Men, like bullets, go farthest when they are smoothest.--JEAN PAUL.
Floyd Grandon begins the next morning by treating his wife as if she
were a princess born. His fine breeding stands in stead of husbandly
love. Briggs has orders to take her and Miss Cecil out in the carriage
every day. Jane is to wait on her. Even Cecil is not allowed to tease,
and instructed to call her mamma. He escorts her in to the table, and
at a glance the servant pays her outward deference at least.
"Violet," he says, after breakfast, "will you drive over with me to see
Denise on a little business? No, Cecil, my darling, you cannot go now,
and I shall bring your mamma back very soon. Be a cheerful little girl,
and you shall have her afterward."
Cecil knows that tone means obedience. She is not exactly cheerful, but
neither is she cross. They drive in Marcia's pony phaeton.
"Nothing in the world is too good for us," Mrs. Grandon says, with a
sneer. "There will be open war between her and Marcia."
"She will be likely to have a pony carriage of her own," observes
Gertrude, who resolves to mention this project to Floyd.
"Oh, yes. I suppose the economy for others, means extravagance here.
_We_ can afford it."
Gertrude makes no further comment.
Violet glances timidly at her husband's face, and sees a determination
that she is to misinterpret many times before she can read it aright.
She is not exactly happy. All this state and attention render her
nervous, it is so unlike her simple life.
"Violet," he begins, "Denise was speaking yesterday of--of----" How
shall he get to it. "There was no time to provide you any clothes,
any--You see I am not much of a lady's man. I have been out in India
and Egypt, and where they keep women shut up in harems, and never had
occasion to think much about it. I want to take you and Denise to the
city; perhaps you would go to-day?" with a man's promptness.
Violet is puzzled, alarmed, and some notion of delicacy almost leads
her to protest.
"I am too abrupt, I suppose," he says, ruefully, looking almost as
distressed as she. "But you see it is necessary."
"Then if Denise----"
He is thinking the sooner they go the better. He will not have his
mother saying she came destitute and penniless, or considering her
attire out of the way. He went once to the city with Laura, and left
her at a modiste's, and he can find it again, so he will take them
there and order all that any lady in Violet's station will require. No
one need know they have gone. It all flashes over him in an instant. He
had meant merely to make arrangements, but now he plans the trip. They
can go to Westbrook station, they can return without being seen of
prying eyes. He feels a little more sensitive on the subject because he
has so lately seen all of Laura's wedding paraphernalia. There will be
Laura, and perhaps madame to inspect her, and she must stand the test
well for her own sake. He would like to see her always in a white gown;
even that gray one was pretty the day she saved his darling.
"Yes," he says, rousing suddenly. "Denise understands all about these
matters. You are still so young." Laura he remembers was but a year
older, but, oh, how much wiser in worldly lore! No, he would never care
to have Violet wise in that way. "And if it had been otherwise,--my
child, it was a sad bridal. Some time we will make amends for all
that."
Her eyes fill with tears. She is still looking very grave when Denise
takes her in the fond, motherly arms. While she is gone upstairs to
papa's room, Grandon explains and convinces Denise that the journey is
absolutely necessary, and that no one can serve her young mistress as
well as she.
He sends a carriage for them while he takes Marcia's phaeton home, and
explains to Cecil that her mamma has some important business with
Denise, and tells his mother neither of them will be home to luncheon.
Denise looks the neat old serving-woman to perfection, and once started
on their journey Violet's face brightens. They find the modiste, who
inspects her new customers and is all suavity. Grandon makes a brief
explanation, and questions if all toilets must be black.
"It is extremely sad," and Madame Vauban looks sympathetic. "And she is
so young, so petite! Crapes seem to weigh her down, yet there must be
some for street use. If madame was not purposing to wear it very long,
it might be lightened the sooner. Just now there could be only black
and white."
