Floyd Grandon's Honor Part 61

Haviland and Murray the offer is made for all right and t.i.tle possessed by Violet St. Vincent Grandon, and by Floyd Grandon, her husband, in all interests, inventions, etc., with much legal verbiage that alike confuses and interests Violet. But the sum offered seems enormous to her! She gazes blankly from one to another, as she hears again that all income thereof is to be hers, that no one can touch the princ.i.p.al until she is twenty-five, that it is settled solely upon her and her children forever.

"Oh!" she exclaims, with a vague glance at her husband, but his face is absolutely impa.s.sible.

Mr. Sherburne takes her into his private office and questions her after the usual formula as to whether force or persuasion or bribes have been used, and whether she does all this of her free consent, and smiles a little at her utter innocence. It is well she and her fortune are in the hands of a man of such perfect integrity as Floyd Grandon. Then they both sign all necessary papers, and the morning's work is completed. Violet goes home, a rich woman beyond any doubt or question, but a very miserable one. She would like to give at least half the money to Eugene, but she does not dare make the least proposal. She feels afraid of Floyd Grandon's steady, searching eyes.

In the afternoon she and Pauline are left together, but the lawyers have a rather stormier session than in the morning. Mrs. Grandon has a vague suspicion that Eugene will come out of this much worsted. He will spend his money and there will be nothing left. The young man is in a curious mood. He is well aware that he never can or will confine himself to business routine, that he is the product of the nineteenth-century civilization, termed a gentleman, rather useless, it may be, but decidedly ornamental.

The showing of the last nine months has been profitable beyond expectation. It is true there has been no income used for family expenses, and the legacies can be paid. Mrs. Grandon finally decides to dispose of her claim, and everything is adjusted for the law's inspection, approval, and ultimate signature. Floyd Grandon has redeemed his trust, has obeyed his dead father's wishes, and circ.u.mstances have proved that the dying man did not over-estimate the worth of what he was leaving. But it has been a severe and distasteful duty, and only the closest attention, the best judgment, and most wary perseverance, have saved the family from ruin. He gives his advisers full credit for their help and sympathy; but it has been a great strain, and he is immensely relieved. The dissolution of the old firm and the arrangement of the new one are matters for time, but happily he will be out of that. Wilmarth and Eugene take the first, and the others are quite capable of managing the last. He has a secret pity for Wilmarth, and yet he knows he has been Eugene's worst enemy, that he would not have scrupled at any ruin to attain his end. That he is Marcia's husband he must always regret, and they have not yet reached the end of dissensions.

Eugene drives slowly homeward, ruminating many matters. He has his college education and various accomplishments, and in the course of a month or so will have some money. He has no more taste for a profession than for business; and though various phases of speculation look tempting, he is well aware that he has not the brains to compete with the trained athletes in this department. He can marry Pauline Murray, and he will, no doubt, end by marrying some rich woman. He looks covetously at Violet's fortune and calls himself hard names, but that is plainly out of his reach. He could love Violet so dearly, with such pa.s.sion and fervor, but it is too late, and he sighs. She would like him to marry Miss Murray; he will please her and Polly, who is undeniably charming, and do extremely well for himself. Why not, then?

He cannot hang here on Floyd forever.

Polly is wandering through the grounds in the late summer afternoon, her blue-lined parasol making an azure sky over her golden head, her white dress draping her slender figure in a strikingly statuesque way.

She is the kind of girl to madden men and win admiration on the right hand and on the left, and he _does_ like the women on whom the world sets a signet of approval. No sweet domestic drudge for him, and if Violet _has_ a fault, it is this tendency. When a man begins to discover flaws in his ideal the enchantment is weakening.

He saunters up to her, and she blushes, while a touch of delight gleams in her eye.

"Do you know," he begins, in a melancholy tone, "that I have sold my birthright, but not for a mess of cabbages, as the camp-meeting brother called it."

They both laugh,--Polly with a mirthful ring, Eugene lazily.

"And now I must take my bag of gold on one end of a stick and my best clothes done up in a bundle on the other, and go out to the new Territories. A young man grows up governor or senator, or some great personage there. I think it must be in the atmosphere,--ozone or odyle, what is it?"

She laughs again, a pleasant sound to hear. He is so very handsome in this mock-plaintive mood, with his beseeching eyes.

"You know I ought to do the world some good."

"Yes. And the Presidents come from the West. I would rather be a President."

"Oh, you couldn't, you know"; and he laughs again. "Is there nothing else that would satisfy your ambition?"

"Nothing!" She seems to shake a shower of gold out of the waving hair on her brow.

