Floyd Grandon's Honor Part 62

"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 pa.s.sion! 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 s.h.i.+eld with so much tenderness.

When his pa.s.sion 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 suns.h.i.+ne. 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 princ.i.p.al 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 fas.h.i.+on. Violet watches him in dim amaze. Is he a.s.suming 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 s.h.i.+nes 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 partners.h.i.+p 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. .h.i.ther 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, crus.h.i.+ngly.

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 a.s.sured. 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 others. It is a little cool, and she has a bit of fire in the grate, though the windows are open to the dewy, sweet air. All is so quiet and tranquil, and for a month there has been little save confusion and flying to and fro at home.

She remarks that he is thinner and there is a restlessness in the eyes, while the face is set and stern.

"You are working too hard," she begins, in her sympathetic voice. "All this has been a great care. You ought to have something----"

His sensitive pride takes the alarm. Does she, too, think he had his covetous eye on the St. Vincent fortune?

"Don't!" he interrupts, in a strained, imploring tone. "I should hate to have you of all others think I was moved in whatever I have done by any thought of personal gain. I could wish that not one dollar of gain had come to me,--and it has not," he says, defiantly. "I will confess to you that I was moved by the profoundest pity for a dying man, and I was afraid then that we should all go to ruin together."

"Ah," she returns, and a beguiling light plays over her face like some swift ripple, "I never looked upon it in any other light. I knew you better than you believed I did."

He has one friend, he thinks, in a daring, obstinate sort of way quite new to him.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Desires unsatisfied, abortive hope, Repinings which provoked vindictive thought, These restless elements forever wrought.

SOUTHEY.

"Good night," John Latimer says, as they stand at the gate of the eyrie. They have been spending a delightful evening. Prof. Freilgrath is on his way home, and after a brief visit must make a flying trip to Germany. Latimer has half decided to go with him, and has been persuading Floyd. It looks very tempting,--a two or three months'

vacation.

"I ought to go up to the factory," he begins, abruptly. "Our watchman is down with the rheumatism. The foreman stayed last night, and I promised to send in some one to-night. Am I growing old and forgetful?"

Latimer laughs as he asks how much money is in the safe. If half a million, he will go.

"At all events I will walk up and see," Grandon says, and strides along.

There is no moon, but he has been over the road so many times that it is no journey at all. Silence and darkness reign supreme. He unfastens the door with his skeleton key, lights a burner in the hallway and a safety lamp which he carries with him. How weird and ghostly these long pa.s.sages look! The loom-rooms seem tenanted by huge, misshapen denizens of some preadamic world. He stands and looks, and fantastic ideas float through his brain.

The engine-room is satisfactory. Everything is right, except that once or twice he catches a strong whiff of kerosene, which he hates utterly.

The men may have been using it for something. He inspects nooks and corners, even looks into Wilmarth's little den. How often to traverse a man's plans, makes an enemy of him for life, he ruminates.

He turns out the light in the hall and enters the office, remembering two letters he laid in the drawer. How shadowy and tempting the little rooms look! He enters and throws himself on the lounge. A few weeks longer and the place will know him no more except for a chance visit.

There have been many cares and trials since the day he sat here and read his father's letter, and his whole life has been changed by them.

"But I have done my duty in all honor and honesty," he cries, softly, as if the dead man's spirit were there to hear. "I have defrauded no one, I have taken no money upon usury, I have been true to the living, true to the dead." And again he seems to see St. Vincent's closing eyes.

The bell tells off midnight. The strokes sound slower and more august than by busy daylight. If ever the ghost of the dead returned--

No ghost comes, however. He may as well throw himself down here and sleep, as to tramp to the park. No one will miss him.

He says that bitterly. Even Cecil is weaned from him. He is no longer her first thought. Is life full of ingrat.i.tude, or is he growing morose, doubtful of affection?