CHAPTER III.
"Let the world roll blindly on,Give me shadow, give me sun,And a perfumed day as this is."
"Let the world roll blindly on,Give me shadow, give me sun,And a perfumed day as this is."
"Let the world roll blindly on,
Give me shadow, give me sun,
And a perfumed day as this is."
It is hardly dawn as yet, and the song of countless robins wakes Floyd Grandon. How they fling their notes back at one another, with a merry audacity that makes him smile! Then a strange voice, a burst of higher melody, a warble nearer, farther, fainter, a "sweet jargoning" among them all, that lifts his soul in unconscious praise. At first there is a glimmer of mystery, then he remembers,—it is his boyhood's home. There were just such songs in Aunt Marcia's time, when he slept up under the eaves of the steeply peaked roof.
The dawn flutters out, faint opal and gray, then rose and yellow, blue and a sort of silvery haze. It does not burst into sudden glory, but dallies in translucent seas, changing, fading, growing brighter, and lo, the world is burnished with a faint, tender gold. The air is sweet with dewy grasses, the spice of pines, rose, and honeysuckle, and the scent of clover-blooms, that hint of midsummer. There is the river, with its picturesque shores, and purple blue peaks opposite; down below, almost hidden by the grove, the cluster of homes, in every variety of beauty, that are considered thepar excellenceof Grandon Park. Mrs. Grandon would fain destroy the grove, since she loves to be seen of her neighbors; but Floyd always forbade it, and his father would not consent, so it still stands, to his delight.
"If this is the home feeling, so eloquently discoursed upon, it has not been overrated," he says softly to himself. "Home," with a lingering inflection.
"Papa! papa!" The fleet bare feet reach him almost as soon as the ringing voice. "I was afraid you were not here. Is this truly home?"
"Truly home, my darling."
He lifts her in his arms, still in her dainty nightdress, and kisses the scarlet lips, that laugh now for very gladness.
"Can I stay with you always?"
"Why, yes," in half surprise. "You are the nearest and dearest thing in all the world." Yes, he is quite sure now that he would rather part with everything than this baby girl he has known only such a little while.
Then he stands her on the floor. "Run to Jane and get dressed, and we will go out on the lawn and see the birds and flowers."
While she is engaged, he gives a brush to his flowing beard and slightly waving hair that is of a rather light brown, and puts on a summer coat. A fine-looking man, certainly, with a rather long, oval face, clearly defined brows, and sharply cut nose and mouth; with a somewhat imperious expression that gives it character. The eyes are a deep, soft brown, with curious lights rippling through them like the tints of an agate. Generally they are tranquil to coldness, so far as mere emotion is concerned, but many things kindle them into interest, and occasionally to indignation. Health and a peculiar energy are in every limb, the energy that sets itself to conquer and is never lost in mere strife or bustle.
"Papa!"
"Yes, dear."
"You will wait for me?" entreatingly.
He comes to the door with a smile. Jane is brushing the fair, shining hair that is like a sea of ripples, and Cecil stretches out her hand with pretty eagerness, as if she shall lose him, after all.
"Suppose I tie it so, and curl it after breakfast," proposes Jane. "Miss Cecil is so impatient."
"Yes, that will do." It is beautiful, any way, he thinks. Then she dances around on one foot until her dress is put on, when she gives a glad bound.
"But your pinafore! American childrendowear them," says Jane, in a rather uncertain tone.
"I am a little English girl," is the firm rejoinder.
"Then of course you must," responds papa.
"And your hat! The sun is shining."
Cecil gives a glad spring then, and almost drags her father down the wide stairs. A young colored lad is brushing off the porch, but the two go down on the path that is speckless and as hard as a floor. The lawn slopes slowly toward the river, broken by a few clumps of shrubbery, a summer-house covered with vines, and another resembling a pagoda, with a great copper beech beside it. There are some winding paths, and it all ends with a stone wall, as the shore is very irregular. There is a boat-house, and a strip of gravelly beach, now that the tide is out.
Grandon turns and looks toward the house. Yes, itishandsome, grand. Youth and age together did not make any blunder of it. There is the tower, that was to be his study and library and place of resort generally. What crude dreams he had in those days! Science and poesy, art and history, were all a sad jumble in his brain, and now he has found his life-work. He hopes that he may make the world a little wiser, raise some few souls up to the heights he has found so delightful.
Cecil dances about like a fairy. She is at home amid green fields once more, for the ocean was to her a dreary desert, and the many strange faces made her uncomfortable. She is oddly exclusive and delicate, even chary about herself, but alone with her father she is all childish abandon.
There is a stir about the house presently, and Grandon begins to retrace his steps.
"Don't go," entreats Cecil.
"My dear, we must have breakfast. Grandmamma and the aunties will be waiting."
"Are they going to live there always!" with an indication of the fair head.
"Yes, some of them."
"And are we going to live there for ever and ever?"
He laughs gayly.
"I hope we will live there to a good old age."
"And madame—must she stay there, too?"
"Madame will stay for a little while. And Cecil must be kind and pleasant——"
"I can't like her!" interrupts the child, petulantly.
He studies her with some curiosity. Why should the gracious, beautiful woman be distasteful to her?