"Put plenty of white in it, then," orders Mr. Grandon, and samples are
brought out for his inspection. He thinks after this sorrowful time is
over she shall dress like a little queen. There are so many lovely
gowns and laces, so much that is daintily pretty, appropriate for her.
He can hardly refrain from buying her trinkets and nonsense, but he
will not have her subjected to hostile criticisms, and he is not sure
his judgment is to be trusted. He would doubtless flounder among the
proprieties.
"And now," he says, when they are in the street again, "would you like
to go anywhere? There is the park, and there must be pictures
somewhere. I wish there was a matinee, only it might not be right to
go"; and he secretly anathematizes his own ignorance of polite and
well-bred circles. But he learns the whereabouts of two galleries, and
they stumble over some bric-à-brac that is quite enchanting. Violet has
been trained on correct principles. She knows the names and eras of
china, and has discrimination. Her little bit of French is well
pronounced. She is not so well posted in modern painters, but she has
the o'd ones, with their virgins and saints and crucifixions, all by
heart.
They are sitting on a sofa resting, and glancing at some pictures
opposite. Denise is busy with a homely farm scene that recalls her
girlhood, and no one is in their vicinity. One small, white, ungloved
hand rests on Violet's lap. Her face is sweet and serious, without the
sad gravity that shadows it so often. Indeed, she is very happy. She
has not been so much at ease with Floyd Grandon since her marriage,
neither has he devoted himself to her entertainment with such a cordial
purpose as now. He certainly _is_ a fascinating man to the most of
womenkind, even when he is indifferent to them, but he is not
indifferent at this juncture. There is a curious quality in Floyd
Grandon's nature that is often despised by enthusiastic people. When it
is his bounden duty to take certain steps in life, he resolutely bends
his will and pleasure to them. He means honestly to love this wife that
circumstances or his own sympathetic weakness has brought him. Just now
it seems an easy matter. He has a horror of pronounced freedoms; they
look silly and vulgar, yet he cannot resist clasping the little bare
hand. The warm touch thrills her. She turns just enough to let him
catch the shy, pleased, irresistible light in her eye; no finished
coquette could have done it better, but with her it is such simple
earnest.
"Are you happy?" he asks, not because he is ignorant, but he wants an
admission.
"Oh!" It is just a soft, low sigh, and though her cheek flushes that
delicious rose pink, her face is still. The light comes over it like a
lustrous wave.
"Why, this is a bit of wedding journey," he says. "I did not think of
it before. I wish I could take you away for a week or two, but there is
so much on my mind that maybe I should not be an entertaining
companion. It will come presently, and it will be ever so much better
not to be shaded by grief."
She is quite glad that they are not away from all the old things. She
knows so little about him, she feels so strange when she comes very
near to him in any matter, as if she longed to run away to Denise or
Cecil. Just sitting here is extremely sweet and safe, and does not
alarm her.
There is a clock striking four. Can it be they have idled away nearly
all day? He rises and draws the bare hand through his arm, he is even
gallant enough to take her parasol, while she carries a pretty satin
satchel-like box of bonbons for Cecil. Denise comes at his nod; she has
two or three of her mistress's parcels, and they take up their homeward
journey. He carries her parasol so high that the sun shines in her
eyes; but the distance is short, and she says nothing.
Fortunately they reach home just in time for dinner. Cecil is out on
the porch, in the last stages of desolation.
"Come up with me and get this pretty box," cries Violet, holding it out
temptingly. "And to-morrow we will both spend with Denise, who will
make us tarts and chocolate cream."
"You stayed such a long, long while," groans Cecil, not quite pacified.
"But I shall not do it again," she promises. She is so bright that the
child feels unconsciously aggrieved.
Mrs. Grandon is very stately, and wears an air of injured dignity that
really vexes her son, who cannot see how she has been hurt by his
marriage, so long as he does not make Violet the real mistress of the
house. He has proposed that she affix her own valuation on the
furniture she is willing to part with; he will pay her income every six
months, and she will be at liberty to go and come as she pleases. What
more can he do?
