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

free," she begins, in a tone of relief. "I wanted the matter settled before I came up here, and I did want to keep your good opinion, if indeed you have a good opinion of me."

Something in her voice touches his very soul. It is entreating, penitent, yet loftily proud. It says, "I can do without your approval, since I may have forfeited it in some way, yet I would rather have it. You are free to give or to withhold."

"I think," he says, steadily, "this is not the first time you have acted sensibly. I wonder if I shall offend you by a reference to those old days when we both made a mistake. Time has shown us the wisdom of not endeavoring to live up to it. Both of our lives have doubtless been the better, and we have proved that it makes us none the less friends."

There is no agitation in voice or face. He stands here calmly beside the woman he was to have married, and both he and she know the regard has perished utterly. An hour ago he would hardly have said what he has. Why does he feel so free to say it now? She is superbly tranquil as well, but she knows him for a man who holds his honor higher than any earthly thing. If Violet St. Vincent had not come between, she might have won him, but now all the list of her fascinations cannot make him swerve.

"I ought," he continues, scarcely heeding the momentary silence, "to thank you in behalf of my wife as well. You have shown us both many kindnesses. You have been a true friend."

He never makes the slightest reference to any family disagreements or any lack of welcome his wife has experienced.

"I should have done a great deal more if Mrs. Grandon had been less shy of strangers," she makes answer, quietly.

They walk up and down in silence. The river ripples onward, the moon sails in serenest glory, the wind wafts the melody down from the wide verandas, and it trembles on the river, making a faint echo of return from the other side. They are both thinking,--Grandon of Violet, and madame of him. She has found few men so invincible, even among those very much in love. There is a certain expression in his face which she as a woman of the world and read in many fascinations understands; it is loyal admiration, for he is constrained to admire in all honesty, but it falls far short of that flash of overmastering feeling, so often mistaken for love and leading to passion, the possibility of being tempted. It would satisfy her vanity better to believe him incapable of a deep and fervent love, but she knows better. When he is touched by the divine fire he will respond, and she envies bitterly the woman who is destined thus to awaken him. Will it be Violet? She crushes her white teeth together at the thought, imagining that she would feel better satisfied to have it any other woman. But why should he not go on this way? Let him honor the girl whom circumstances and not election have given for a wife, so that in real regard he sets her no higher than a friend.

"We must go back," she says, with a touch of regret in her voice. "One could stay here forever, but there are duties and duties."

He turns with her and they come up the path together. Cecil and Violet stand on the balcony, warm, yet full of youthful gladness. Cecil has acquitted herself so beautifully that the two have been a centre of admiration, and Violet has run away from the compliments. She has been idly watching the two figures on the terrace, and as they come nearer it gives her a curious feeling that she at once tries to dismiss as selfish.

Eugene strolls out to them. He has been on terms of friendly indifference with his pretty little sister-in-law, classing her with Cecil, but to-night he has seen her in a new character, which she sustains with the brilliant charm of youth, if not the dignity of experience. He is sore and sulky. He has not been fool enough to believe madame would marry him, but he would have married her any day. He has been infatuated with her beauty, her charms of style and manner, her beguiling voice; the very atmosphere that surrounded her was delightful to breathe in concert with her. He has haunted her afternoon teas and her evening receptions, he has attended her to operas, and sometimes lowered savagely at the train that came to pay court to her. Like a wary general she has put off the symptoms of assault by making diversions elsewhere, until the feint no longer answered its purpose. She would not allow him to propose, that would savor of possible hope and encouragement; she has spoken with the friendliness a woman can command. This course of devotion on his part draws attention to them and is ungenerous to her. "How do you know what I mean?" he has asked, in a tone of gloomy persistence.

She gives a little laugh, suggestive of incredulity and a slight flavor of ridicule.

"Because I know it is impossible for you to really mean anything derogatory to me or to yourself," she answers, in a tone of assured steadiness. "If I were a young girl it might be love or flirtation; if I were a coquette it might be an evil fascination such as too often wrecks young men. As I do not choose it shall be any of these, you must not grow sentimental with me."

She looks at him out of clear eyes that _are_ maddening, and yet he cannot but read his fate in them. It is thus far and no farther.

"Oh," he answers, with a touch of scorn, "I think I have read of marriages with as great disparity of years as between us! It is supposed they loved, they certainly have been happy."

"But I am not in my dotage," she cries, gayly. "Neither am I such a wonderful believer in love. There are many other qualities requisite for what I call a good marriage."

