Floyd Grandon's Honor by Amanda Minnie Douglas (finding audrey txt) 📕

her new journey. Floyd and the professor wring each other's hands,--they have been like brothers so long! Surely, even if he had thought of it, he could have wished Gertrude no better fate. He is curiously moved by the professor's very earnest regard, though he knows it must half be pity, tenderness. His face is bright and cheerful, and his voice rings out heartily. He will bring back Frau Freilgrath so stout and rosy that no one will recognize her.

They are all very tired when they reach home. Mrs. Grandon is the happiest. She is the mother of two well-married daughters. They will be no further expense or care, and perhaps some one may pick up Marcia. She is no better reconciled to her son's marriage; in truth, as it sometimes happens where no real fault can be discovered, an obstinate person will fall back upon a prejudice. For a governess Violet would answer admirably, but she has no qualification for the position into which she has thrust herself.

January comes in bitterly cold, and the great house is very lonely. Marcia is flitting about, Mrs. Grandon makes another visit to New York, Eugene is moody and distraught, for he is very much smitten with madame, who, to do her justice, does not encourage the passion, though in a certain way she enjoys the young man's adoration. Then, too, he is extremely miserable about money. He hates to curtail any indulgence, he is fond of theatres, operas, _petit soupers_, fresh gloves, and fast horses, and he is put upon an allowance, which makes him hate Floyd and grumble to Wilmarth.

Floyd is deep in a literary venture, or rather it is no venture at all, a series of travels and descriptions of out-of-the-way corners of Asia, with new and marvellous discoveries. He is so excited and interested that he almost forgets other matters, and the time being short, every day is precious. Violet understands this, and amuses herself and Cecil, drives out to the cottage and spends days with Denise, and is a happy, bright little creature. Mrs. Latimer comes up for two or three days, which is utterly delightful.

Madame meanwhile has her hands full. She is sought after, and invitations accumulate on her table. Her callers are the _creme_ of the city. Brokers who are up early, drop in to her elegant little teas and bring her bouquets when roses are at their highest. Professional men find a wonderful charm in her conversation. There are generally one or two bright women beside, and the room takes on the appearance of a select party. She gives a superb little dinner, to which Floyd goes, but Violet does not, though warmly invited. Often after working all day he takes the evening train down to the city, and long before he is back Violet is asleep. They are quietly happy. He _is_ fond, though a good deal preoccupied.

Yet the time does not hang heavily. There have been several more plays and some fine concerts, but when they have taken the late train the pleasure has been somewhat fatiguing. Letters come from Gertrude, who admits that she grows foolishly happy. The professor makes such a delightful husband. She cannot go about a great deal, but he describes places and people to her, and she enjoys it quite as much. Gertrude certainly is not _exigeant_, and she has a touch of tender gratitude that makes the professor feel continually that he has done a good deed by marrying her, which is a flattering unction to the man's generous soul.

March comes in, and the pressing work being done, Floyd turns to the business. It is a success, but he is not any more in love with it. They have demonstrated now that the new looms carry a secret that must revolutionize trade. He holds long interviews with Mr. Connery and Ralph Sherburne. He has the privilege, being joint executor with Mr. Sherburne, of selling out all St. Vincent's right and title, and he has already been offered a fortune for it. He will deal justly and fairly by the dead man's genius, and Violet will be an heiress, which in one way gratifies, and in another way pains. He likes his mother and the world to know that Violet has a rank of her own, since money confers that, and in the future nothing she chooses will be considered extravagant in her. But he hates to be suspected of any mercenary considerations. He always had enough for both.

He lays the matter before Mr. Wilmarth, being quite convinced now that Eugene will never make a business man. He will not hurry matters, but when the legacies have been paid he shall close his connection with the factory.

"But Mrs. Grandon still has a life interest," suggests Jasper Wilmarth.

"That can be hypothecated, or the will gives her the privilege of taking any certain sum that can be agreed upon. It would not impoverish me to pay it myself," he says, with a fine contempt.

"But your brother must agree to all this; it is _his_ business, not yours."

"He will agree to it," answers Floyd, in a tone not to be mistaken, since it implies the young man would dispose of his birthright any day for a mess of pottage.

"Still, I should suppose there would be a feeling of honor," says Wilmarth, with his suave sneer.

"I think my honor has never been questioned, Mr. Wilmarth, nor my integrity."

Floyd Grandon rises and stands straight before him, his face slightly flushed.

"You quite mistake me," he replies, with a covert but insolent evasion; "or I had better have said pride, business pride, I have so much of that," and the lips show a sort of sardonic smile. "That is what your brother lacks; I suppose we have no reasonable right to look for it in you, a literary man."

