Floyd Grandon's Honor Part 35

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 d.u.c.h.ess 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-br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 cl.u.s.ter 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 at church?"

"Certainly," he answers. "Circ.u.mstances have kept us from society, and I have really had no time for its claims, but I hope to have more presently for it, as well as for her."

"We shall be glad to see you, never doubt that. Lucia will be so disappointed to-morrow evening."

Grandon bows. Is there anything more to say proper to the occasion? He has heard so much during the last three months that he has grown quite nervous on the subject of society etiquette.

On the morrow Violet is anxious to hear about the dinner. She is young and full of interest in gay doings, in spite of her early sorrow. He makes blunders over the dresses, and they both laugh gayly; he describes the guests and the old friends, and the complimentary inquiries about her.

"I wish you could be there on Thursday evening," he says, regretfully.

"That is to be a party with dancing, and plenty of young people,--Laura's companions."

"And I have never been to a real party in all my life!" she cries. "I suppose I couldn't dance, but I could look on, and there is my lovely dress!"

"You shall have a party for your own self, and all the dancing you want," he answers.

"Can _you_ waltz, Mr. Grandon?" she asks, after a moment's thought.

He laughs. The idea of Floyd Grandon, traveller and explorer, whirling round in a giddy waltz!

"It isn't so ridiculous," she says, her face full of lovely, girlish resentment. "At school we learned to waltz, but it was with girls, and--I couldn't ever waltz with any one but you, because--because----"

and her eyes fill up with tears.

"No," he answers, quickly, "I shouldn't ever want you to. I will--I mean we will both practise up. I did waltz when I was first in India, but my dancing days came to an end."

She remembers. There was the long sea-voyage and the death of Cecil's mother.

"My darling," he says, distressed at her grave face and not dreaming of what is in her thoughts, "when you are well once again, and the right time comes, you shall dance to your heart's content. I will take you to a ball,--to dozens of them,--for you have had no real young-girl life.

And now, as soon as you can endure the fatigue, we will go to the city to operas and theatres. I was thinking, that first night you were hurt, what a little hermit you had been, and that we would give the proprieties the go-by for once."

He is leaning over her reclining chair, looking down into her velvety eyes and watching the restless sweep of the long bronze lashes. The whole face is electrified with delicious rapture, and she stretches up her arms to clasp him about the neck.

"Oh, you thought of me, then!" she cries, with a tremulous joy. "You were planning pleasures for me, and I just laid and slept,"

remorsefully.

"But if you had not slept I should have been ill at ease, and could have planned no pleasures. It was your bounden duty."

He kisses her fondly. It is quite a new delight. Is he really falling in love with her? as the phrase goes. It will be delightful to have duty and inclination join.

"I shall be _so_ careful," she says, when they come back to a reasonable composure. "Dr. Hendricks said if I was very careful and not impatient to get about, my ankle would be just as strong as ever. I want it to be--perfect, so I can dance all night; people do sometimes.

Oh, if I had hurt myself so that I never could get well!" and her face is pale with terror.

"Don't think of it, my darling."

Cecil comes up, full of importance and in a Holland ap.r.o.n that covers her from chin almost to ankles. "I have made a cake," she announces, "and we have just put it in the oven. It is for lunch. You will surely stay, papa!"

"Surely, surely! Who dressed you up, Cecil?" and he smiles.

"This used to be mamma's," she says, with great dignity. "Denise made it when she lived with her and used to help her work. There is another one, trimmed with red, and I am going to have that also."

Violet smiles and holds out her hand; Cecil takes that and slips on her father's knee, and the love-making is interrupted. But there is a strange stir and tumult in the young wife's soul and a shyness comes over her; she feels her husband's eyes upon her, and they seem to go through every pulse. What is it that so stops her breath, that sends a sudden heat to her face and then a vague s.h.i.+ver that is not coldness or terror?

Then he wonders when the professor, who has gone on a brief lecturing experience, will be back; they are counting on him for the party, and will be extremely disappointed if he should not reach Grandon Park in time.

"And he will be surprised to find that some one else has come in and taken possession," says Violet.

"He is so nice!" remarks Cecil, gravely. "I like him so much better than I do Uncle Eugene. What makes him my uncle?" with a puzzled frown on the bright face and a resentful inflection in her voice.

"Fate," answers her father, which proves a still more difficult enigma to her and keeps her silent many moments.

The lunch is up-stairs, for Violet is not allowed to leave the room, though all bruises and strains are well and the ankle is gaining every day. The father, mother, and child get on without any trouble, though Cecil is rather imperious at times. Denise will not have any one to help her, and she is in a little heaven of delight as she watches the two. Floyd Grandon loves his wife, as is meet and right, and she is learning to love him in a modest, careful way, as a young wife should.

Such a bride as Laura would shock Denise.

Floyd absents himself from the great house, and sends Eugene, who is nothing loth, to wait upon the ladies and perform their behests. Laura does not care so much, and Mrs. Grandon is in her element, but madame feels that as the child was her _bete noire_ in the summer, so is the wife now,--a something that keeps him preoccupied. She is very anxious to see the husband and wife together, but every hour seems so filled, and she cannot ask Floyd to take her. "After the party," says Laura, "there will be plenty of time. She is nothing to see, but, of course, we will pay her the compliment."

This evening reception is really a great thing to Laura, who feels that it is particularly for her glory, as the dinner was an honor to her mother. It is not cold weather yet, and the lawn is to be hung with colored lanterns, the rooms are to put on all their bravery; she wants to say to the world, her little world, "This is the house Arthur Delancy took me from, even if I had no great fortune. I can vie with the rest of you."

Gertrude comes up to the cottage in the morning for a little quiet and rest. She is the only one who has paid Violet the compliment of a call.

"And I don't at all care for the fuss and crowd," she says. "I shall be so glad when it is over and one isn't routed from room to room. Oh, how lovely and cosey you are here!"

"Mr. Grandon," Violet begins, with entreaty in tone and eyes, "couldn't we have the professor's chair up to-day, just for Gertrude; it is so deliciously restful. It is shocking for me to indulge in comfort and see other people sitting in uneasy chairs."

Floyd brings it up. Gertrude is so tall that it seems made for her. The soft, thick silk of the cus.h.i.+ons, with a curious Eastern fragrance, the springs to raise and to lower, to sleep and to lounge, are perfection.

Gertrude sinks into it with her graceful languor, and for once looks neither old nor faded, but delicate and high-bred. Her complexion has certainly improved,--it is less sallow and has lost the sodden look; and her eyes are pensive when she smiles.