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

If she only had the courage to go and put her arms about his neck and inquire into the trouble. She is so intensely sympathetic, so generous in all her moods.

He has come home to take her to drive. It is such a soft, Indian-summery day, with the air full of scents and sounds, but all the pleasure has gone out of it now for him.

"Papa, listen to me," says Cecil, with her pretty imperiousness. "I can talk to mamma in real French."

He smiles languidly and listens. If a man should lose his all, this dainty, dimpled little creature playing at motherhood could set a table, sweep a house, make her children's clothes and perhaps keep cheerful through it. Was there ever any such woman, or is he dreaming?

He goes to hunt up Marcia's property, and is tempted to hand it over to her and never trouble his head about it again. But that will not be the part of prudence, any more than trusting their all to Eugene. Having accepted the burthen, he must not lay it down at any chance resting-place. So he hands it to her quietly at luncheon, and that evening listens courteously to his mother's plans, offering no objection.

"But he did not evince the slightest interest," she declares to Marcia. "And you will see that every possible obstacle will be put in the way."

"And he can spend his money upon pony carriages for her!" retorts Marcia, spitefully.

The pony carriage is indeed a grievance, and when Floyd teaches his wife to ride, as her pony is accustomed to the saddle, the cup brims over. He has announced the visitors to her, and she dreads, yet is most anxious to see Madame Lepelletier.

"Was not this room hers when she was here in the summer?" asks Violet, standing by the window.

"Yes," answers her husband, but he makes no further comment. It looks like crowding Violet out, and he is not sure he wants that. He will have her treated with the utmost respect during this visit, and it will prove an opportunity to establish her in her proper standing as his wife.

It all comes about quite differently. Violet is at the cottage, and has gone up to take a look at papa's room and put some flowers on the table. All is so lovely and peaceful. There is no place in the world like it, for it is not the chamber of death, but rather that of resurrection.

"Violet," calls her husband.

She turns to run down the stairs. It is a trifle dark, and how it happens she cannot tell, but she lands on the floor almost at her husband's feet, and one sharp little cry is all.

He picks her up and carries her to the kitchen, laying her on Denise's cane-seat settee, where she shudders and opens her eyes, then faints again.

"I wonder if any bones are broken!" And while Denise is bathing her forehead, he tries her arms, which are safe. Then as he takes one small foot in his hand she utters a piercing exclamation of pain. Prof. Freilgrath is away; there is nothing but for Floyd to go for a physician. He looks lingeringly, tenderly at the sweet child face, and kisses the cold lips. Yes, she _is_ very dear to him.

He brings back the doctor speedily. One ankle is badly sprained, and there seems a wrench of some kind in her back. She must be undressed and put to bed, and her ankle bandaged. He makes her draw a dozen long respirations.

"I do not believe it can be anything serious," he says, kindly, "but we will keep good watch. I will be in again early in the morning. There is no present cause for anxiety," studying Grandon's perturbed face.

"I hope there is none at all," the husband responds, gravely. "And--would it be possible to move her in a day or two?"

"She had better lie there on her back for the next week. You see, it is a great shock to both nerves and muscles: we are not quite birds of the air," and he laughs cheerily. "We will see how it goes with her to-morrow."

Floyd returns to the chamber. Violet has a bright spot on either cheek, and her eyes have a frightened, restless expression.

"It was so careless of me," she begins, in her soft tone that ought to disarm and conquer any prejudice. "I should have looked, but I have grown so used to running up and down."

"Accidents happen to the best of people." Then he has to laugh at the platitude, and she laughs, too. "I mean--" he begins--"well, you are not to worry or blame yourself, or to take the slightest trouble. I am sorry it should happen just now, or at any time, for that matter, and my only desire is that you shall get perfectly well and strong. It might have been worse, my little darling," and he kisses her tenderly. Then suddenly he realizes how very much worse it might have been, if she had been left maimed and helpless; and bending over, folds her in such an ardent embrace that every pulse quivers, and her first impulse is to run away from something she cannot understand, yet is vaguely delicious when the fear has ceased.

"I must go down to the park, but I will be back soon and stay all night. Denise will bring you up a cup of tea." Then he kisses her again and leaves her trembling with a strange, secret joy.

Rapidly as he drives home, he finds them all at dinner. "You are late," his mother exclaims sharply, but makes no further comment. Eugene stares a little at the space behind him, and wonders momentarily. But when he seats himself and is helped, he remarks that Cecil is not present and inquires the reason.