He explains to Violet a day or two afterward, that between the factory
and his own writing he will hardly have an hour to spare, and that she
must not feel hurt at his absence. Lindmeyer has come, and with Joseph
Rising they are going over all with the utmost exactness. There are
sullen looks and short answers on the part of the workmen. It has been
gently hinted to them that other vacations may be given without any
advance wages. Wilmarth is quietly sympathetic. It is necessary, of
course, that the best should be done for Mr. Grandon, who has managed
to get everything in his own hands and entangle his private fortune.
And though Wilmarth never has been a thorough favorite as old Mr.
Grandon, and Mr. Eugene, with his _bonhomie_, yet now the men question
him in a furtive way.
"I have very little voice in the matter," explains Jasper Wilmarth,
with an affected cautiousness. "I have tried to understand Mr. St.
Vincent's views about the working of his patent, but machinery is not
my forte. I can only hope----"
"We did well enough before the humbugging thing was put in," says one
of the workmen, sullenly. "Mr. Grandon made money. We had decent wages
and decent wool, and we weren't stopping continually to get this thing
changed and that thing altered. Now you're thrown out half a day here
and half a day there, and the new men are nosing round as if they
suspected you would make way with something and meant to catch you at
it."
"We must have patience," says Wilmarth, in that extremely irritating,
hopeless tone. "Mr. Grandon _is_ interested in his wife's behalf,
though it is said he has a fortune of his own, and the new method must
be made to pay him, if every one else suffers. I am not a rich man, and
should be sorry to lose what I thought was so sure in this concern."
Rising finds his position an extremely disagreeable one. The men are
not only curt, but evince a distrust of him, are unwilling to follow
his suggestions, and will keep on in their old ways. Lindmeyer finds
himself curiously foiled everywhere. It seems as if some unknown agency
was at work. What he puts in order to-day is not quite right to-morrow.
All the nice adjustment he can theorize about will not work
harmoniously, economically. So passes away a fortnight.
"Mr. Grandon," he says, honestly, "I seldom make a decided blunder
about these matters, but I can't get down to the very soul of this.
There is a little miss somewhere. I said I could tell you in a month,
but I am afraid I shall have to ask a further fortnight's grace. I
never was so puzzled in my life. It is making an expensive experiment
for you, but I _do_ think it best to go on. I don't say this to
lengthen out the job. There is plenty of work for me to go at."
Grandon sighs. He finds it very expensive. It is money on the right
hand and the left, and with a costly house and large family the income
that was double his bachelor wants melts away like dew. He is not
parsimonious, but his instincts and habits have been prudent. He is
making inroads upon his capital, and if he should never get it back?
His father, it is true, has advised against entangling his private
fortune, but it cannot be helped now. To retreat with honor is
impossible and would be extremely mortifying. He will not do that, he
resolves. But how if he has to retreat with failure?
All these things trouble him greatly and distract his attention. He
sits up far into the night poring over his own work that was such
pleasure a few months ago, and he can hardly keep his mind on what so
delighted him then. There is quite too much on every hand, and he must
add to it family complications. His beautiful home is full of jarring
elements. Even Cecil grows naughty with the superabundant vitality of
childhood, and is inclined to tyrannize over Violet, who often submits
for very lack of spirit, and desire of love.
They are always together, these two. They take long drives in the
carriage, and Mrs. Grandon complains that everything must be given over
to that silly, red-haired thing! Gertrude does battle for the hair one
morning.
"I do not call it red," she says, with a decision good to hear from the
languid woman. "It is a kind of bright brown, chestnut. Mrs. McLeod's
is red."
"Auburn, my dear," retorts Mrs. Grandon mockingly. "If you are
sensitively polite in the one instance, you might be so in the other.
One is light red, the other dark red."
"One is an ugly bricky red," persists Gertrude, "and no one would call
the other red at all."
"I call it red," very positively.
