Читать книгу Floyd Grandon's Honor - Amanda M. Douglas - Страница 11

Table of Contents

There is a ripe season for everything: if you slip that, or anticipate it, you dim the grace of the matter.—Bishop Hackett.

A rather curious lull falls in factory affairs. Mr. Wilmarth is gone almost a fortnight. Floyd makes the acquaintance of the superintendent, and finds him an intelligent man, but rather opposed to the new system of machinery.

"We were making money before," he says. "I like to let well alone, but Mr. Grandon, your father, was wonderfully taken with St. Vincent's ideas. They're good enough, but no better than the old. We gain here, and lose there. Of course if it was all as St. Vincent represents, there would be a fortune in it—carpet weaving would be revolutionized. But I am afraid there is some mistake."

Mr. Lindmeyer comes up and spends two days watching the working. He is very much impressed with some of the ideas. If he could see Mr. St. Vincent.

Mr. St. Vincent is ill, but expects to be sufficiently recovered to return soon.

All these matters occupy a good deal of Floyd Grandon's time. Cecil learns to do without him and allow herself to be amused by Jane and Auntie Gertrude, who is her favorite. Marcia teases her by well-meant but very injudicious attention. Guests and friends come and go, wedding gifts begin to be sent in, and that absorbing air of half-mystery pervades every place.

They have all come to adore Madame Lepelletier. Even Mrs. Grandon is slowly admitting to herself that Floyd could not do better, and half resigns herself to the inevitable second place. Laura takes up the idea with the utmost enthusiasm. Gertrude does not share in this general worship; she is too listless, and there is a feeling of being distanced so very far that it is uncomfortable.

Strange to say, with all her irresistible tenderness she has not won Cecil. She feels curiously jealous of this little rival, who, wrapped in a shawl, often falls asleep on her father's knee in the evening. He always takes her to drive, whoever else goes; and it comes to be a matter of course that Cecil has the sole right to him when he is in the house and not writing.

There has been so much summer planning. Laura wants madame to come to Newport for a month, and partly extorts a promise from Floyd that he will give her at least a week. Marcia's "hermits" come up to talk over Maine and the Adirondacks and Lake George, and finally settle upon the latter. Their nearest neighbors, the Brades, own a cottage in the vicinity, and beg Mrs. Grandon and madame and Eugene to bestow upon them a week or two. Miss Lucia Brade is extremely sweet upon Eugene, who thrives upon admiration, but has a fancy for laying his own at madame's feet.

"Why did you not escort that pretty Miss Brade home?" she says one evening, when Lucia has been sent in the carriage.

"Why? because my charm was here," he answers audaciously, imprinting a kiss upon her fair hand.

"You foolish boy. And I am too tired to remain. I should be dull company unless you want to walk."

There is the wandering scent of a cigar in the shrubbery, and they may meet Floyd, who has absented himself since dinner.

Eugene goes for her shawl and they take a little ramble. He is very averse to finding his brother, and madame tires even of the gentle promenade.

But the next morning her star is surely in the ascendant. Cecil sleeps late. Floyd is down on the porch, reading and smoking, when the flutter of a diaphanous robe, with billowy laces, attracts his eyes and he smiles an invitation.

"Shall I intrude?" The voice is soft, with a half-entreaty almost as beguiling as Cecil's.

"Indeed, no." There is something wistful in her face, and he gives a graceful invitation with his hand to a seat beside him. She is so royally beautiful this morning, with her fresh, clear skin, the rose-tint on her cheek, her deep, dewy eyes, that still have a slumbrous light in them, the exquisite turn of the throat, and the alluring smile.

"Do you know," she begins, in the seductive tone to which one can but choose to listen—"do you know that if you had not the burden of Atlas upon your shoulders, I should feel tempted to add just a very little to a smaller burthen."

