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

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 passages 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 ingratitude, or is he growing morose, doubtful of affection?

He lies there awhile, thinking of Violet and the foolish madness he has resolved to overcome. It is well enough for youth and inexperience, but a man of his years! Is there another woman in the world who could have loved him, would have loved him with maddening fervor? Is the old Eastern story of Lilith true? Does she come to tempt him at this midnight hour?

That is his last thought. When he turns again he is rather cramped, and he knows he has been asleep. But a curious impression is on his mind, as if some one came and looked at him. The lamp burns, the corners of the room are shadowy. An ugly chill creeps up his back, and he rises, stretches himself, whistles a stave of rondeau, and inspects the outer room. All is as usual. He will go back to bed. Or had he better take another turn through the factory?

The door is locked. Did he take out the key? It is always hung in one place, and the nail is empty. He cudgels his brains for remembrance, but surely he left the key on the outside.

What can he do? An old traveller, he ought to be fertile in expedients. He is certainly trapped, and if so, some one is in the factory.

After a moment, he softly opens the iron shutters and vaults out. Some rubbish stands in the corner of the yard; it looked unsightly to him yesterday, but he is thankful now, and scrambles on the unsteady pile until he can spring up to the top of the high street fence and let himself drop on the other side. How odd that the dog should not hear. There is a long ray of light flashing out of a window. Something is wrong.

He lets himself in at the main entrance again. There is a smothering smell, a smoke, a glare. He rushes to the engine-room, but it is up-stairs as well, everywhere, it seems, and he flies to the alarm bell.

Some stalwart grip seizes him from behind and throws him, but he is up in a flash. Ah, now he knows his enemy! He makes a frantic endeavor to reach the rope, and the other keeps him away. Neither speak, but the struggle is deadly, for the one has everything at stake, honor, standing, all that enables a man to face the world, and a revenge that would be so sweet. To-morrow the last business of the transfer is to be completed, to-night's loss will fall on the Grandon family.

Neither speak. The man who has been detected in a crime fights desperately; the life of his more fortunate rival is as nothing to him. If the place burns and Grandon's dead body is found there, who is to know the secret covered up? If his dead body is _not_ there, it is disgrace and ruin for his enemy, and he will struggle with all the mastery of soul and body, with all the inspiration, of revenge, of safety to himself.

Grandon is strong, supple, and has a sinewy litheness, beside his height. His antagonist has the solidity of a rock, and though his body is much shorter, his arms are Briarius-like, everywhere, and more than once Grandon is lifted from his feet. It seems as if the awful struggle went on for hours while the fire is creeping stealthily about with its long blue and scarlet tongues. He hears a crackling up-stairs, it grows lurid within, and he remembers stories of men struggling with fiends. There floats over his sight the image of Irene Lepelletier; of Violet, sweet and sad-eyed. Will it be too late for her to go to happiness? Will Pauline Murray's love be only a green withe binding the Samson of these modern days. One more desperate encounter, and Wilmarth comes down with a thud. He seizes the rope and rings such peals that all Westbrook starts. Then he runs through the passageway, but is caught again. Whatever Wilmarth does he must do quickly.

Some voice in the street shouts, "Fire!" Grandon with a free hand deals his adversary a blow, and the next instant he has the street door open.

"What's wrong?" cries a voice. "Who is here?" And the man, a workman, though Grandon does not recognize him, rushes through in dismay, but his presence of mind saves worse disaster. The hose in the engine-room is speedily put in motion, and the hissing flames seem to explode.

Grandon follows in a dazed manner. There are other steps, and an intense confusion like pandemonium prevails. One stentorian voice orders, and men go to work with the forces at hand. The dense smoke is enough to strangle them, but the waves of fire are beaten down. In a moment they rise again, and now it is a fight with them. Fortunately they can be taken singly, they have not had time to unite their overmastering forces.

By the time the engines have reached the spot, the fire is pretty well conquered. They open the windows to let out the thick, black smoke. Every one questions, no one knows.

"Wait until to-morrow," says Floyd Grandon, who looks like a swarthy Arab, he is so covered with grime.

Farley, who is foreman of one department, and lives almost in the shadow of the building, who was first on the spot, is much puzzled. "There is something wrong about all this," he declares. "The fire broke out in four separate places. That was no accident!"

The morning soon dawns. The smoke dissipates slowly, and they find the damage very small to what it might have been, but the signs of incendiarism are unmistakable. Grandon goes carefully through the place, searches every nook and corner, but discovers no trace of Wilmarth. Then he despatches a messenger for Eugene and the two gentlemen still at Grandon Park.

Meanwhile he walks up and down the office in deep thought. It seems easy enough to tell a straightforward story, but what if Wilmarth should deny all participation in it, treat it as a dream or a false accusation on his part? He was here alone, he cannot deny that, and he has no means of proving that Wilmarth was here with him. He found the office door locked on the outside, as he supposed he should. No one could believe for a moment that he would set fire to the place when he had just disposed of it to his advantage, and yet not made a complete legal transfer, but never was a man placed in more confusing circumstances. Shall he attack Wilmarth with the power of the law? He is his sister's husband, and it will make a family scandal just when he believed he had all difficulties settled, and how _is_ he to prove his charge? Wilmarth is not a man to leave a weak point if he can help. His plans have all been nicely laid. Floyd feels certain now that he did enter the office, attracted perhaps by a gleam of light. What if he had not wakened until the fire was under full headway! Locked in, confused, his very life might have been the forfeit, and he shudders.