Floyd Grandon's Honor - Amanda Minnie Douglas (ereader with android txt) 📗

fortunes!" with a long sigh.

"I should enjoy one made for me quite as well," rejoins Gertrude, who is always annoyed by Marcia's assumptions of or longings for manhood.

"What a lucky girl you are, or will be if Floyd's plans come out right," and Marcia nods to Violet. "Only I should hate all that wretched waiting!"

"How long must I wait?" There is a lurking smile in Violet's brown eyes.

"How long?--don't _you_ know?" accenting the words with surprise. "Why this is quite a mystery. I have heard of heiresses being kept in the dark for evil purposes," and Marcia gives her head an airy toss. "Have you never seen your father's will? Until you are twenty-five--but I shouldn't feel at all obliged to Floyd for tying it up so securely. I dare say he could have persuaded your father differently!"

Violet colors with a curious sense of displeasure. Gertrude gives a warning look, and for fear of that failing in its mission, touches Marcia's foot under the table.

"I suppose he--they both did what they thought best," Violet says, hurt somehow at the signal and a consciousness of some secrecy.

"Oh, of course, of course! Men always do take their own way; they think they are so much wiser than women, selfish beings!" exclaims Marcia, on another tack. Gertrude bestirs herself to make a diversion, but a latent wonder lingers in Violet's mind. She does not really care about any knowledge being kept away from her, and she has known all along that she was something of an heiress. Did not Mr. Grandon admit that when they talked about the trousseau? A sense of mystery comes up about her like a thick, gray mist, and she shivers. She cannot tell why, but the joy of the day is over.

When they reach home there is company for Marcia, two especial guests, that she takes up to her sanctum, and is seen no more until the dinner-bell summons her. Eugene is in an uncomfortable mood and teases Cecil. Violet seems always a little afraid of this handsome young man, who has a way of making inscrutable remarks. Her music is melancholy this evening, and Cecil is difficult to please, so she is glad when bedtime comes and with it a _resume_ of the times of the wonderful Haroun al Raschid. But when Cecil falls asleep an intense feeling of loneliness seizes her. It seems as if she was somewhere in a wide desert waste.

Mr. Grandon is to spend the night in the city. She wonders where he is! There was the reception to the professor, there was a grand dinner for gentlemen only, at the house of some famous person, there has been business. She would like to imagine the scene for her own interest. How strange, she thinks, to sit three or four hours over a dinner, and yet, if the professor talked, she could listen forever. Does Mr. Grandon ever talk in that manner? A fine thrill speeds along her nerves, a sort of pride in him, a secret joy that he is hers.

Oh, it is only nine o'clock! Violet tries to interest herself in a novel, but it is stupid work. There are voices down-stairs and she catches Marcia's inane little laugh. They never ask her down, because she is in deep mourning, and Gertrude has kindly told her that people do not go in society for at least six months when they have lost a near relative. She has been married only two months, and it has seemed as long as any other six months in her whole life.

Then she wonders why the marriages of books are so different from the marriages of real life. There was Linda Radford, one of her schoolmates, who went away last year to be married to an Englishman and live at Montreal. Linda had a fortune, and the gentleman was a distant cousin. They had always been engaged. Linda had written two letters afterward, about her handsome house and elegant clothes. Then little Jeanne Davray had a lover come from France, who married her in the convent chapel and took her away. Once she wrote back to Sister Catharine. There was a bright, wilful girl, a Protestant, placed in the convent, who ran away with a married man and shocked the small community so much that the mention of her name was forbidden. Right here are Laura and Mr. Delancy, who are not story-book lovers, either. Oh, which is true? She hides a blushing longing face on Cecil's pillow, and sighs softly, secretly, for what she has not. Denise would call it a sin, for she thinks every word and act of Mr. Grandon's exactly right. Then, somehow, _she_ must be wrong. Are the books and poems all wrong? She prays to be kept from all sin, not to desire or covet what may not be meant for her. Oh, what a long, long evening!

Floyd Grandon is a guest at Madame Lepelletier's table. There are three rooms, divided by silken portieres, which are now partially swung aside. The lamps in the other rooms are burning low, there is a sweet, faint perfume, a lovely suggestiveness, a background fit for a picture, and this cosey apartment, hung with shimmering silk, and lighted from a cluster of intense, velvety tropical flowers, soften the glare and add curious tints of their own, suggestive of sunlight through a garden. It is not the dining-room proper. Madame has ways quite different from other people, surprises, delicate, delicious, and dares to defy fashion when she chooses, though most people would consider her a scrupulous observer. The four would not be half so effective in the large apartment. There is a handful of fire in the low grate, and the windows are open to temper the air through the silken curtains. Mrs. Grandon is looking her best, a handsome, middle-aged woman. Madame Lepelletier is in an exquisite shade of bluish velvet that brings out every line and tint in a sumptuous manner. The square-cut corsage and elbow sleeves are trimmed with almost priceless ivory-tinted lace; and except the solitaire diamonds in her ears, she wears no jewels. There are two or three yellow rose-buds low down in her shining black hair, and two half hidden in the lace on her bosom. The skirt of her dress is long and plain, and makes crested billows about her as she sits there.