"My shoulders are broad, you see," and he laughs with an unusual lightness. Somehow he feels happy this morning, as if it was to be a fortunate day. "You have been so kind to Laura, that if we could do anything in return——"

"Oh, women take naturally to weddings, you know! And Laura is such a sweet girl, but so young! I seem ages older. And, shall I come to the point—I want to establish myself. I cannot always be accepting the hospitality of my dearest friends, and I have a longing for a home. You see American ways have spoiled me already." And she raises her deep, languorous eyes.

"A home?"

"Yes." She laughs a little now. "And I need some sort of banking arrangement, as well as security for valuable papers. I am quite a stranger, you know, and have no relatives."

"Well, you must take us," he answers, in a frank way. "You do not mean a home quite by yourself?"

"Why not? I am tired of hotels and rooms. I want a pretty place, with some congenial friend, where I can call together choice spirits, musical, literary, and artistic, where I can be gay or quiet, read the livelong day if I like." And she smiles again, with an enchanting grace. "I suppose New York would be better for winter. I should have dear Laura to commence with, and not feel quite so lonely. You see, now, I really do want to be anchored to some sort of steadfastness, to do something with my life and my means, even if it is only making a pretty and congenial place in the world where some tired wayfarer may come in and rest. We are so prodigal in youth," and she sighs with seductive regret, while her beautiful eyes droop; "we scatter or throw away the pearls offered us, and later we are glad to go over the way and gather them up, if haply no other traveller has been before us."

He is thinking—not of the past, as she hopes—but of her gifts for making an elegant home. His sisters seem crude and untrained beside her. He can imagine such a lovely place with her in the centre, the Old World refinement grafted on the new vigor and earnest purpose.

"Yes," he answers, rousing himself. She sees the effort, and allows a thrill to speed along her pulses. "But—there is no haste, surely? You would not want to go to the city until cool weather. I hope to be there a good deal myself this winter. I have some plans—if I can ever get this business off my mind."

There is a curious little exultation in her heart now, but her moods and features are well trained. Her face is full of sympathy as she raises her beguiling eyes.

"It is a difficult place to fill, to give satisfaction," she says, "and you are so new to business. As I remember, you did not like it in the old days."

"No." He gives a short laugh. "And, thinking of myself, I find more excuse for Eugene's distaste. Yet if I were to let it go, the family fortunes would go with it, and I might justly be blamed. I must keep it for the year, at all events."

"Is it—very bad?" she asks, timidly.

"I cannot seem to get any true understanding of the case. When Mr. St. Vincent comes back we shall go at it in real earnest. And, in any event, your portion shall be made safe."

"Oh, do not think of that, it is such a mere trifle! I supposed mamma had drawn it all out until I looked over her papers. Then I had a notice of the settlement, but I should have come home in any event. I had grown tired of Europe, very tired. I dare say you think me ennuied, whimsical."

"Indeed, I do not," warmly. "Home is to a woman what the setting is to a diamond. And though the advice of such a rambler may not be worth much, still, whatever I can do——"

He pauses and his eye rests upon her, takes in her exceeding beauty, grace, and repose; the admirable fitness for every little exigency that society training gives. She seems a part of the morning picture, and akin to the fresh, odorous air, the soft yet glowing sun, the rippling river, the changeful melody of flitting birds. He is fresh now, not vexed and nervous with the cares of the day; he has been reading an old poet, too, which has softened him.

An oriole perches on the tree near him and begins an enchanting song. Both turn, and she leans over the railing, still in range of his eyes. He remembers like a sudden flash that they were here years ago, planning, dreaming, hoping, she his promised wife. Does it stir his soul? Was that merely a young man's fancy for a pretty girl, engendered by friendly companionship? She glances up so quickly that he flushes and is half ashamed of speculating upon her.

"It is delightful! Ah, I do not wonder you love this morning hour, when beauty reigns supreme, before the toil and moil of the world has begun. It stirs one's heart to worship. And yet we, senseless creatures, dance through starry midnights in hot rooms, and waste such heavenly hours in stupid slumber. Do you wonder that I am tired of it all?"