Jasper Wilmarth always exasperates him, but he says now, with dignified gravity,--

"I give you this notice, so that you may prepare for the event. There will be no undue haste, but I should like to have the business settled in from one to two years hence."

So that is his warning! If he _could_ have married St. Vincent's daughter! Jasper Wilmarth does not care such a great deal for riches, but he would like to put down this aristocratic fellow whom the world is beginning to worship, who has only to hold out his hand and the St. Vincent fortune will drop into it. When the time of settlement actually comes the partnership will be dissolved; he must either sell or buy; buy he cannot. Floyd Grandon pushes him out. Is there no way to give the man a sword-keen thrust?

He broods over it for days, and at last it comes to him like an inspiration. Marcia has been making calls in Westbrook and stops for Floyd according to agreement. She sits there in the pony carriage in seal sacque and cap, her light hair flying about, her cheeks red with the wind, her face in a kind of satisfied smirk. You can never quite tell where this starts from; it is in the little crease in the brows, in the nose slightly drawn, in the lines about the mouth, and the rather sharp chin. Nature has not been as bountiful to Marcia in the matter of charms as to the others; she has stinted here and there, and it shows clearly as she grows older. But as she gives her head an airy toss and shakes the Skye fluff out of her eyes, he smiles. It would be an immense joke to marry Marcia Grandon; an immense mortification as well! To be Floyd Grandon's brother-in-law, to have the _entree_ of the great house, to come very near Violet Grandon and perhaps drop a bitter flavor in her cup!

Marcia Grandon is not sharp enough to outwit him anywhere and he would always be master; that is another point scored. Then he might make some moves through her that would otherwise be impossible.

Floyd comes out and springs in the carriage, indulgently allowing her to drive. Violet has had a cold and been in-doors for several days, but looks bright and well when she greets him. She is such a dear, happy little thing!

Not many days after this Wilmarth meets Marcia bowling along in the spring sunshine. He raises his hat, pauses, and with her coquettish instinct she stops.

"Good day, Miss Grandon," he says, with a low bow. "I thought of coming down to call on you. Have you given up all your old habits of designing? We have some large orders and I am quite in trouble about patterns,--I suppose your brother told you?"

"Oh, he never tells _me_ anything!" with an assumed air of disdain. "And he would be sure to consult Mrs. Grandon, who draws a little, like every school girl!"

"I dare say he never gave it a second thought," returns Wilmarth, in a reflective manner. "Well, _have_ you given it up?"

"I have been painting in oils for the last year or two," and nose and chin indulge in an extra tilt. "I dare say I _could_ design, though."

"Well, bring some in, if you can. I believe my brain begins to get rusty. Will you come--soon? You will always find me in my office."

There is something in the inflection of the voice that secretly delights Marcia. She has a taste for mystery and intrigue, but she is not secretive, she has too much vanity.

"I will, as soon as I can get about it," with what she considers well-bred indifference.

She shuts herself up in her studio all the next morning, all the afternoon and evening. She has a good deal of just this artistic faculty. The next day she copies and colors, and on the third Floyd goes to New York, and she drives to the factory. Eugene is out, as fate will have it.

Mr. Wilmarth receives her with just the right touch of graciousness, praises a little, finds a little fault, suggests a touch here and there, and admits that he is pleased with two, and thinks he shall use them. Marcia goes up to the seventh heaven of delight, and sees before her fame and fortune.

"Look over these," says Mr. Wilmarth. "They do not quite suit me. See if you can suggest anything. These Japanese designs admit of endless variation."

An hour passes ere Marcia consults her watch, and then she professes to be greatly surprised. What must poor Dolly think of her? "For I never make such unconscionable calls," she declares, and fancies that she blushes over it.

"It has been extremely pleasant to me," Mr. Wilmarth replies, in a tone of grave compliment. "I am so much alone. I miss your father more than any of you would suspect, I dare say. We used to consult together so much, and he was in and out a dozen times a day."

"But everything goes on _well_?" says Marcia, in an undecided tone of inquiry.

"Yes, if by that you mean prosperously. We are on the high road to fortune," and he laughs disagreeably. "I only wish your father were alive to enjoy it. It has been a hard pull for the last two years."

"Poor papa!" Marcia gives a pathetic little sniff. "But then it is something to have gained a success!"

"Yes, when one has friends or relatives to enjoy it. I sometimes wonder why _I_ go on struggling for wealth, to leave it to some charity at the last."

"Have you really no one?" Marcia lowers her voice to a point of sentiment.