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

tender! If she had known any such girl friend then, but she and Marcia never have been real friends. There is another delicate thought in Gertrude's soul. Laura and her mother have sneered about the professor, with whom they are all charmed, nevertheless; and she means that no evil tongue shall say with truth that Violet is alone too much with him or lays herself out to attract him. She furbishes up her old knowledge and talks with them, she reads the books he has recommended to Violet, and they discuss them together until it appears as if she were the interested one. She nearly always goes with her to the cottage. Sometimes she wonders why she does all this when it is such a bore. Why should she care about Violet particularly? But when the soft arms are clasped round her neck and the sweet, fragrant lips throb with tender kisses, she wakes to a sad and secret knowledge of wasted years.

To Violet there comes one crowning glory, that is the promised _matinee_. Miss Neilson is to play _Juliet_, and though Floyd considers it rather weak and sweet, Violet is enraptured.

"Would you like to go to a lunch or dinner at Madame Lepelletier's?" he asks.

Violet considers a moment. She cannot tell why, but she longs for this pleasure _alone_ with Mr. Grandon. It will be her first real enjoyment with him.

"Would you--rather?"

There is an exquisite timidity in her voice, the touch of deference to the husband's wishes that cannot but be flattering. She will go if _he_ desires it. He has only to speak. He remembers some one else who never considered his pleasure or desire.

"My child, no!" and he folds her to his heart. "She wants you to come, some time; she has spoken of it."

"I should like this to be just between _us_." There is the loveliest little inflection on the plural. "And I should like to go there, too."

"Then it shall be just between _us_." Something in his eyes makes the light in hers waver and go down; she trembles and would like to run away, only he is holding her so tightly.

"What is it?" he asks, with a quick breath.

Ah, if she had known then, if he had known, even! He had never watched the delicate blooming of a girl's heart and knew not how to translate its throbs. He kisses her in a dazed way, and no kisses were ever so sweet.

"Well," he says, presently, "we will let Cecil go over to Denise in the morning"--he can even put his child away for her--"and keep our own secret."

It is delicious to have a secret with him. She dreams of it all the long evening; he is looking over some proofs with the professor. And she can hardly conceal her joy the next morning; she feels guilty as she looks Gertrude in the face.

The city is very gay this Saturday morning. They look in some shop windows, they go to a tempting lunch, and then enter the charming little theatre, already filling up with beautifully dressed women and some such exquisite young girls. She wishes for the first time that she was radiantly beautiful; she does not dream how much of this is attire, well chosen and costly raiment.

She listens through the overture; she is not much moved during the first act. Miss Neilson is pretty and winsome in her quaint dress, with her round, white arms on her nurse's knee, looking up to her eyes; she is respectful to her stately mother, and she cares for her lover. The lights, the many faces about her, the progress of the play interest, but it is when she comes to the balcony scene that Violet is stirred. The longing, lingering love, the good night said over and over, the lover who cannot make parting seem possible, who turns again and again. She catches the tenderness in Miss Neilson's eyes; ah, it is divine passion now, and she is touched, thrilled, electrified. She leans over a little herself, and her pure, innocent young face, with its dewy eyes and parted, cherry-red lips are a study, a delight. One or two rather ennuied-looking men watch her, and Floyd forgives them. It seems to him he has never seen anything more beautiful. The unconscious, impassioned face, with its vivid sense of newness, its first thrilling interest, indifferent to all things except the young lovers, steady, strong, tender, sympathetic. Even women smile and then sigh, envying her the rapt delight of thus listening.

When it is over Violet turns her tearful eyes to her husband in mute questioning. This surely cannot be the end, the reward of love? For an instant the man's heart is thrilled with profoundest pain and pity for the hard lesson that she, like all others, must learn. He feels so helpless to answer that trust, that supreme innocence.

Everybody stirs, rises. Violet looks amazed, but he draws her hand through his arm. Several new friends nod and smile, wondering if that is Floyd Grandon's child-wife that he has so imprudently or strangely married? He hurries out a little. He does not want to speak to any one. In the crush Violet clings closely; he even takes both hands as he sees the startled look in her eyes.

The fresh, crisp air brings her back to her own world and time, but her eyes are still lustrous, her cheeks have an indescribable, delicious color, and her lips are quivering in their rose red.

"Where shall we go?" he says. "Will you have some fruit or an ice, or something more solid?"

"Oh!" and her long inspiration is almost like a sigh. "I couldn't eat anything--after that! _Did_ they really die? Oh, if _Romeo_ had not come so soon, _quite_ so soon!" and her sweet, piteous voice pierces him.