"Papa, papa!" Cecil comes dancing like a sprite of the morning, and clasping his hand, springs upon his knee, burying her face in his beard, her soft lips sweet with kisses. Then as if remembering, turns, says, "Good morning, madame," with a grave inclination of the head, and nestles down on his lap. Madame could strangle her, but she smiles sweetly, and speaks with subtle tenderness in which there is a touch of longing. Floyd wonders again how it is that Cecil is blind to all this attraction.

Then the conversation drops to commonplaces, and the breakfast-bell rings. There is so much to do. To-morrow is the wedding morning, and the guests will begin to come to-day. Floyd will give up one of his rooms and take Cecil. Eugene is in his glory, and is really much more master of ceremonies than Floyd can be. There is nothing but flurry and excitement, but madame keeps cool as an angel. Mrs. Vandervoort and Mrs. Latimer, the bridegroom's sisters, both elegant society women, do not in the least shine her down, and are completely captivated by her.

"Of course she must come to Newport, Laura," says Mrs. Vandervoort. "She is trained to enjoy just such society. And next winter she will be the social success of the city. I delight in American belles," says this patriotic woman, who has been at nearly every court in Europe, and can still appreciate her own countrywomen, "but they do need judicious foreign training."

The wedding morning dawns auspiciously. The house is sweet with flowers. Gertrude is roused from her apathy, and looks an interesting invalid. Marcia is airy and childish, Madame Lepelletier simply magnificent, and the bride extremely handsome in dead white silk and tulle, with clusters of natural rosebuds.

Floyd gives the bride away, and, much moved, breathes a prayer for her happiness. The vows are said; they come home to an elegant wedding breakfast, managed by colored waiters who know their business perfectly. There are some friendly, informal neighborhood calls, and all is very gay and bright. Eugene, Marcia, and the Brades are going up the river with them; Mr. and Mrs. Delancy will travel leisurely through Canada and come down to Newport to be Mrs. Vandervoort's guests for the remainder of the summer. Madame Lepelletier has some business to settle, and will rejoin them as soon as possible.

There is very great confusion afterwards, but by dusk matters get pretty well settled in their olden channel. Madame declares it an extremely pretty wedding, and praises Laura's self-command, which, after all, was largely compounded of perfect satisfaction.

And now there will be a lull, and it shall go hard indeed if Madame Lepelletier cannot use some charm to draw this indifferent man towards her. She is beginning to hate the child who always rivals her; but certainly she can circumvent the little thing when she has all her time to herself and can use her eyes for her own advantage.

It seems odd to have such a small, quiet breakfast-table, to see his mother in her black gown again, and Gertrude's morning dress tied with black ribbons. They all talk rather languidly, when an interruption occurs. Briggs brings in a note for Mr. Grandon.

"An old woman brought it," he announces, "and she is waiting outside for an answer. She would not come in."

Floyd remarks that it is unsealed. Its contents are brief, but written in a fine, irregular hand.

"Will Mr. Grandon come at once to Mr. St. Vincent, who is ill in bed?"

Grandon rises suddenly and goes out. On the wide step of the porch sits the old housekeeper, but she glances up with dark, bright eyes.

"You will come?" she begins, eagerly.

"Yes. When did Mr. St. Vincent return?"

"Last night. He is very ill." Her wrinkled lips quiver and she picks nervously at her shawl. "They came to New York, but the journey was too much. He has been there two days with no one but the child, my poor ma'm'selle."

"Yes. I shall be glad enough to see him. Wait a moment," as she rises. "I shall drive over immediately, and it will save you a long walk."

"Oh, no, sir. I can walk."

"You will wait," he says. "Briggs, order the buggy at once. Jane," as the girl comes out on the porch, "take good care of Miss Cecil to-day. Do not let her annoy any one, for everybody is tired." Then he goes in and makes a brief explanation, kisses Cecil, and is off to the waiting vehicle, into which he hands the old woman with the politeness he would show to a queen.

Madame Lepelletier is extremely annoyed. She has counted on a long, idle morning. She has papers for him to overlook, plans to discuss, and now she must spend the time alone.

"Is Mr. St. Vincent's complaint serious?" Floyd asks of the quaint figure beside him.

