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The Douglas Novels
Popular Edition
By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS Cloth New uniform binding
Per volume $1.00
BETHIA WRAY'S NEW NAME
THE HEIR OF BRADLEY HOUSE
OSBORNE OF ARROCHAR
CLAUDIA
FROM HAND TO MOUTH
HOME NOOK
HOPE MILLS
IN TRUST
WHOM KATHIE MARRIED
THE FORTUNES OF THE FARADAYS
LOST IN A GREAT CITY
NELLY KINNARD'S KINGDOM
OUT OF THE WRECK
STEPHEN DANE
SYDNIE ADRIANCE
IN WILD ROSE TIME
IN THE KING'S COUNTRY
A WOMAN'S INHERITANCE
FLOYD GRANDON'S HONOR
THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE
FOES OF HER HOUSEHOLD
A MODERN ADAM AND EVE IN A GARDEN
SEVEN DAUGHTERS
LEE AND SHEPARD Publishers
BOSTON
* * * * *
FLOYD GRANDON'S HONOR
by
AMANDA M. DOUGLAS
Author of
"In Trust," "The Old Woman who lived in a Shoe," Etc.
Boston
Lee and Shepard Publishers
1899
Copyright,
1883,
By Lee and Shepard.
All rights reserved.
TO
DR. AND MRS. THEO. R. LUFF.
Through silent spaces hands may be outstretched,
Remembrance blossom in dim atmospheres;
Friends are not less the friends though far apart;
They count the loss and gain of vanished years.
FLOYD GRANDON'S HONOR.
CHAPTER I.
"There is a courtesy of the heart. Is it akin to love?"--GOETHE..
It is the perfection of summer, early June, before the roses have
shaken off their sweetness, and Grandon Park is lovely enough to
compare with places whose beauty is an accretion of centuries rather
than the work of decades. Yet these grand old trees and this bluff,
with a strata of rock manifest here and there, are much older than the
pretty settlement lying at its base. The quaint house of rough, gray
stone, with a tower and a high balcony hung out at irregular intervals,
the windows and angles and the curious pointed roof, stamp it as
something different from the Swiss villas and cottage _ornées_ at its
feet.
Not very near, though; there is a spacious lawn and a wide drive, a
grove of trees that can shut out intrusive neighbors to the south, as
well as another dense thicket northward. There is the road at a
distance on one side, and the broad, beautiful river on the other. Down
below, a mile, perhaps, a rocky point juts out into the river, up above
another, so this forms a kind of indentation, an exclusive sort of bay
for the dwellers therein, and the whole rather aristocratic settlement
is put down on the railway map as Grandon Park.
But it is at the stone house on its very brow where the master, Floyd
Grandon, is expected home to-day after years of wandering and many
changes. In the library his mother and sisters are gathered. It is a
favorite place with Gertrude, who spends her days on the sofa reading.
Marcia much affects her own "study," up under the eaves, but to-day she
is clothed and in her right mind, free from dabs of paint or fingers
grimed with charcoal and crayons. Laura is always Laura, a stylish
young girl, busy with the strip of an extremely elegant carriage robe,
and Mrs. Grandon, a handsome woman past fifty, has a bit of embroidery
in her hands. She seems never exactly idle, but now she holds her work
and listens, then drops into musing.
"I wonder what _can_ be the matter?" she exclaims presently. "It is
full half an hour behind time," looking at her watch.
"Are you in a hurry?" asks a languid voice from the luxurious Turkish
lounge.
"Gertrude! How heartless you are! When we have not seen Floyd for seven
years!" in a tone of reproach.
"If he were only coming alone----"
"And if we _did_ know whether he is married or not!"
This young, impatient voice is Laura's. Not that it will make any great
difference to her.
"We cannot dispossess Floyd," says Marcia, in a queer, caustic tone.
"And a new mistress----"
Marcia has a great gift for making people uncomfortable.
