Floyd Grandon's Honor Part 25

"Should you hate to owe that much to me?" he questions.

"I----"

"My dear girl--Tell her, Denise, that she is quite an heiress, and that if all goes well she will one day be very rich. It is your father's gift to you, Violet, not mine."

The troublesome scarlet dies away. She comes to him and takes his hand in her soft palms. "I would be willing to owe anything to you," she says, "but----"

"I owe you the greatest of all; a debt I never can repay, remember that, _always_." And drawing her to him he kisses her gently. "And now I have about fifteen minutes to spare; try on some of this white gear and let me see how you look."

She puts on the white and purple. It has a demi-train, and seems fas.h.i.+oned exactly for her figure. He is awaiting her in her father's room and looks her over with a critical eye. She is very pretty. She can stand comparison now with madame or Laura or any of them. She knows he is quite satisfied with her.

"Now," he continues, "Denise must pack them up again and I will send them down home. After a week or so there will be visitors. Some day you will find yourself Mrs. Grandon. I do not believe you at all realize it yet."

She colors vividly. In the great house she is seldom honored by any name. Even the servants are not quite determined what respect shall be paid her.

Grandon kisses them both and is off. What a pretty, dainty pride the girl has! Yet yesterday he sent the check without a thought of demur, though Madame Vauban has made the trousseau as costly as circ.u.mstances and her own reputation will permit. If she is never the heiress he hopes she will be, he must be more than thankful then that she is wife instead of ward.

Violet spends nearly all the morning arraying herself, to Cecil's intense delight. Denise looks on with glistening eyes. She is as anxious as Grandon that her young mistress shall hold up her head with the best of them.

"But you have a prince for a husband, ma'm'selle," she says.

The prince meanwhile finds matters not so pleasant at the factory. His bright mood is confronted with an evident cloud looming up much larger than a man's hand. The main hall is filled with workmen standing about in groups, with lowering brows and lips set in unflinching resolution, as if their wills were strongly centred upon some object to be fought for if not gained. Grandon glances at them in surprise, then walks firmly through them with no interruption, pauses at the entrance and faces them, a.s.sured that he is the one they desire to see.

One of the men, st.u.r.dy and dark-browed, steps forward, clears his throat, and with a half-surly inclination of the head begins, "Mr.

Grandon," and then something intangible awes him a trifle. They may grumble among themselves, and lately they have found it easy to complain to Mr. Wilmarth, but the unconscious air of authority, the superior breeding, and fine, questioning eyes disconcert the man, who pulls himself together with the certainty that this gentleman, aristocrat as he is, has no right to set himself at the head of the business and tie every one's hands.

"Mr. Grandon," with a sort of rough, sullen courage, "me and my mates here are tired of the way things are going on. We can't work under the new man. We never had a day's trouble with Mr. Brent, who understood his business. We want to know if he is coming back at the end of the month; if not----"

"Well, if he is not, what then?" The words ring out clear and incisive.

"Then," angrily, "we'll quit! We've resolved not to work under the new one. Either he goes or we will."

"He will not go out until I am quite ready."

"Then, mates, we will knock off. We're willing to come to any reasonable terms, Mr. Grandon, and do our best, but we won't stand false accusations, and we're tired of this sort of thing."

Floyd Grandon would give a good deal for a glance into the face of Rising or Lindmeyer as inspiration for his next word. It is really a step in the dark, but he is bound to stand by them.

"Very well," he replies. "When two parties cannot get along amicably, it is best to separate."

The men seem rather nonplussed, not expecting so brief and decisive a result. They turn lingeringly, stare at each other, and march toward Wilmarth's office.

Grandon goes straight to the workroom. Half a dozen men are still at their looms.

"O Mr. Grandon!" begins Rising, with a face of the utmost anxiety, but Lindmeyer has a half-smile on his lips as he advances, which breaks into an unmirthful laugh.

"Quite a strike or an insurrection, with some muttered thunder! I hope you let them go; it will be a good day's work if you have."

