madame, I mean."

Grandon smiles, and Violet, looking at him, smiles also, but goes with her light movement, so full of grace.

"It is about the child's clothes, monsieur," Denise begins, her wrinkled face flus.h.i.+ng. "She has no trousseau, there has been no time, and I am an old woman, but it is all mourning, and she does not like black. It is too gloomy for the child, but what is to be done?"

Floyd Grandon is much puzzled. If madame,--but no, he would not want madame's wisdom in this case, even if he could have it. There is his mother; well, he cannot ask her. Gertrude would not feel able to bother.

"She wore a dress to the funeral," he says, with the vaguest idea of what it was.

"Her father would have her buy some pretty light things when she was in the city, but her other dresses are what she had at school, gray and black. They are not suitable for madame. Some are still short----"

"You will have to go with her," Grandon says. "I can take you both into the city some day."

"But I do not know----"

"I will find out what is wanted. Yes, you will go with her; she would feel more at home with you," he says, in his authoritative manner.

Denise courtesies meekly.

"I am going to keep the house just as it is," announces Grandon. "She will like to come every day until she gets a little settled in her new home. I hope she will be happy."

"She could not fail to be happy with you and your little girl." Denise answers, with confident simplicity.

Floyd bethinks himself. Mrs. Grandon must be taken home in the carriage. He will begin by paying her all honor. There is no one to send, so he must e'en but go himself. He finds Violet in the garden and tells her to make herself ready against his coming.

She would like to go in her white dress, just as she is, but Denise overrules so great a blunder, and when Grandon returns he finds a pale little nun in black, with a close bonnet and long veil. Cecil has come with him, and is shocked at this strange metamorphosis. She draws back in dismay.

"Cecil!" The voice is so longingly, so entreatingly sweet that Floyd Grandon stands transfixed. "You have not forgotten that you loved me!"

"But--you are not pretty in that bonnet. It is just like grandmamma's, and the long veil----"

"Never mind, my dear," says her father, and inwardly he anathematizes fas.h.i.+on. Violet is not as pretty as she was an hour ago. The black makes her suns.h.i.+ny hair look almost red, and her face is so very grave.

They have a nice long ride first. Cecil presently thaws into the mistress of ceremonies in a very amusing manner.

"My doll is not as large as yours," she confesses, "but I will let you play with it. Can't you bring yours, too, and then we will each have one. You are going to live always at papa's house, you know, and you can tell me stories. Jane said I would have to learn lessons, will I?"

"Oh, I should so like to teach you," says Violet, flus.h.i.+ng.

"But you must not scold me! Papa never lets any one scold me," she announces, with a positive air.

"I never should," and Violet wipes away some tears. "I shall always love you."

"Oh, don't cry!" Cecil is deeply moved now, and her own lovely eyes fill. Grandon winks his hard and turns his face aside. They are two children comforting one another.

Violet is quite amazed as they drive around the wide sweep of gravelled way. Floyd hands her out. "This is your home henceforth," he says. "You and Cecil are the two treasures I have brought to it, and I hope neither of you will take wings and fly away. I shall look for you both to make me very happy."

He has touched the right chord. She glances up and smiles, and is transfigured in spite of the dismal mourning gear. If she _can_ do anything for him! If the benefits will not always lie on his side!

He takes her straight through to the elegant drawing-room. She shall be paid the honors in her own proper sphere. While he is waiting he unties the ugly little bonnet and takes her out of her c.r.a.pe shroud, as it looks to him.

"Mrs. Grandon has gone out to drive," announces Mary, who has been instructed to say just this, without a bit of apology.

Gertrude stands in the doorway. She nearly always wears long white woollen wrappers that cling to her figure and trail on the ground, and intensify the appearance of attenuation. A pale lavender Shetland shawl is wrapped about her. She has had quite a discussion with her mother, in which she had evinced unwonted spirit. Floyd has been good to them, and it will be dreadfully ungenerous to begin by treating his wife badly.

Her brother's face is flashed with indignation. "I am glad you had the grace to come, Gertrude," he exclaims, pointedly, and takes her over to Violet, who looks up entreatingly at the tall figure.

"Oh," she says, confusedly, "what a little dot you are! And Violet is such a pretty name for you."

"I hope you will like me. I hope----"

"If you can put up with me," is the rejoinder. "I am in wretched health and scarcely stir from my sofa, but I am sure I _shall_ like you"; and Gertrude resolves bravely that she will be on the side of the new wife, if it does not cost her too much exertion.

"What a lovely house!" and Violet draws a long, satisfied breath. "And the river is so near."

"You must never go without Jane," annotates Cecil; "must she, papa?"

They all smile at this. "I should not like to have her lost," says papa, gravely.

"Do you ever go out rowing or sailing?"

"I never do," and Gertrude shudders. "I cannot bear the heat of the sun or the chill of evening. But we have boats."

"And I am a crack oarsman," says Grandon. "I shall practise up for a match."

They begin to ramble about presently. It really is better than if Mrs.

Grandon was at home. Out on the wide porches, through the library, up the tower, and Violet is in ecstasies with the view. Then they come down through the chambers, and the young wife feels as if she had been inspecting a palace. How very rich Mr. Grandon must be! If papa had lived he might have made the fortune he used to study over.

Violet is quite bright and flushed when the dinner-bell rings, and is introduced to her husband's mother at the head of the elegantly appointed table. She is in rich black silk, with c.r.a.pe folds, and very handsome jet ornaments, and Violet shrinks into herself as the sharp eyes glance her over. Why should they be so unfriendly? All conversation languishes, as Cecil is trained not to talk at the table.

Violet returns to the drawing-room and walks wistfully about the grand piano. Floyd opens it for her and begs her to amuse herself whenever she feels so inclined. "Is he quite certain no one will be annoyed?"

"Quite." Then she seats herself. She has had no piano at the eyrie.

This is delicious. She runs her fingers lightly over the keys and evokes the softest magic music, the sweetest, saddest strains. They stir Floyd's very soul as he sits with Cecil on his knee, who is large-eyed and wondering.

Mrs. Grandon saunters in presently. "How close it is," she exclaims, "and I have such an excruciating headache!"

"Ah," says Violet, sympathetically. "I had better not continue playing, it might distress you."

"Oh, no, you need not mind." The tone is that of a martyr, and Violet stops with a last tender strain. Floyd Grandon is so angry that he dare not trust his voice to speak. Violet stands for a moment undecided, then he stretches out his hand, and she is so glad of the warm clasp in that great lonely room.

"Let us go out to walk. It is not quite dark yet. Cecil, ask Jane to bring some shawls."