The dinner is over, and it was perfect; the dessert has been taken out, the wine, fruit, and nuts remain; the waiter is dismissed, the chairs are pushed back just to a degree of informality and comfort, and they have reached that crowning delight, an after-dinner chat.

Madame has been posting herself on antiquities and discoveries. There seems nothing particularly new about her knowledge; she is at home in it, and in no haste to air it; she keeps pace with them in a leisurely way, as if not straying out of her usual course. Floyd Grandon feels conscience-smitten that he once believed her wholly immersed in wedding-clothes and fashions. What a remarkable, many-sided woman she is! a perfect queen of _all_ society, and an admirable one at that. Everything she says is fresh and crisp, and her little jest well told and well chosen. The professor beams and smiles, though he is no great lady's man. She might be a _bon camarade_, so free is she from the airy little nothings of society that puzzle scholarly men. There is something charming, too, in the way Mrs. Grandon is made one of the circle,--a part of them, not merely an outside propriety. Every moment she grudges that fascinating woman for her son; she is almost jealous when the professor listens with such rapt deference and admiration. That Floyd's own unwisdom should have placed the bar between himself and this magnificent woman is almost more than she can endure.

He has dropped in one morning and accompanied them to a _matinee_. A foreign friend has sent madame tickets, and he had an hour or two on his hands while waiting for proofs. In all these interviews Violet's name has not been mentioned. His marriage is a matter of course, he is not sailing under any false colors, he has made no protestations of friendship, still he has an uneasy feeling. If Violet only could go into society, yet he knows intuitively the two women never could be friends, though he has no great faith in the friendship of women for women; it is seldom the sort of a stand-up affair for all time that pins a man's faith to another. He wonders, too, what Violet is doing. How she would enjoy these lovely rooms! She could not sit at the head of a table a queen, but then she is young yet. Madame was not perfection at seventeen, and he strongly suspects that he was a prig. Could he take Violet to a _matinee_? If there was someone he dared ask.

It is midnight when the two men walk home to their hotel. Grandon feels as if he has taken too much wine, though he is always extremely moderate.

"She is perfection!" declares the professor, enthusiastically. "You have many charming women, but I have seen none as superb as she. There is an atmosphere of courts about her, and so well informed, so delicate with her knowledge, not thrusting it at you with a shout. You have given me the greatest of pleasure. If I were not an old tramp, with a knapsack on my shoulder, I do not know what would happen! I might be the fly in the flame!"

Floyd laughs amusedly. There is about as much danger of Freilgrath falling in love with her as there is of himself. Would he have, he wonders, if other events had not crowded in and almost taken the right of choice from him? It would not have been a bad match if Cecil had loved her, and she _does_ love Violet. His heart gives a great throb as he thinks of the two in each other's arms, sleeping sweetly. All the passion of his soul is still centred in Cecil.

Yet he feels a trifle curious about himself. Is he stock or stone? He has known of strong men being swept from their moorings when duty, honor, and all that was most sacred held them elsewhere; nay, he has even seen them throw away the world and consider it well lost for a woman's love. If he should never see madame again he would not grieve deeply, but being here he will see her often, and there is no danger.

By some curious cross-light of mental retrospect he also knows that if Violet were the beloved wife of any other man--the large-hearted professor, for instance--he could see her daily without one covetous pang. He likes her very, very much, she is dear to him, but he is not in love, and he rather exults in being so cool-headed. Is it anything but a wild dream, soon burned out to ashes?

Madame Lepelletier, in the solitude of her room, studies her superb figure, with its rich and affluent lines. No mere beauty of pink cheeks, dimples, of seventeen, can compare with it, and she understands the art of keeping it fresh and perfect for some years to come at least. Floyd Grandon is just beginning a career that will delight and satisfy him beyond anything he dreams of to-night. He is not in love with his wife; he did not want her fortune, there were others already made at hand. A foolish pity, the remnant of youth, moved him, and some day he will look back in amazement at his folly. But all the same he has put a slight upon her preference,