"Very well," says the daughter, angrily, "you cannot make it other than
the very handsome tint it is, no matter what you call it."
"There has been a very foolish enthusiasm about red hair, I know, but
that has mostly died out," replies the mother, contemptuously, and
keeps the last word.
Gertrude actually allows herself to be persuaded into a drive with "the
children" that afternoon. She and Violet happen to stumble upon a book
they have both read, a lovely and touching German story, and they
discuss it thoroughly. Violet is fond of German poems.
"Then you read German?" Gertrude says. "I did a little once, but it was
such a bore. I haven't the strength for anything but the very lightest
amusement."
"Oh," Violet exclaims, "it must be dreadful always to be ill and weak!
Papa was ill a good deal, but he used to get well again, and he was
nearly always going about!"
"I haven't the strength to go about much."
"I wonder," Violet says, "if you were to take a little drive every day;
Cecil and I would be so glad."
Gertrude glances into the bright, eager face, with its velvety eyes and
shining hair. It _is_ beautiful hair, soft and fine as spun silk, and
curling a little about the low, broad forehead, rippling on the top,
and gathered into a careless coil at the back that seems almost too
large for the head. Why are they all going to hate her? she wonders.
She is more comfortable in the house than madame would be as a
mistress, and she will never object to anything Floyd chooses to do for
his mother and sisters. One couldn't feel dependent on Violet, but
dependence on madame might be made a bitter draught. And if the
business goes to ruin, there will be no one save Floyd.
Violet reaches over and takes Gertrude's hand. She feels as well as
sees a certain delicate sympathy in the faded face.
"If you would let me do anything for you," she entreats, in that
persuasive tone. "I seem of so little use. You know I was kept so busy
at school."
Gertrude feels that, fascinating as Cecil is with her bright,
enchanting ways, Violet may be capable of higher enjoyments. For a
moment she wishes she had some strength and energy, that she might join
hands with her in the coming struggle.
Indeed, now, the child and Denise are Violet's only companions. Floyd
is away nearly all day, and writes, it would seem, pretty nearly all
night. His mind is on other matters, she sees plainly. She has been
used to her father's abstraction, and does not construe it into any
slight. But in the great house, large as it is, Mrs. Grandon seems to
trench everywhere, except in their own apartments. Floyd installed
Violet in the elegant guest-chamber, but Mrs. Grandon always speaks of
it as the spare room, or madame's room.
Violet's heart had thrilled at the thought of the exquisite-toned
piano. She had tried it a day or two after her advent and found it
locked.
"Do you know who keeps the key?" she had asked timidly of Jane.
"It is Miss Laura's piano," is the concise answer, and no more is said.
But one morning Mr. Grandon asks if Violet can go over to the cottage
with him. Her lovely eyes are all alight.
"Get your hat, then," he says, as if he were speaking to the child.
Violet starts eagerly. Cecil rises and follows.
"Oh, she may go, too?" the pretty mamma asks.
Floyd nods over his paper. Mrs. Grandon bridles her head loftily.
"Denise has something for us, I know," cries Violet. "We were not there
yesterday. Poor Denise, she must have missed us, but I did want to
finish Maysie's dress." Maysie is Cecil's doll, and has had numerous
accessions to her wardrobe of late.
Grandon has an odd little smile on his face as he looks up. Violet and
he are friends again when they are not Mr. and Mrs. Grandon. The little
episode of the wedding journey has faded, or at least has borne no
further fruit. Yet as the days go on she feels more at home in the
friendship.
"Oh," she begins, in joyous accents, "you have a surprise for us!" She
has such a pretty way of bringing in Cecil.
"Perhaps it is Denise."
"It is cream, I know," announces Cecil. Denise's variety of creams is
inexhaustible.
Grandon smiles again, a sort of good-humored, noncommittal smile.
It is something that pleases him very much, Violet decides, and a
delicious interest brightens every feature.