A tremor runs over her and the bright eyes fill with tears. "It is his heart," she says, with her formal pronunciation. "It has been bad a long, long while, but never like this. You see he never rested here," tapping her forehead. "Day and night, day and night, always working and studying, and letting his bouillon and tea get cold, and forgetting all. I made the house bright and cheerful for ma'm'selle, and I thought he might be happy, a little more at rest; but oh, kind Heaven! it is not the rest I hoped."

Grandon is quite shocked. St. Vincent's death may complicate matters still more. Then he checks his own selfish thought.

"Can I drive in?" he asks.

"Oh, yes, there is a little stable. Master meant to get ma'm'selle a pony. Poor girl!"

They both alight. Floyd fastens the horse and follows his guide.

"Monsieur will please walk up stairs—this way."

The hall is small, square, and dark. He treads upon a rich Smyrna rug that is like velvet. The stairs are winding and of some dark wood. A door stands open and she waves him thither with her hand. In this very room he has watched a student working. Here was the table, as if it had only been left yesterday.

He hears voices in the adjoining room and presently the door opens. The furniture is dark and antique, brightened by a few rugs and one glowing picture of sunset that seems to irradiate the whole apartment. The occupant of the bed appears almost in a sitting position, propped up by pillows, marble pale, and thin to attenuation. One wasted hand lies over the spread, handsome enough for a woman, and not showing the thinness as much as the face. The eyes are deeply sunken, but with a feverish brightness.

"Mr. Grandon, I thank you most kindly for your quick response. Sit down here.—Now you can leave us, Denise. I shall want nothing but my drops."

"I am afraid you are hardly able——"

"Mr. Grandon, when a man's life comes to be told off by days, he must do his work quickly, not daring to count on any future. I had hoped—but we must to business. Come nearer. Sit there in the light. No, you are not much like your father, and yet totally unlike your brother. I think I can trust you. I must, for there is nothing left, nothing!"

"You can trust me," Floyd Grandon says, in a tone that at once establishes confidence.

"And one could trust your father to the uttermost. If he had but lived!"

"No one regrets that more bitterly than I, and I thank you for the kindly praise."

"A good man, a just man. And now he has left all to you, and it is a strange, tangled mass. I meant to help, but alas, I shall soon be beyond help." And the brow knits itself in anxious lines, while the eyes question with a vague fear.

"If you could explain a little of the trouble. I am no mechanic, and yet I have dabbled into scientific matters. But you are too ill."

A spasm passes over his face, leaving it blue and pinched, and St. Vincent makes a gasp for breath.

"No. I shall never be better. Do not be alarmed, that was only a trifle. You have seen Wilmarth, and he has told you; but the thing is not a failure, it cannot be! There were some slight miscalculations which I have remedied. If I could find some one to whom I could explain my plans——"

"I know a man. I have had him at the factory and he would be glad to see you. He does not quite understand, but he believes it can be made a success. Wilmarth seems doubtful and strange in some ways——"

"He is working against me—no need to tell me that! But why?" And the eager eyes study Grandon painfully. "There is some plan in the man's brain. He came to Canada. Do you know what for?"

Grandon looks up in surprise.

"I was amazed. The man may have a better heart or more faith than I credit him with. He was so different in your father's time. It is as if some project or temptation had seized him." Then, after a pause, "He asked my daughter in marriage."

"I thought she was—a child," says Grandon, in amaze.

"So she is. In my country, Mr. Grandon, they manage their daughters differently; not always better, perhaps, but they do not leave them unprotected to the world, to beg their bit of bread, maybe. I have put everything in my invention. It is her dowry."

"And he wished to be the sole master of it?"

"Exactly. She saw him once." And a bitter smile wreaths the deathly face.

"And she does not like him! How could any woman?" Floyd Grandon gives a shiver of disgust.

"I have not told her. Yet a man cannot leave a young girl to make a tiger's fight with the world! She, poor lamb, would soon be rent in pieces."

"Leave her to my care," says Floyd Grandon. "I have a mother and sisters, and a little girl of my own whom I love as my life. Let me take her and do the best I can with her fortune."