"My darling, you must not take it so to heart," he entreats.

"But they _were_ happy in that other country. And they went together," glancing up with an exquisite hope in her eyes. "It was better than to live separate. Mr. Grandon, _do_ you know what love like that is?"

She asks it in all innocency. She would be very miserable at this moment if she thought she had come to the best love of her life. Her training has been an obedient marriage, a duty of love that is quite possible, that shall come some time hence.

"No," he says, slowly. He really dare not tell her any falsehood. He did not love Cecil's mother this way, and though he may come to love Violet with the highest and purest passion, he does not do so now. "No, my dear child, very few people do."

"But they could, they might!" and there is a ring of exultation in her tone.

"Some few might," he admits, almost against his better judgment.

"Why, do you not see that it is all, _all_ there is of real joy, of perfect bliss? There is nothing else that can so thrill the soul."

They surge against a crowd on the corner crossing. He pauses and glances at her. "Shall we go home?" he asks, "or somewhere else? If it is home, we may as well take a car."

"Oh, home!" she answers. So they take the car and there is no more talking, but he watches the face of youth and happy thoughts, and is glad that it is his very own.

The train is crowded as well. An instinctive shyness would forbid her talking much under the eyes of strangers, if good breeding did not. She settles in her corner and thinks the good night over and over, until she again sees Miss Neilson's love-lit, impassioned countenance.

The sun has dropped down and it is quite cold now. They must go for Cecil.

"Oh," cries Violet, remorsefully, "we forgot Cecil! We never brought her anything! But I have a lovely box of creams at home; only you do not like her to eat so much sweets."

"Give her the creams." and he smiles at her tenderness.

Cecil welcomes them joyfully. She has two lovely little iced cakes baked in patty-pans.

"One is for you, mamma----" Then she suddenly checks herself. "O Denise, we ought to have baked three; we forgot papa!" she says, with childish _naivete_.

"Well, mamma will divide hers with me."

A curious feeling runs over him. The child and the father have forgotten each other an instant, but the child and the mother remembered.

It is dark when they reach home. The spacious hall is all aglow with light and warmth. In the parlor sits the professor, and Cecil, catching a sight of his beaming face, runs to him.

Gertrude comes out, and putting her arms around Violet's neck, kisses her with so unusual a fervor that Violet stares.

"I have something to tell you after dinner. You shall be the first. Oh, what a cold little face, but sweet as a rose! There is the bell."

They hurry off and soon make themselves presentable. The professor brings in Gertrude. He is--if the word maybe applied to such a bookish man--inexpressibly jolly. Mrs. Grandon hardly knows how to take him, and is on her guard against some plot in the air. Violet laughs and parries his gay badinage, feeling as if she were in an enchanted realm. Floyd has a spice of amazement in his countenance.

"Now," the professor says, as they rise, "I shall take Mr. Grandon off for a smoke, since we do not sit over wine."

"And I shall appropriate Mrs. Grandon," declares Gertrude, with unusual _verve_.

When they reach the drawing-room she says, "Send Cecil to Jane, will you not?"

But Cecil has no mind to be dismissed from the conclave. Violet coaxes, entreats, promises, and finally persuades her to go, very reluctantly indeed, with Jane for just half an hour, when she may come down again.

Gertrude passes her arm over Violet's shoulder, and draws her down to the soft, silk cushioned _tete-a-tete_. Her shawl lies over the arm,--she did not wear it in to dinner.

"You wouldn't imagine," she begins, suddenly, "that any one would care to marry me. I never supposed----"

"It is the professor!" cries Violet, softly. "He loves you. Oh, how delightful!"

"Why, did he tell you?"

"I never thought until this instant. That is why you are both so new and strange, and why your cheeks are a little pink! O Gertrude, _do_ you love him?"

Her face is a study in its ardent expectation, its delicious joy. What does this girl know of love?

"Why--I--of course I like him, Violet. I could not marry a man I did _not_ like, or a man who was not kindly or congenial." Then she remembers how very slight an opportunity Violet had to decide whether Floyd would be congenial or not, and is rather embarrassed. "We are not foolish young lovers," she explains, "but I do suppose we shall be happy. He is so kind, so warmhearted; he makes one feel warmed and rested. It did so surprise me, for I had not the faintest idea. I used to stay with you because----"

"Well, because what?" Violet is deeply interested in the least reason for all this strange denouement.

"Because I never wanted any one to say that you, that he," Gertrude begins to flounder helplessly, "were too much alone."

"Who would have said that?" Violet's face is a clear flame, and her dimpled mouth shuts over something akin to indignation.

"Oh, don't, my dear Violet! No one could have said