Denise welcomes them gladly. Lindmeyer has taken up his lodgings at the
cottage, but the upper rooms are kept just the same. Grandon leads the
way and Violet stares at the boxes in the hall. Her room is in a lovely
tumult of disorder. Bed and chairs are strewn with feminine belongings.
"Oh," she says, uttering a soft, grateful cry. "They have come!
But--there is so much!" And she looks at him in amazement.
"It is not so bad, after all," he answers, touching the soft garments
with his fingers, and studying her. There is a lovely dead silk, with
only a very slight garniture of crape; there is the tenderest gray,
that looks like a pathetic sigh, and two or three in black, that have
the air of youth, an indescribable style that only an artist could
give. But the white ones are marvels. One has deep heliotrope ribbons,
and another crapy material seems almost alive. There are plain mulls,
with wide hems, there are gloves and sashes and wraith-like plaitings
of tulle; a pretty, dainty bonnet and a black chip hat, simple and
graceful. Madame Vauban has certainly taken into account youth,
bridehood, and the husband's wishes. Plain they are, perhaps their
chief beauty lies in their not being overloaded with trimming and
ornament.
"Oh," she says, "whenever am I to wear them all?" Her black dress has
done mourning duty so far, but the summer heats have rendered white
much more comfortable. "They are so very, very lovely!"
Her eyes glisten and her breath comes rapidly. He can see her very
heart beat, and a faint scarlet flies up in her face, growing deeper
and deeper, as the sweet red lips tremble.
"You bought them?" she falters, in an agony of shame.
"Should you hate to owe that much to me?" he questions.
"I----"
"My dear girl--Tell her, Denise, that she is quite an heiress, and that
if all goes well she will one day be very rich. It is your father's
gift to you, Violet, not mine."
The troublesome scarlet dies away. She comes to him and takes his hand
in her soft palms. "I would be willing to owe anything to you," she
says, "but----"
"I owe you the greatest of all; a debt I never can repay, remember
that, _always_." And drawing her to him he kisses her gently. "And
now I have about fifteen minutes to spare; try on some of this white
gear and let me see how you look."
She puts on the white and purple. It has a demi-train, and seems
fashioned exactly for her figure. He is awaiting her in her father's
room and looks her over with a critical eye. She is very pretty. She
can stand comparison now with madame or Laura or any of them. She knows
he is quite satisfied with her.
"Now," he continues, "Denise must pack them up again and I will send
them down home. After a week or so there will be visitors. Some day you
will find yourself Mrs. Grandon. I do not believe you at all realize it
yet."
She colors vividly. In the great house she is seldom honored by any
name. Even the servants are not quite determined what respect shall be
paid her.
Grandon kisses them both and is off. What a pretty, dainty pride the
girl has! Yet yesterday he sent the check without a thought of demur,
though Madame Vauban has made the trousseau as costly as circumstances
and her own reputation will permit. If she is never the heiress he
hopes she will be, he must be more than thankful then that she is wife
instead of ward.
Violet spends nearly all the morning arraying herself, to Cecil's
intense delight. Denise looks on with glistening eyes. She is as
anxious as Grandon that her young mistress shall hold up her head with
the best of them.
"But you have a prince for a husband, ma'm'selle," she says.
The prince meanwhile finds matters not so pleasant at the factory. His
bright mood is confronted with an evident cloud looming up much larger
than a man's hand. The main hall is filled with workmen standing about
in groups, with lowering brows and lips set in unflinching resolution,
as if their wills were strongly centred upon some object to be fought
for if not gained. Grandon glances at them in surprise, then walks
firmly through them with no interruption, pauses at the entrance and
faces them, assured that he is the one they desire to see.
One of the men, sturdy and dark-browed, steps forward, clears his
throat, and with a half-surly inclination of the head begins, "Mr.