"You seem so certain that he has married her," the mother comments in a
kind of incredulous impatience.
"Well, he was in love with her before. And now their travelling
together, his bringing her here, look wonderfully like it."
"Well, what then? She is rich, handsome, an elegant society woman, and
just your age, Gertrude."
That rather stings the pale, listless woman on the lounge, who knows
her mother's ambition has been sorely crossed by these single
daughters.
"Not quite, mother mine. Even six months is something. She will not be
able to twit me with seniority."
"But she may with the fact that she has been twice married," says
Marcia.
"I am glad I shall be out of the way of all complications," announces
Laura, in a joyous tone. "But for mourning and the miserable lack of
money I should have been married sooner."
"Laura! At least you owe some respect to your father's memory!" the
mother retorts sharply.
"Nevertheless, I am glad not to be dependent upon Floyd. And, mamma,
you surely ought to rejoice at the prospect of having _one_ daughter
well married," with a little exultant ring in her voice. She is only
eighteen, and has captured both wealth and position, and is longing so
ardently to try her new world. These Grandon girls are not particularly
amiable with one another. Indeed, life seems to have gone wrong with
all of them, and they feel that Floyd alone is to be envied, thanks to
great Aunt Marcia.
"There!" the mother exclaims suddenly, then rising, hurries out on the
balcony. A carriage has turned into the drive, it sweeps around the
gravelled walk with a crunching sound, and the beautiful bays are drawn
up at the very edge of the wide stone steps with a masterly hand.
"Here we are!" cries a young man of one or two and twenty. "There was a
slight accident to the down train and a detention. And I absolutely did
not know Floyd!"
A tall, finely formed man of thirty or so springs out with an elastic
step and clasps Mrs. Grandon in his arms. "My dear, dear mother!" is
all that is said for a moment, and their lips meet with a tenderness
that comforts the mother's heart.
Then he looks a little uncertainly at the two behind her.
"This is Laura, the child when you went away. It is almost nine years
since you have seen her. And Marcia."
"How odd to be introduced to your own brother!" laughs Laura. "But,
Floyd, you look like a Turkish pasha or an Arabian emir." And she eyes
him with undisguised admiration.
Gertrude now crawls slowly out in a long white cashmere robe, with a
pale blue fleecy wrap about her shoulders. She looks tall and ghostly,
and her brother's heart fills with pity, as he seems more closely drawn
to her than to the others.
Then there is a curious little halt, and with one accord they glance
toward the carriage. Floyd flushes under all his wealth of bronze.
"Oh," he says, suddenly, "I have brought you an old friend. I could not
bear to leave her in a great city among strangers, and promised her a
welcome with you. Indeed, I do not believe she has any 'nearer of kin,'
after all."
They all take a step forward, still in wonder. Floyd hands her out,--a
very elegant woman, who is one handsome and harmonious line, from the
French hat down to the faultless kid boot.
"I told Mr. Grandon it would be awkward and out of order," she says in
a slow, melodious voice that has a peculiar lingering cadence. "But he
is most imperious," and her smile dazzles them. "And you must pardon me
for allowing myself to be persuaded. It was so tempting to come among
friends."
Clearly she is not his wife now, whatever she may be in the future.
Mrs. Grandon draws a breath of relief, and there is a pleasant
confusion of welcome.
"Yes, I told her such scruples were foolish," says Floyd, in a
straightforward way that is almost abrupt. Then turning to the
carriage, adds, "And here is my little English daughter, Cecil!"
"O Floyd! what a lovely child! Does she really belong to you?" And
Laura glances from one to the other, then dashes forward and clasps
Cecil, who shrinks away and clings to her father.
"She is rather shy," he says, half proudly, half in apology; but Laura,
who does not care a fig for children in general, kisses Cecil in spite
of resistance. "Mother, I have added to your dignity by bringing home a
granddaughter." Then, with a tender inflection, "This is grandmamma,
Cecil."