"I do not suppose I shall ever make a _good_ marriage," he says, calmly, but with bitter emphasis.

"And yet you ought. You are handsome, attractive, you can make a fortune if you will; you can grace any society."

"Spare me," he replies, with contempt. "My impression is, that I shall never have faith enough in any woman to marry her."

"Oh, that is so deliciously young, Eugene! It ought to be applauded." And she laughs lightly.

"Good morning," he says, in a furious temper.

He has not been near her since, and chooses to absent himself on a business trip the first three days she spends at Grandon Park, coming home last evening, and meeting her at the breakfast-table this morning, where she has tact enough to cover all differences. He has not danced with her, though they have met in the quadrilles, and he is moody and resentful, although he knows that she is right. But he puts it on the score of money. "If I were the owner of Grandon Park," he thinks, "she would not so much mind the years between."

Therein he is mistaken. It would hurt Irene Lepelletier's _amour propre_ to make herself conspicuous, to be held up to ridicule or blame. She does not _care_ for marriage; her position is infinitely more delightful in its variety. She can make a world of her own without being accountable to any one, but she has come perilously near to loving Floyd Grandon, when she considered love no longer a temptation, had dismissed it as a puerile insanity of youth.

Eugene catches sight of the two promenaders. Almost beside them now are Miss Brade and Mr. Latimer. There is nothing in it, and yet it stirs his jealousy. Laura has always been so sure that Violet alone interrupted a marriage between them, and in this cruel pang he is grateful to Violet, and glad, yes, exultingly glad that madame never can be mistress here. There is one check for her, even if she triumphs in all things else.

"What an exquisite dancer you are," he says to Violet. "I never imagined you could learn anything like that in a convent."

"I don't think you learn _quite_ like it," she says, with a soft little ripple. "I never danced so before; it is enchantment. And I never waltzed with a gentleman until to-night, except to take a few steps with my teacher."

"You like it?" He is amused by the enthusiasm of her tone.

"Oh," she confesses, with a long sigh, "it is rapturous! I am so fond of dancing. I wonder, do _you_ think it frivolous?" and she glances up with a charming deprecation.

She _is_ very pretty. It must be her dress that makes her so uncommonly lovely to-night, he fancies, but it is all things,--her youth, her joy, her sweet satisfaction.

"Why, no, not frivolous. It is--well, I don't know how society would get along without it," and he gives a short, grim laugh. "We could not have balls or parties or Germans,--nothing but dinners and teas and musicales and stupid receptions. And there wouldn't be anything for young people to do; the old tabbies, you know, can gossip about their neighbors, and the men can smoke."

"It is all so wonderfully beautiful!" she begins, dreamily. "The lawn is a perfect fairyland, and I never saw so many lovely dresses and handsome people together in my life. And the music----"

The strains floating in the air are quite enough to bewilder one, to steep him in delicious reveries, to transport him to Araby the blest.

"Will you waltz once with me?" he asks, suddenly, taking her hand.

"_Ought_ I?" she inquires, innocently. "You see I do not quite understand----"

"No," he answers, "I will take a galop instead, but it is all right enough. Floyd wouldn't care, I know."

He has a jealous misgiving that Floyd will waltz with madame if Violet thus sets him an example.

The galop begins presently. Floyd is busy with the duties of host, and supper is soon to be announced. Madame dances superbly, but neither of them are up now, except that just at the last Floyd takes a few turns with Cecil, whose time of revelry is now ended.

Eugene takes Violet in to supper; not exactly as Floyd has planned, but as she desires. Her next neighbor is very bright and entertaining, and Eugene really does his best. Between them both Mrs. Grandon is vivacious, sparkling, and radiant with the charms of youth and pleasure. Eugene is quite resolved to show madame that he has not been hard hit, and even devotes himself awhile to Lucia Brade, who is supremely happy. There is more dancing, and Violet and Floyd have another lovely waltz. So with walking and talking and lounging on balcony and lawn, listening to the delicious music, the revel comes to an end.

"You have been very happy?" Floyd Grandon says to his wife.

"It has been perfect," she makes answer. "I could ask nothing more, nothing."

He kisses her with a little sigh. Is there something more, and does he long for it?


CHAPTER XXII.

"Love and hay are thick sown, but come up full of thistles."

Mrs. Floyd Grandon is considered fairly in society, and the world decides there is nothing detrimental about her. She is admitted to be pretty, she is well-bred,