"You are very kind. There is one other way. Is your brother at home?"

"He went away yesterday." Floyd almost guesses at what will follow.

"I have a proposal to make. Let him marry my daughter. You are head of the house now, and have the welfare of your family at heart. She is sweet, accomplished, pretty. He will listen to you, and you see it will be to his interest. You can fight Wilmarth then; you will have the best in your own hands."

Floyd Grandon sits in stupid amaze. It might be for Eugene's interest, but the young man would never consent. And a mere business marriage without love—no, he cannot approve.

"This surprises you, no doubt. When I reached New York I was very ill again. I made the physician tell me the truth. I cannot live a month; I may die any day, but it would be horrible to leave my child to battle with poverty, unsuccess. If he was to make a fortune he might go into it with a better heart, you know. And your brother is so young. He would be good to her. Not that I fancy Jasper Wilmarth could be cruel to a pretty young girl who would bring him a fortune."

Floyd Grandon rises and begins to pace the floor. Then he stops as suddenly. "Pardon me, I annoy you, but——"

"You think it all strange. It is not your way of doing things. When I saw the young girl I made my wife, I had no word for her delicate ear until her parents had consented and betrothed her. And I loved her—God only knows how dearly. She died in my arms, loath to go. But your young people, they love to-day and marry with no consultation, they quarrel and are divorced. Is it any better?"

"No," Floyd Grandon answers honestly. "But—I do not know my brother's views——"

"You will write to him. You will explain. Your father, it is said, left all things in your hands. He had confidence, trust. I trust you as well."

"I will do the best I can, and we may find some other way if this fails."

"And you spoke of some person——"

"My lawyer found a young man, a foreigner, Lindmeyer by name. He seems very ingenious. If you will let me bring him?"

"I shall be most glad."

Even as he speaks he throws up his arms with a sudden gasp and motions to the bell. Denise answers the summons. Her master has fainted, and after some moments she restores him.

"I have talked too long," exclaims Grandon, remorsefully.

"No. Some one must know all this before I can die at peace. Find your man and bring him here. And if you should see Wilmarth, do not mention that I have returned. I must have some quiet. Thank you again for coming. And may I hope to see you to-morrow?"

"Yes," answers Floyd, taking the feeble hand. Then he turns to the door, bids the old housekeeper good day, and finds his way out alone, with a strange feeling, as if he were taking a part in a play, almost a tragedy.

He drives straight to Connery and learns that Lindmeyer's address is New York. He will not wait for a letter to reach him, and just pausing at the stable to take in Briggs, goes at once to the station.

It is a long, bothersome quest. The young man does not come home at noon, so he waits awhile and then sets off in search of him, making two calls just after he has left the places, but at last success crowns his efforts. But Lindmeyer cannot come up the next day. There is an expert trial of some machinery for which he is engaged at ten. It may take two or three hours, it may hold him all day.

"Come back with me, then," says Floyd. "You can go over a little this evening, and keep it in your mind, then you can return when you are through. I want the matter settled, and the man's life hangs on a mere thread."

Lindmeyer consents, and they travel up together. The day is at its close as they reach the little nest on the cliffs, but Denise gives Grandon a more than friendly welcome.

"He is better," she says. "He will be so glad. Go right up to him."

He does not look better, but his voice is stronger. "And I had such a nice sleep this afternoon," he says. "I feel quite like a new being, and able to entertain your friend. How good you are to a dying man, Mr. Grandon."

Quite in the evening Floyd leaves them together and returns home. Cecil has cried herself to sleep in the vain effort to keep awake. Madame Lepelletier assumes her most beguiling smile, and counts on an hour or two, but he excuses himself briefly. The letter to Eugene must be written this evening, though he knows as well what the result will be as if he held the answer in his hand.

A little later he lights a cigar and muses over the young girl whose fate has thus strangely been placed in his hands. He is not anxious to marry her to Eugene; but, oh, the horrible sacrifice of such a man as Wilmarth! No, it shall not be.