Cecil allows herself to be kissed this time without resistance but she
clings tightly to her father.
"What magnificent eyes! true twilight tint, and such hair! Floyd, how
odd to think of you as----"
"You are warm and tired," Mrs. Grandon is saying. "Your rooms are ready
up-stairs."
"Don't send away the carriage, Eugene," cries Laura, "I want it a
little while." Then she follows the small throng up the broad steps and
into the spacious hall, while the visitor is keeping up a delicate
little conversation with her hostess. Gertrude looks old and faded
beside this regal woman. Perhaps she feels it, for she goes back to her
couch and her novel.
"Oh," exclaims Eugene, springing up the steps two at a time, "here is
Madame Lepelletier's satchel! You left it in the carriage," handing it
to her.
They are all relieved to actually hear her name. Laura leads her to the
state chamber, which has been put in elegant order for a possible
bride. Then her trunk is sent up, and Laura flits about as only a woman
can, uttering gracious little sentences, until, finally excusing
herself, she runs down to the carriage and is whirled away upon her
errand.
Mrs. Grandon has followed her son to his room. He is master of the
house and yet he has never been possessor. Almost ten years ago it was
being finished and furnished for the splendid woman in the opposite
room, and by a strange travesty of fate he has brought her here to-day.
But he has no time for retrospection. He hardly hears what his mother
is saying as he stands his little girl on a chair by the window and
glances out.
"Yes," he returns, rather absently. "It will be all right. How
wonderfully lovely this spot is, mother! I had no real conception of
it. What would Aunt Marcia say to see it now? It is worthy of being
handed down to the third and fourth generation."
"What a pity your child is not a boy, Floyd; you would have nothing
more to ask," his mother says, fervently wishing it had been so.
"I would not have Cecil changed," he responds, with almost jealous
quickness. "Where is Jane?" and the young girl lingering in the hall
presents herself. "We shall just shake off a little of the dust of
travel and come down, for I am all curiosity to inspect the place."
"Will this room do for your little girl and her nurse?" asks Mrs.
Grandon. "We hardly knew what arrangements to make----"
"Yes, it is all very nice. Our luggage will be up presently; there was
too much for us," and he smiles. "What are your household
arrangements?"
"Dinner is at six generally. I delayed it awhile to-night, and now I
must go and look after it."
"Thank you for all the trouble." He clasps both of his mother's hands
in his and kisses her again. He has dreaded his return somewhat, and
now he is delighted to be here.
Down-stairs Gertrude and Marcia have had a small skirmish of words.
"So he isn't married," the former had said, triumphantly.
"But engaged, no doubt. He wouldn't bring her here if there was not
something in it."
"I would never forgive her for throwing me over," declares Gertrude.
"But it is something to have been a countess, and she is wonderfully
handsome, not a bit fagged out by a sea voyage. Why, she doesn't look
much older than Laura. Women of that kind always carry all before them,
and men forgive everything to them."
"Floyd doesn't look like a marrying man."
"Much you know about it!" says Marcia, contemptuously. Then hearing her
mother's steps, she rejoins her in the long dining-room, where the meal
is being prepared in a style that befits the handsome mansion. The
table is elegant with plate, cut glass, and china. Mrs. Grandon is
lighter of heart now that she knows she is not to be deposed
immediately. If the child only were a boy there would be no need of
Floyd marrying, and it vexes her.
Laura returns in high good-humor, having done her errand quite to her
satisfaction. The bell rings and they gather slowly. Madame Lepelletier
is more enchanting still in some soft black fabric, with dull gold in
relief. Floyd has washed and brushed and freshened, but still wears his
travelling suit for a very good reason. Cecil is in white, with pale
blue ribbons, which give her a sort of seraphic look. Yet she is tired
with all the jaunting about, and after a while Laura ceases to torment
her with questions, as the conversation becomes more general.
While the dessert is being brought in, Cecil touches her father's arm
gently.