Grandon," and then something intangible awes him a trifle. They may
grumble among themselves, and lately they have found it easy to
complain to Mr. Wilmarth, but the unconscious air of authority, the
superior breeding, and fine, questioning eyes disconcert the man, who
pulls himself together with the certainty that this gentleman,
aristocrat as he is, has no right to set himself at the head of the
business and tie every one's hands.
"Mr. Grandon," with a sort of rough, sullen courage, "me and my mates
here are tired of the way things are going on. We can't work under the
new man. We never had a day's trouble with Mr. Brent, who understood
his business. We want to know if he is coming back at the end of the
month; if not----"
"Well, if he is not, what then?" The words ring out clear and incisive.
"Then," angrily, "we'll quit! We've resolved not to work under the new
one. Either he goes or we will."
"He will not go out until I am quite ready."
"Then, mates, we will knock off. We're willing to come to any
reasonable terms, Mr. Grandon, and do our best, but we won't stand
false accusations, and we're tired of this sort of thing."
Floyd Grandon would give a good deal for a glance into the face of
Rising or Lindmeyer as inspiration for his next word. It is really a
step in the dark, but he is bound to stand by them.
"Very well," he replies. "When two parties cannot get along amicably,
it is best to separate."
The men seem rather nonplussed, not expecting so brief and decisive a
result. They turn lingeringly, stare at each other, and march toward
Wilmarth's office.
Grandon goes straight to the workroom. Half a dozen men are still at
their looms.
"O Mr. Grandon!" begins Rising, with a face of the utmost anxiety, but
Lindmeyer has a half-smile on his lips as he advances, which breaks
into an unmirthful laugh.
"Quite a strike or an insurrection, with some muttered thunder! I hope
you let them go; it will be a good day's work if you have."
"What was the trouble?" Grandon's spirits rise a trifle.
"The machinery and the new looms have been tampered with continually,
just enough to keep everything out of gear. Nearly every improvement,
you know, has to fight its way through opposition in the beginning. The
men declare themselves innocent, and puzzled over it, but it certainly
has been done. There are five excellent weavers left, Rising says."
"I would rather go on with just those a few days, until I am able to
decide two or three points. And if you don't object, I should like to
remain here at night."
"And we shall need a watchman. A little preventive, you know, is better
than a great deal of cure."
Both men take the _emeute_ in such good part that Grandon gains confidence.
Back of this morning's dispute there has been dissatisfaction and covert
insolence, and the two are thankful that the end of the trouble is
reached.
Grandon returns to the office heavy hearted in spite of all. There are
victories which ruin the conqueror, and even his may be too dearly
bought.
A knock at the half-open door rouses him, but before he answers he
knows it is Wilmarth.
"Mr. Grandon," begins that gentleman, with a kind of bitter suavity,
"may I inquire into the causes that have led to this very unwise
disturbance among our working forces?"
"I think the men are better able to tell their own story. They made an
abrupt demand of me that Mr. Rising must be dismissed or they would go.
Our agreement was for a month's trial, and the month is not ended. I
stand by my men."
Grandon's voice is slow and undisturbed by any heat of passion.
"But you do not know, perhaps. They were unjustly accused."
"Unjustly?"
That one word in the peculiar tone it is uttered checks Wilmarth
curiously.
"Mr. Grandon," and he takes a few quick steps up and down the room, "do
you assume that I have _no_ rights, that you have all the power, judgment,
and knowledge requisite for a large establishment like this, when it is
quite foreign to any previous experience of yours? Is no one to be
allowed a word of counsel or advice? or even to know what schemes or
plans are going on?"
"Mr. Wilmarth, all that was settled at Mr. Sherburne's office. It was
decided that, being the executor and trusted agent of my father, and
also the husband of Miss St. Vincent, gave me the controlling voice,
and you consented to the month's trial."
"And am I to stand idly by and let you drive the thing to ruin?
discharge workmen, break contracts, shut up the place, and have no
voice in the matter?"
"You had a voice then!"
"But you very wisely withheld the outcome of your plans. I should not
have consented to my own ruin."