"Nothing," he repeats, disconsolately. "Then I may as well go. You see before you a struggling but worthy young man, born to a better heritage, but cruel fate----"

"Well, cruel fate," she says, as if prompting him.

He turns, and she blushes vividly. He bends lower until the warm cheek, soft as a girl's, touches hers, and the lips meet. Then he draws her arm through his, and takes her parasol.

"I wonder," he says, presently, "if I could get enough together to buy you of your father? Might I try?"

"You mercenary wretch!" she cries, but the tone is delicious.

"See here," he says, "some fellows have the cheek to ask such a gift for just nothing at all. I rate you more highly."

That is very sweet flattery. Her eyes droop and the color comes and goes.

"You might ask him," she says, in a tone of irresistible fascination, "but I do not believe you will have _quite_ enough."

"Then I shall start for Dakota."

They ramble up and down, and Eugene allows himself to sup of delight.

Does it make so much difference, after all, whom he marries? Polly is very charming and her lips are like rose-leaves. She loves him also, and she isn't the kind to bore a man.

Late that evening Violet steals out on the porch for a breath of the dewy air. Cecil has been wakeful and the stories almost endless. Floyd has not come home to dinner, and she feels strangely nervous.

Eugene has some idle moments on his hands.

"Come down the walk!" he exclaims, "I have something to tell you"; and he draws her gently toward him, taking the limp hand in his. As they go down in the light Floyd Grandon turns into the broad avenue, unseen by either.

"Well, I have done it," Eugene begins. "If I am miserable for life it will be your fault."

The treacherous wind carries back the last, and Floyd hears it distinctly in one of those electric moods that could translate a quiver in the air.

They are too far away for her answer.

"You will _not_ be miserable," she says, firmly. "No man could be miserable with Pauline Murray, if he did his duty and tried, _tried_ with his very soul to the uttermost. And you will, you will."

Eugene Grandon has an insincere nature, while hers is like crystal. He is extremely fond of sympathy from women, and her urgent tone makes him seem a sort of hero to himself. If he must endeavor earnestly, there is something to be overcome, and that is his love for her. The pendulum vibrates back to it.

"I shall try, of course," he says. Violet St. Vincent, with her fortune, is no light loss, but he does not distinguish between her and the fortune. "It was the best thing to do," he continues, "though I had half a mind to throw up everything and go away."

She feels she should have admired and approved this course, but Pauline would have been wretched. She does not dream that in this early stage another lover would have comforted Pauline. She is so simple, so absolutely truthful, that her youthful discernment is quite at fault.

"You must let yourself be happy," she says, and then she remembers how she has let herself be happy and the bitter awakening. But in this case there is nothing to break a confidence once established.

"And what are you going to do?" he asks, suddenly.

It is like a great wave and almost takes her off her feet.

"You must not think of me, nor watch me, nor anything"; and an observant man would note the strain of agony in her voice. "It was very good in your brother to take care of me as he did. Mr. Sherburne said to-day that not one man in a hundred would have brought the matter to such a successful issue. And you know if everything had been lost, why, I should have been a burthen on him. Think of _us_ having nothing at all! What could you do?"

He shrugs his shoulders in the dark, and he knows he should not want her or any other woman in poverty.

"I shall have a pleasant life," she continues. "I can do a great deal for Cecil; and I can copy and translate, and Mr. Grandon is so fond of music. I know we shall be happy when this business no longer perplexes him and he has a little leisure. He is always so good and thoughtful.

You couldn't expect him to love a little girl like me, fresh from a convent, with no especial beauty," she says, with heroic bravery.

"And you will forget about me," the young man returns, with jealous selfishness.

"I shall forget nothing that is right to be remembered," she says, steadily; "and I like Miss Murray; we shall be friends always. She seems such a young girl and I am only eighteen. We shall love each other and take an interest in each other's houses. Now that Gertrude is away, no one cares very much for me."

"It is a shame!" he interrupts, indignantly. "You and Polly must always love each other. We shall live somewhere around Grandon Park, I suppose."

"And we will all end like a fairy story," she declares, trying to laugh, but it is such a poor, mirthless sound.

She sees with secret joy that he is somewhat comforted, and she trusts to Polly's fascinations to achieve the rest. Love is not quite what poets sing about, unless in such lives as Mr. and Mrs. Latimer.

The air is so fragrant, the night so beautiful, that the moments fly faster than she thinks. The clock strikes ten, and in a little trepidation she insists that it shall be good night, and glides up the path and through the hall, and in Cecil's room comes face to face with Mr. Grandon, who has been home long enough to divest himself of coat, necktie, and collar. She stands quite still in amaze, the quick flush he has always admired going up to the very edge of her hair.