"I am so sleepy," in the lowest of low tones. Indeed, she can hardly
keep her lovely eyes open.
"Will you call Miss Cecil's maid?" he says to the waiter, and, kissing
her, gives her into Jane's arms.
"How beautifully that child behaves!" says Gertrude, with sudden
animation. "I am not fond of children, but I am quite sure I shall like
her."
"I hope you will," her brother answers, with a smile.
"Mr. Grandon deserves much credit," rejoins Madame Lepelletier.
"Fathers are so apt to indulge, and Cecil is extremely bewitching.
Could you really say 'no' to her?" And the lady smiles over to him.
"If it was for her good. But Cecil's aunt must have the credit of her
training." Then he goes back to a former subject, and they sit over
their dessert until dusk, when they adjourn to the drawing-room
opposite, where the lamps are lighted. Gertrude, as usual, takes a
couch. Floyd and his mother pair off, and somehow Laura finds herself
growing extremely confidential with their elegant guest, who soon helps
her to confess that she is on the eve of marriage.
"Of course we had to wait for Floyd to come home," she goes on. "The
property has to be settled, and mamma insists that now Floyd is head of
the family and all that. But I was engaged before papa died, and we
were to have been married in the spring," at which she sighs. "And I do
so want to get to Newport before the season is over. But Floyd is
something to papa's will--executor, isn't it?--and we cannot have any
money until he takes it in hand."
"How long he has been away!" says Madame Lepelletier, with a soft
half-sigh. She would like to believe that she had something to do with
it, but the English wife stands rather in the way.
"Yes; he was coming home as soon as his little girl was born, but then
his wife died and he joined an exploring expedition, and has been
rambling about the world ever since, with no bother of anything. How
nice it must be to have plenty of money!" And Laura's sigh is in good
earnest.
"You are right there," adds Eugene, who is smoking out on the balcony.
"Floyd, old chap, is to be envied. I wish I had been Aunt Marcia's pet,
or even half favorite. Business is my utter detestation, I admit. I
must persuade Floyd to change about."
"And that makes me think of the wonderful changes here. Why, Grandon
Park is a perfect marvel of beauty, and I left it an almost wilderness.
I should never have known the place. But the location is really
magnificent. Ten years have improved it beyond all belief. I suppose
there is some very nice society?"
"In the summer, yes, and yet every one is anxious to get away," returns
Laura, with a short laugh.
Marcia joins the circle and the harmony seems broken. Madame
Lepelletier wonders why they so jar upon each other. She has been
trained to society's suavity, and they seem quite like young
barbarians.
Floyd and his mother talk a little at the lower end of the room, then
she proposes they shall take the library.
"Or better still," says he, "get a shawl and let us have a turn
outside. The moon is just coming up."
She obeys with alacrity. They cross the sloping lawn almost down to the
river's edge. Floyd lights a cigar, after learning that it will not be
disagreeable. He glances up and down the river, flecked here and there
with a drowsy sail or broken with the plash of oars. Over on the
opposite shore the rugged rocks rise frowningly, then break in
depressions, through which clumps of cedars shine black and shadowy.
Why, he has not seen much in Europe that can excel this! His heart
swells with a sense of possession. For the first time in his life his
very soul thrills with a far-reaching, divine sense of home.
"I am so glad to have you at last, Floyd," his mother says again,
remembering her own perplexities. "Nothing could be done about the
business until you came. Floyd," suddenly, "I hope you will not feel
hurt at--at what your father thought best to do. Aunt Marcia provided
for you."
"Yes, nobly, generously. If you mean that my father divided the rest
among you all, he only did what was right, just."
There is no uncertain ring in the tone, and she is greatly relieved.
"Poor father! I had counted on being a stay to him in his declining
years, as I should have returned in any event in another year or two. I
should like to have seen him once more."
