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

of the way there by myself," he pleads. "All my traps would be handy, and if I wanted to sit up at night I should disturb no one."

"It shall be just as you like. Yes, it would be more convenient for you. Why, we could go at it this very afternoon."

"But Gertrude----"

"Give Gertrude a book and she would sit in the debris of Mount Vesuvius," says her mother.

Mary, the housemaid, is called upon, and cook generously offers her services. Gertrude comes down-stairs grumbling a little. The two rooms are speedily dismantled of feminine belongings, but the quaint old mahogany bedroom suite is taken over because Floyd prefers it to the light ash with its fancy adornments. James, the coachman, and Briggs, the young lad, carry up the luggage. There is a little sweeping and dusting, and Floyd settles his rooms as he has often settled a tent or a cabin or a cottage. He has grown to be as handy as a woman.

He feels more at home over here, not so much like a guest. His room is not so large, but he has all the tower and the wide prospect on both sides. He can read and smoke and sit up at his pleasure without disturbing a soul. The "girls" and the wedding finery will all be together.

"Laura will be delighted," declares Mrs. Grandon again. In her secret heart she feels this arrangement will take Floyd a little out of madame's reach. Beside the tower there is a back stairway leading to a side entrance, quite convenient to Eugene's room. It is admirable altogether.

Floyd begins to unpack with hearty energy. Only the most necessary articles, the rest will keep till a day of leisure. To-morrow he must look into the business, and he hopes he will not find matters very troublesome. He has a good deal of his own work to do, and he sighs a little, wishing the wedding were well over.

Laura leaves her lover at the station, and is not a whit disconcerted by the change in affairs.

She and Madame Lepelletier are going to the city to-morrow to spend several days in shopping, and this evening they must devote to a discussion of apparel. They scarcely miss Floyd, who goes to bed at last with the utmost satisfaction.


CHAPTER IV.

My heart no truer, but my words and ways more true to it.--ROBERT BROWNING.

"Say good by to papa." And Floyd Grandon stoops to kiss his little daughter. "Jane will take you out to walk, and Aunt Gertrude will show you the pictures again if you ask her."

The evening before she had evinced a decided liking for Gertrude.

"Where are you going?" There was a quick apprehensiveness in her tone as she caught his hand.

"On some business," with a smile.

"Take me, too. I don't want to stay here alone," she cries, imperiously.

There is a soft rustle in the hall. Madame has come down in advance of Laura. The carriage stands waiting to take them to the station.

Floyd bites his lips in annoyance. Since they left Devonshire, Cecil has scarcely been an hour out of his sight save when asleep. He cannot take her now,--the thought is absurd.

"No, my dear. It would not amuse a little girl, and I shall be too busy. Do not be naughty," he entreats.

"I want to go with you. I will not stay here!"

"Cecil!"

"I will run away," she says, daringly. "I will not look at pictures nor walk with Jane."

"Then you will be naughty, and papa cannot love you," bending his face down to hers. "I shall not be glad to come back to a little girl who will not please or obey me."

"Take me, then!" There is a great, dry sob in her throat.

If only Madame Lepelletier were away! His experience with children is so very limited, that he is almost weak enough to yield to this sweet tyranny.

"Kiss me." Eugene has driven around with his horse and the buggy.

Cecil drops her hands by her side, and her large, deep eyes float in tears, but her brilliant lips are set. Just once they open.

"You are naughty to me," she says, with childish audacity.

"Very well." He takes a slow step as if to give her time for repentance. He could bestow an undignified shake upon the proud little mite, but he refrains.

"Jane, come and look after Miss Cecil," he exclaims, authoritatively. Then he gives her a quick kiss, but she stands with swelling chest and eyes glittering in tears, watching him out of sight.

Aunt Laura rustles down.

"Mutiny in the camp," says madame, with a little laugh; and though Cecil does not understand, she knows she is meant.

"Floyd will have his hands full with that child," comments Laura. "She is not so angelic as she looks."

Floyd has stepped into the buggy. Sultan snuffs with his thin nostrils, and paces with proud grace.

"There's a beauty for you, Floyd," Eugene says, triumphantly. "You cannot find his match anywhere about here."

Floyd is very fond of handsome horses, and Sultan stirs a sudden enthusiasm. Eugene expatiates eloquently upon his merits, which are evident. The shady road, the fragrant air, the glimpses of the broad river glittering in the morning sun, and the purple cliff opposite, are indeed a dream of beauty. He more than half wishes there was no business to distract one's mind.