"What was the trouble?" Grandon's spirits rise a trifle.

"The machinery and the new looms have been tampered with continually, just enough to keep everything out of gear. Nearly every improvement, you know, has to fight its way through opposition in the beginning. The men declare themselves innocent, and puzzled over it, but it certainly has been done. There are five excellent weavers left, Rising says."

"I would rather go on with just those a few days, until I am able to decide two or three points. And if you don't object, I should like to remain here at night."

"And we shall need a watchman. A little preventive, you know, is better than a great deal of cure."

Both men take the _emeute_ in such good part that Grandon gains confidence.

Back of this morning's dispute there has been dissatisfaction and covert insolence, and the two are thankful that the end of the trouble is reached.

Grandon returns to the office heavy hearted in spite of all. There are victories which ruin the conqueror, and even his may be too dearly bought.

A knock at the half-open door rouses him, but before he answers he knows it is Wilmarth.

"Mr. Grandon," begins that gentleman, with a kind of bitter suavity, "may I inquire into the causes that have led to this very unwise disturbance among our working forces?"

"I think the men are better able to tell their own story. They made an abrupt demand of me that Mr. Rising must be dismissed or they would go.

Our agreement was for a month's trial, and the month is not ended. I stand by my men."

Grandon's voice is slow and undisturbed by any heat of pa.s.sion.

"But you do not know, perhaps. They were unjustly accused."

"Unjustly?"

That one word in the peculiar tone it is uttered checks Wilmarth curiously.

"Mr. Grandon," and he takes a few quick steps up and down the room, "do you a.s.sume that I have _no_ rights, that you have all the power, judgment, and knowledge requisite for a large establishment like this, when it is quite foreign to any previous experience of yours? Is no one to be allowed a word of counsel or advice? or even to know what schemes or plans are going on?"

"Mr. Wilmarth, all that was settled at Mr. Sherburne's office. It was decided that, being the executor and trusted agent of my father, and also the husband of Miss St. Vincent, gave me the controlling voice, and you consented to the month's trial."

"And am I to stand idly by and let you drive the thing to ruin?

discharge workmen, break contracts, shut up the place, and have no voice in the matter?"

"You had a voice then!"

"But you very wisely withheld the outcome of your plans. I should not have consented to my own ruin."

"Mr. Wilmarth, if you can decide upon any reasonable price for your share, I will purchase it. It cannot be a comfortable feeling to know yourself in a sinking s.h.i.+p, with no means of rescue. If you are doubtful of success, name your price."

He tries to study the face before him, but the sphinx is not more inscrutable. Yet he feels that from some cause Wilmarth hates him, and therein he is right. To be thwarted and outgeneralled is what this black-browed man can illy bear. To receive a certain sum of money and see his rival go on to success, with a comparatively smooth pathway, is what he will not do. Floyd Grandon shall purchase his victory at the highest, hardest rate.

"I may be doubtful," he begins, in a slow, careful tone, which Floyd knows is no index to his real state of mind, "but that does not say I am _quite_ despairing. I had the pleasure of working most amicably with your father and receiving a fair return on my investment. I have had no dissensions with your brother, who is really my working partner. Your father was more sanguine of success than I, but I am well aware that if business men give up at the first shadow of unsuccess, a wreck is certain. I have no desire to leave the s.h.i.+p. The business suits me. At my time of life men are not fond of change. What I protest against is, that if I, with all my years of experience, find it best to go slowly and with care, you shall not precipitate ruin by your ill-judged haste."

How much _does_ this man believe? What are his aims and purposes? What is under the half-concealed contempt and incredulity? If he has cherished the hope of getting the business into his hands he must feel a.s.sured of success. Floyd Grandon is not a lover of involved or intricate motives. He takes the shortest road to any point. Fairness, simplicity, and truth are his prevailing characteristics.

"Do you believe honestly that St. Vincent's idea has any of the elements of success?" he demands, incisively.

Wilmarth shrugs his shoulders and the useful sneer crosses his face.