Floyd Grandon's Honor by Amanda Minnie Douglas (ebook audio reader TXT) 📖

if she is restless."

He goes up over the winding stairs with a curious sensation. She lies there asleep, one arm thrown partly over her head, the soft white sleeve framing in the fair hair that glitters as if powdered with diamond-dust. The face is so piquant, so brave, daring, seductive, with its dimples and its smiling mouth, albeit rather pale. His stern, tense look softens. She is sweet enough for any man to love: she has ten times the sense of Marcia, the strength and spirit of Gertrude, and none of the selfishness of Laura. She is pretty, too, the kind of prettiness that does not awe or stir deeply or _command_ worship. What is it--and an old couplet half evades him--


"A creature not too bright and good
For human nature's daily food."


That just expresses her. What with the writing and the business, he has had so little time for her, but henceforth she shall be his delight. He will devote himself to her pleasure. Proper or not, she shall go to the city and see the gayety, hear concerts and operas and plays, even if they have to go in disguise. But how to give her her true position at home puzzles him sorely. He had meant to introduce her at these coming parties, but of course that is quite out of the question.

Denise comes up presently, the kindly friend, the respectful domestic, and takes a low seat when Mr. Grandon insists upon her remaining awhile. Something in her curious Old World reverence always touches him. He asks about Violet's childhood, whatever she remembers. The mother she never saw; but she has been with the St. Vincents thirteen years. They lived in Quebec for more than half that time; then Mr. St. Vincent was abroad for two years, and Miss Violet went to the convent. Denise is a faithful Romanist, but she has always honored her master's faith,--perhaps because he has been so generous to hers.

There is some tea on the kitchen stove keeping warm, she tells him with her good night, some biscuits and crackers, and a bottle of wine, if he likes better. Then he is left alone, and presently the great clock in the hall tells off slowly and reverently the midnight hour.

Violet stirs and opens her eyes. There is a light, and Mr. Grandon is sitting here. What does it all mean? Her face flushes and she gives a sudden start, half rising, and then drops back on the pillow, many shades paler.

"I know now," she cries. "You came back to stay with me?"

There is a thrill of exultant joy in her tone. Does such a simple act of duty give her pleasure, gratify her to the very soul? He is touched, flattered, and then almost pained.

"You do not suppose I would leave you alone all night, my little Violet?"

"It was good of you to come," she insists. "But are you going to sit up? I am not really ill."

"Your back hurt you, though, when you stirred. I saw it in your face."

"It hurt only a little. I shall have to keep quiet, now," with a bright smile.

"And your ankle must be bathed. I should have done it before but you were sleeping so sweetly. Does your head ache, or is there any pain?"

"Only that in my back; but when I am still it goes away. My ankle feels so tight. If the bandage could be loosened----"

"I think it best not." Then he bathes it with the gentlest handling, until the thick layers have been penetrated. Will she have anything to eat or to drink? Had she better take the second powder?

"Not unless I am restless, and I am not--very, am I?" with a soft little inquiry.

"Not at all, I think," holding her wrist attentively.

"Are you going to sit up all night?" she asks.

"I am going to sit here awhile and put my head on your pillow, so, unless you send me away."

"Send you away!" she echoes, in a tone that confesses unwittingly how glad she is to have him.

Her hand is still in his, and he buries it in his soft beard, or bites the fingers playfully. Her warm cheek is against his on the pillow, and he can feel the flush come and go, the curious little heat that bespeaks agitation. It is an odd, new knowledge, pleasing withal, and though he is in some doubt about the wisdom, he hates even to move.

"You are quite sure you are comfortable?" he asks again.

"Oh, delightful!" There is a lingering cadence in her voice, as if there might be more to say if she dared.

"You must go to sleep again, like a good child," he counsels, with a sense of duty uppermost.

She breathes very regularly, but she is awake long after he fancies her oblivious. She feels the kisses on her cheek and on her prisoned fingers, and is very, very happy, so happy that the pain in her ankle is as nothing to bear.

Dr. Hendricks makes a very good report in the morning. The patient's back has been strained, and the ankle is bad enough, but good care will soon overcome that. She must lie perfectly still for several days.

"When can she be moved?" Mr. Grandon asks.

"Moved? Why, she can't be moved at all! She is better off here than she would be with a crowd around her bothering and wanting to wait on her, as mothers and sisters invariably do," with a half-laughing nod at Grandon. "Her back must get perfectly strong before she even sits up. The diseases and accidents of life are not half as bad as the under or over care, often most injudicious."