"How it has all changed!" he says, presently. "I was amazed yesterday, looking from the tower, to see how Westbrook had enlarged her borders and indulged in high chimneys. There must be considerable business in the town. There is quite a length of dock and shipping, and streets in every direction."

"Yes. Floyd, will you go to Connery's first or to the factory? The will is in the safe, the letter of instruction at the lawyer's."

"Why not stop and get that? I want to see both, you know."

"And Connery's room is a stuffy little den. Well, we will stop for it, and if you want to consult him afterward, you can."

Mr. Connery has gone to the city on important business. The clerk hunts up the packet, and they go on.

The old factory has altered as well. A new part has been built, with a pretentious business office, and an ante-room that is quite luxuriously appointed, with Russia-leather chairs, lounge, a pretty cabinet, pictures, and several lovely statuettes.

"Now if you want to go through all these things, Floyd, you can do it at your leisure. We can't talk business until we know what basis it is to be on, and the will is a sort of dead letter without further instructions. I have a little errand to do which will take an hour or so, and----"

"Yes," is the quick affirmative. He is holding his dead father's letter in his hand and wishing to be alone with it.

"Here is the will," taking it from the safe. "There are cigars, so make yourself comfortable, and if you should prove the arbiter of my fate, deal gently." And the young man gives a gay little laugh.

Floyd seats himself by the window, but fond as he is of smoking, the cigars do not tempt him. His eyes rest upon these words until they all seem to run together:--"For my eldest son, Floyd Grandon. To be read by him before any settlement of the business." How different these irregular letters from his father's usual firm business hand! Ah, how soon afterward the trembling fingers were cold in death! He presses it to his lips with an unconscious, reverent tenderness.

The love between them had not been of the romantic kind, but he recalls his father's pride and pleasure in his young manhood, his interest in the house and the marriage arrangement. The later letters of his father have touched him, too, with a sort of secret weariness, as if his absorbing interest in business had begun to decline. He had planned some release and journeys for him, but the last journey of all had been taken, and he was at rest.

Slowly he broke the double seal and took the missive out of its enclosure, and began the perusal.


_To my dear Son Floyd_,--When you read this the hand that penned it
will be mouldering in the dust, its labor ended but not finished.


The pathos blurred his eyes, and he turned them to the window. The sun shone, the busy feet tramped to and fro, there was the ceaseless hum of the machinery, but the brain that had planned, the heart that had hoped, was away from it all, silent and cold, and the mantle had fallen on one who had no part or lot in the matter.

The letter had been written at intervals, and gave a clear statement of the business. Mr. Wilmarth had one quarter-share, Mr. St. Vincent had another quarter-share, and a certain amount of royalty on a patent that Mr. Grandon felt would secure a fortune to them all if rightly managed. For this, he asked Floyd's supervision. Eugene was too young to feel the importance of strict, vigorous attention. There was no ready money, the factory was mortgaged, and the only maintenance of the family must come from the business.

A chill sped over Floyd. Commercial pursuits had always wearied and disgusted him. Now, when he understood the bent and delight of his own soul, to lay his work aside and take up this--ah, he could not, he said.

Then he went over the will. To his mother, the furniture and silver, and, in lieu of dower, the sum of two thousand dollars yearly. To his sisters, the sum of five thousand apiece, to be paid as soon as the business would allow, and at the expiration of a term of years five thousand more. The half-share of the business to belong to Eugene solely after the legacies were paid. The library and two valuable pictures were bequeathed to Floyd, and in the tender explanation, he knew it was from no lack of affection that he had been left out of other matters.

The heavy bell clangs out the hour of noon. No one comes to disturb him. It seems like being in the presence of the dead, in a kind of breathless, waiting mystery. The duty is thrust upon him, if it can be done. His father seems confident, but how will liabilities and assets balance? Then he remembers the luxury at home, Eugene's fast horse, and his air of easy indifference. Certainly there must be something.

After a while the quiet oppresses him. He saunters around the room, that wears the aspect of indolent ease rather than business. Then he emerges into a wide hallway, and strolls over opposite. Here is a well-packed storehouse, then a small place in semi-obscurity, into which he peers wonderingly, when a figure rises that startles him out of his self-possession for a moment.

A man whose age would be hard to tell, though his thick, short hair is iron gray and his beard many shades whiter. Short of stature, with very high shoulders, that suggest physical deformity, squarely built and stout, a square, rugged face, with light, steely eyes and overhanging brows. It _is_ a repellent face and form, and Floyd Grandon says slowly,--

"Pardon my intrusion. I--" rather embarrassed at the steady gaze--"I am Mr. Floyd Grandon."

"Ah!" There is something akin to a sneer in the exclamation.