"He left many messages for you, and there is a packet of instructions
that I suppose explains his wishes. You see he did not really think of
dying; we all considered him improving until that fatal hemorrhage. The
business is left to Eugene. Then there are legacies and incomes,"--with
a rather hopeless sigh.
"Don't feel troubled about it, mother dear. I suppose Eugene likes the
business?" in a cheery tone.
"No, I am afraid not very well. He is young, you know, and has had no
real responsibility. O Floyd, I hope you will be patient with him!"
"To be sure I will." Patience seems a very easy virtue just now. "There
is the partner?"
"Yes, Mr. Wilmarth. And a Mr. St. Vincent has an interest, and there is
a good deal about machinery that I do not understand----"
"Never mind. Let us talk about the girls. Gertrude looks but poorly.
She has never rallied over her unfortunate love."
"I think she always expected to hear something, and would make no
effort. She is not really ill. It is only allowing one's self to
collapse. She ought to have done better, for she was really beautiful.
I thought her prettier than Irene Stanwood in those old days, but no
one would fancy _her_ the older now."
Mrs. Grandon feels her way very cautiously. She is not at all sure what
her son's relations with this handsome guest are, or may be, and she
desires to keep on the safe side.
"Isn't she marvellous?" He stops suddenly in his slow pacing. "When I
stumbled over her in Paris she seemed to me like some of the strange
old stories of woman blessed with unfading youth. And yet I do not
believe she had a really satisfying life with her count and his family.
It must have been something else, some rare, secret philosophy. Yet she
seemed so sort of friendless in one way, and was coming to America for
the settlement of the business, so I thought we might as well have her
here for a little while. I wonder if it will annoy you?" he asks
quickly.
"Oh, no!" she answers in a careless tone. "You are the only one who
would be annoyed."
"My epidermis has thickened since those days," he returns, with a
laugh. "What an unlucky lot we were! Gertrude, Marcia, and I, all
crossed in our first loves! I hope Laura's fate will be better."
"Laura's prospects are very bright," says the mother, in a kind of
exultant tone. "She is engaged to a young man every way
unexceptionable, and was to have been married in the spring. She is
very anxious now--you see no one can have any money until----"
"I can soon straighten such a bother. When would she like----"
"Mr. Delancy is very impatient now. It would be mortifying to confess
that only a matter of wedding clothes stands between, when everything
else is desirable."
"Consider that settled then."
"O Floyd! Laura will be so delighted!" There is relief in her tone, as
well. A great anxiety has been dispelled.
The bell in the village up above peals off ten, and the still air
brings it down with a touch of soft mystery.
"We ought to go back to the house," confesses the mother. "And I dare
say you are tired, Floyd?"
"I have had a rather fatiguing day," he admits, though he feels as if
he could fling himself down on the fragrant grass and stay there all
night. It would not be the first time he has slept under a canopy of
stars.
They retrace their steps, and Mrs. Grandon apologizes to her guest, who
is sweetness itself, quite different from the Irene Stanwood of the
past. There is a stir, and everybody admits that it is time to retire.
Floyd intercepts Laura in the hall, and wonders he has not remarked the
flash of the diamond earlier, as she raises her plump hand.
"Mother has been telling me," he says, with a wise, curious smile. "Let
me congratulate you. To-morrow we will talk it over and arrange
everything. I will be your banker for the present. Only--are you quite
sure I shall like the young man?" And he holds her in a tender clasp.
"You cannot help it! O Floyd, how good you are, and how very, very
happy it makes me! I began to feel afraid that I had come under the
family ban."
"Dismiss all fears." He thinks her a very pretty young girl as she
stands there, and he is pleased that his return is bringing forth good
fruit so soon.
There is a pleasant confusion of good nights and good wishes, the great
hall doors are shut, and they all troop up the wide walnut staircase
quite as if an evening party had broken up. Floyd Grandon, though not a
demonstrative man, lingers to give his mother a parting kiss, and is
glad that he has returned to comfort her.