"Mr. Wilmarth, if you can decide upon any reasonable price for your
share, I will purchase it. It cannot be a comfortable feeling to know
yourself in a sinking ship, with no means of rescue. If you are
doubtful of success, name your price."
He tries to study the face before him, but the sphinx is not more
inscrutable. Yet he feels that from some cause Wilmarth hates him, and
therein he is right. To be thwarted and outgeneralled is what this
black-browed man can illy bear. To receive a certain sum of money and
see his rival go on to success, with a comparatively smooth pathway, is
what he will not do. Floyd Grandon shall purchase his victory at the
highest, hardest rate.
"I may be doubtful," he begins, in a slow, careful tone, which Floyd
knows is no index to his real state of mind, "but that does not say I
am _quite_ despairing. I had the pleasure of working most amicably with
your father and receiving a fair return on my investment. I have had no
dissensions with your brother, who is really my working partner. Your
father was more sanguine of success than I, but I am well aware that if
business men give up at the first shadow of unsuccess, a wreck is
certain. I have no desire to leave the ship. The business suits me. At
my time of life men are not fond of change. What I protest against is,
that if I, with all my years of experience, find it best to go slowly
and with care, you shall not precipitate ruin by your ill-judged
haste."
How much _does_ this man believe? What are his aims and purposes? What
is under the half-concealed contempt and incredulity? If he has
cherished the hope of getting the business into his hands he must feel
assured of success. Floyd Grandon is not a lover of involved or
intricate motives. He takes the shortest road to any point. Fairness,
simplicity, and truth are his prevailing characteristics.
"Do you believe honestly that St. Vincent's idea has any of the
elements of success?" he demands, incisively.
Wilmarth shrugs his shoulders and the useful sneer crosses his face.
"Mr. Grandon," he answers, imperturbably, "I have seen the elements of
success fail from lack of skilful handling."
"You proposed for the hand of Miss St. Vincent," and then Grandon could
bite out his tongue if it would recall the words.
"Yes," with half-contemptuous pity. "He had risked everything on the
success of this, and the poor child would have been left in a sad
plight. Marriage was rather out of my plans."
"And fate happily relieved you," says Grandon, throwing into his face
all the enthusiasm and softness of which he is master. "She did for me
the greatest service; but for her, my days would have been a blank and
desolation. She saved the life of my child, my little girl," and now he
has no need to assume gratitude. "I was a witness myself to the heroic
act, but could not have reached her in time. She was the veriest
stranger to me then, and aroused within my soul emotions of such deep
and rare thankfulness that only the devotion of a lifetime can repay."
"Ah, yes," says Wilmarth, "you would naturally take an interest in her
fortune."
"If you mean by that, wealth," and he feels as if he could throttle the
man, "I shall care for her interest as I do for my mother, or my
sisters. Whatever the result, it is all in her hands; I had no need to
marry for money."
"We have digressed widely," suggests Wilmarth, and he hesitates, a
little uncertain how to make the next move tell the most cuttingly.
"But you see, with all this in view, I am not likely to rush headlong
to ruin. I have taken some of the best counsel I could find. My
experience is that a man who firmly believes in the success of what he
undertakes is much more likely to succeed, and this Lindmeyer does.
Rising has had charge of a large factory in England. The least I can do
is to give them every chance in my power to do their best, and that
they shall have."
"And the men?"
"They have acted according to their best judgment," and now it is
Grandon's turn to smile grimly. "They may be mistaken; if so, that is
their misfortune. I hold steadfastly to _my_ men until the month ends,
and their success will decide the new arrangements."
Again Jasper Wilmarth has been worsted. When he started the disaffection
among the men he did not count on its culmination quite so soon, and again
he has unwittingly played into Floyd Grandon's hands; how fatally he knows
best himself.
"Then the men are to consider themselves discharged."
"They are to consider that they discharged themselves," says the master
of the situation.