"Oh, do let me stay!" pleads Violet, with large, soft, beseeching eyes.

He has been planning how she shall be honored and cared for in her own home, and does not like to yield. To have her out of the way here will gratify all the others too much.

"Of course you will stay," the doctor says. "When a woman promises to obey at the marriage altar, there is always an exception in the case of that privileged and tyrannical person, the doctor."

Violet smiles, and is glad of the tyranny.

"She may see one or two guests and have a book to read, but she is not to sit up."

The guest to-day is Cecil, but Denise makes the kitchen so altogether attractive that Cecil's heart is very much divided. Mr. Grandon spends part of the afternoon reading aloud, but his mellow, finely modulated voice is so charming that Violet quite forgets the subject in the delight of listening to him. Cecil would fain stay and wishes they could all live with Denise.

Yes, there could be more real happiness in that little nest than in the great house. Aunt Marcia's gift has not brought him very good luck, even from the first.


CHAPTER XVI.

What is the use of so much talking? Is not the wild rose sweet without a comment?--HAZZLIT.

Since there is no real alarm about Mrs. Floyd, arrangements go onward. Madame Lepelletier and Mr. and Mrs. Delancy come up on the appointed day, and madame is led to the lovely guest chamber where she reigned before. This is Monday, and on Tuesday the _elite_ of Grandon Park and a select few of the _creme_ of Westbrook are invited to dinner. Laura is the star of the occasion, but madame is its grace, its surprise, its charm. The few who have seen her are delighted to renew the acquaintance, others are charmed, fascinated.

There has been no little undercurrent of curiosity concerning Mr. Floyd Grandon's wife. The feeling has gone abroad that there is something about it "not quite, you know." Mrs. Grandon has not concealed her chagrin and disappointment; Marcia's descriptions are wavering and unreliable, as well as her regard. This is such an excellent opportunity for everybody to see and to judge according to individual preference or favor, and behold there is nothing to see. Mrs. Floyd has sprained her ankle and is a prisoner in that queer, lonely little cottage, where her father lived like a hermit. The impression gains ground that Mr. St. Vincent was something of an adventurer, and that his connection with the business has been an immense misfortune for the Grandons; that his daughter is a wild, hoydenish creature, who climbs rocks and scales fences, and is quite unpresentable in society, though she may know how to sit still in church.

Floyd Grandon would very much like to escape this dinner, but he cannot. His position as head of the house, his own house, too, his coming fame, his prestige as a traveller, make him too important an object to be able to consult his own wishes. Then there are old neighbors, who hold out a hand of cordial welcome, who are interested in his success, and whom he has no disposition to slight.

He takes madame in to dinner, who is regal in velvet and lace. There is a little whisper about the old love, a suspicion if something that cannot quite be explained had not happened with the St. Vincent girl, the "old love" would be on again. There is a delicate impression that madame was persuaded into her French marriage very much against her will. She is charming, fascinating, perfection. She distances other women so far that she even extinguishes jealousy.

It certainly is a delightful dinner party, and Mrs. Grandon is in her glory. She almost forgives Violet her existence for the opportuneness of the accident. She is just as much mistress as ever, and to be important is Mrs. Grandon's great delight. She hates secondary positions. To be a dowager without the duchess is the great cross of her life. If Mr. Grandon could have left her wealthy, the sting of his death would not be half so bitter.

It is late when the guests disperse. Violet has insisted that he shall not give her an anxious thought, but he is a man, and he does some incipient envying on her account. Of course to have her up-stairs, an invalid, would not better the position, but to have her _here_, bright and well and joyous, full of quaint little charms, and he has never known how full, how over-brimming she was with all manner of fascinating devices until the last few days. If his mother could realize that under this courteous and attentive exterior, the breeding of the polished man of the world, he is thinking only of Violet in white wrappers, with a cluster of flowers at her throat, she would be more than ever amazed at his idiocy.

There is to be a small company at Mrs. Brade's the next evening, a reception to "dear Laura."

"You _must_ come," declares Mrs. Brade, emphatically. "We ought to have a chance at our old friend, and you and the boys grew up together. Do you remember how you used to roast corn and apples at the kitchen fire, and go over your Latin? Why, it seems only yesterday, and all my children are married and gone, save Lucia."

"I shall have to be excused," Floyd Grandon says, in a quiet tone, but with a smile that is fully as decisive. "I shall owe to-morrow evening to my wife, who cannot yet leave her room."

"How very sad and unfortunate! Are we never to have a sight of her, Mr. Grandon, except the glimpses in the carriage and