"She was very naughty," explains Mrs. Grandon, severely. "Floyd, the best thing you can do is to send that child back to England. She is completely spoiled, and no one can manage her. If you keep on this way she will become unendurable."

Floyd Grandon makes no answer. If Marcia and Eugene would not tease her so continually, and laugh at the quick and sometimes insolent retorts!

"Where is Violet?" inquires Gertrude.

"She is at the cottage. She has met with an accident," he replies, gravely.

"Oh!" Gertrude is really alarmed. The rest are curious, indifferent. "What is it, what has happened?"

"She slipped and fell down-stairs, and has sprained her ankle; beside the shock, we trust there are no more serious hurts."

"Those poky little stairs!" says Marcia. "I wonder some one's neck has not been broken before this. Why do you not tear them out, Floyd, and have the place altered. It has some extremely picturesque points and would make over beautifully."

"It wouldn't be worth the expense," says Eugene, decisively, "on that bit of cross road with no real street anywhere. I wonder at St. Vincent putting money in such a cubby as that."

"The situation is exquisite," declares Marcia. "It seems to just hang on the side of the cliff, and the terraced lawn and gardens would look lovely in a sketch; on an autumn day it would be at its best, with the trees in flaming gold and scarlet, and the intense green of the pines. I really must undertake it before it is too late. Or as 'Desolation' in midwinter it would be wonderfully effective."

"The most effective, I think."

Eugene is angry with Floyd for being the real master of the situation and not allowing him to draw on the firm name for debts. He takes a special delight in showing ill-temper to the elder.

"I am so glad," says Gertrude to Floyd, as soon as there is sufficient lull to be heard. "Broken limbs are sometimes extremely troublesome. But she will not be able to walk for some weeks if it is bad."

"It was dreadfully swollen by the time Dr. Hendricks came. I am very thankful it was no worse, though that will be bad enough just when I wanted her well," he says, with an energetic ring to his voice that causes his mother to glance up.

"It is extremely unfortunate," she comments, with sympathy plainly ironical. "What had we better do? Our dinner invitations are out."

"Everything will go on just the same," he answers, briefly, but he is sick at heart. His life seems sacrificed to petty dissensions and the selfish aims of others. The great, beautiful house is his, but he has no home. The wife that should be a joy and pleasure is turned by them into a thorn to prick him here and there. Even his little child--

"Jane, what was the trouble?" he asks, a few minutes later, as he enters Cecil's room, where she is having a cosy dinner with her small dishes.

"O papa--and I don't mind at all! It's just splendid up here."

"Hush, Cecil," rather peremptorily.

"Mrs. Grandon was--I _do_ think she was cross," says Jane. "Miss Cecil said she would wait for her mamma, and Mrs. Grandon said----" Jane hesitates.

"Isn't it your house, papa? Grandmamma shook me because I said so," and Cecil glances up defiantly.

"What did Mrs. Grandon say?" he asks, quietly, of Jane; for intensely as he dislikes servants' gossip, he will know what provocation was given to his child.

"She said that Miss Cecil wasn't mistress here nor any one else, and that she would not have dinner kept waiting for people who chose to be continually on the go. She took Miss Cecil's hand, and the child jerked away, and she scolded, and Miss Cecil said that about the house."

"Very well, I understand all that is necessary." He has not the heart to scold Cecil, the one being in the house devoted to Violet, and looks at her with sad eyes as he says,--

"Mamma has had a bad fall, and is ill in bed. You must be a good girl to-night and not make trouble for Jane."

"Oh, let me go to her!" Cecil is down from her dainty table, clinging to her father. "Let me go, I will be so good and quiet, and not tease her for stories, but just smooth her pretty hair as I did when her head ached. Oh, you will let me go?"

He raises her in his arms and kisses the rosy, beseeching lips, while the earnest heart beats against his own. "My darling," there is a little tremble in his voice, "my dear darling, I cannot take you to-night, but if you will be brave and quiet you shall go to-morrow. See if you cannot earn the indulgence, and not give papa any trouble, because you love him."

A long, quivering breath and dropping tears answer him. He is much moved by her effort and comforts her, puts her back in her chair, and utters a tender good night. Gertrude waylays him in the hall for a second assurance that matters are not serious with Violet, and sends her love. He sees no one else, and goes out in the darkness with a step that rings on the walk. It seems to him that he has never been so angry in all his life, and never so helpless.

"She has had her tea and fallen asleep," announces Denise, in a low tone, as if loud talking was not permissible, even at the kitchen door. "I think the powder was an anodyne. There is another for her in the night