"I don't really suppose she will care much," he replies, in a rather teasing spirit.
"But if she doesn't, why should she want me to kiss her?"
"I do not believe she will ask you again. You must not be rude to any one. And you must kiss grandmamma or the aunties if they ask you."
Cecil sets her lips firmly, but makes no reply. Grandon wonders suddenly what charm Aunt Dora possessed, and how people, fathers and mothers, govern children! It is a rather perplexing problem if they turn naughty.
They walk back to the great porch, where Mrs. Grandon comes out and wishes her son a really fond good morning. Cecil submits quietly to a caress with most unchildlike gravity. Marcia comes flying along; she is always flying or rustling about, with streamers somewhere, and a very young-girlish air that looks like affectation at twenty-seven, but she will do the same at forty-seven. She is barely medium height, fair, with light hair, which by persistent application she makes almost golden. It is thin and short, and floats about her head in artistic confusion. Her eyes are a rather pale blue-gray, and near-sighted, her features small, her voice has still the untrained, childish sound of extreme youth. She is effusive and full of enthusiasms, rather unbalanced, Floyd decides in a day or two.
"Good morning!" exclaims the bright voice of Eugene. "Upon my word, you make quite an imposingpaterfamilias, and Cecil, I dare say, has found the weak place and tyrannizes over you. Come to me, little lady," pinching her lovely pink cheek.
But Cecil almost hides behind her father, and is proof against the blandishments of the handsome young man. He is not quite so tall as Floyd, but grace, from the splendidly shaped head to the foot worthy of a woman's second glance. A clear, rich complexion, very dark hair and eyes, and a mustache that looks as if it was pencilled in jet. Laura has these darker tints as well. Certainly Mrs. Grandon has no cause to be dissatisfied with her two youngest on the score of good looks.
Floyd lifts Cecil in his arms and admits that she does not make friends easily. Then with a change in his tone, "How finely the place has been kept up! Shall I thank you or mother for it, Eugene? Aunt Marcia's old farm has arrived at great state and dignity. I have seen few places abroad that I like better, though much, of course, on a far grander scale."
"Aunt Marcia 'builded better than she knew.' Grandon Park is the seat of fashion and taste; isn't that right, Marcia? And Floyd, old fellow,youare to be envied. I wishIhad been eldest born."
Floyd smiles, yet something in the tone jars a trifle. Then the breakfast-bell rings and they move through the hall just as Madame Lepelletier sweeps down the stairs like a princess in cream cashmere and lace. Her radiance is not impaired by daylight. Marcia seems to shrivel up beside her, and Gertrude looks extremely faded, washed out.
They are all bright and gay. Madame Lepelletier is one of the women who seldom tolerates dulness or that embarrassing awkwardness that occasionally settles even in well-bred circles. She is charming and vivacious, she has resolved that they shall all like her, and though she is not a particularly generous person, she has discerned how she may be of use to them and win herself gratitude and friendship. She is too politic ever to make an enemy, and she keeps her friends so well in hand that their possible defection shall not injure her, but rather themselves. Young, handsome, fascinating, and with abundant means for herself, she has been in no hurry to change her state in life. But Grandon Park and its owner look as tempting this morning as they did in her twilight revery last evening.
"What will you do, Floyd?" asks Eugene, presently. "Come up to the factory, or——"
"Oh," returns Laura, with a kind of merry audacity, blushing a little, "we shall keep him home this morning."
"Well, I must be off. Business, you see. But I shall hold myself free for this afternoon if any of you ladies will honor me," bowing to Madame Lepelletier, who acknowledges it with a ravishing smile that makes every pulse thrill.
Floyd and his mother have the first confidence. There are the sad particulars of the death, now more than six months old. The will has been read, but there is a sealed packet of instruction for Floyd, still in the lawyer's hands. The business seems to be in a rather involved state, what with partners and a patent that Mr. Grandon felt sure would make all their fortunes. The main point relating to Laura is this: While the mother has a yearly income from the business, the girls are to be paid five thousand dollars down, and five thousand more at the expiration of three years. Laura needs hers for present emergencies. But just now there are notes coming due and no money.
"I can easily arrange that," says Floyd, "by advancing Laura's money. How odd this should be the first marriage in the family, and Laura the youngest!"
"You forget your own," remarks his mother, in surprise.
"Why, so I did." And a flush is visible under the bronze. "It is so like a dream to me, over in one short year."
"And you were very much in love, doubtless? It must have been terrible!"
"It was a most unexpected death," ignoring the first remark. "She was so young, a mere child."
Not even to his mother can he express his manhood's views of the whole occurrence. But he knows that he did not love her deeply, and the consciousness will always give him a little shock. At the same time he settles that he is not the kind of man to be swept off his feet by the passion of love.
Then they call Laura in and Floyd explains the ease with which the matter can be settled. "I shall pay you and take your claim against the estate. What kind of a wedding are you to have? You see I must be posted in these matters, so that I shall do myself honor and credit as the head of the family."
"Of course it will have to be rather quiet, as we are still in mourning, and so many of Arthur's family are out of town. He will be up to lunch to-day: I asked him to meet you. But he thought—early in July," and she colors a little, smiling, too. "We are to go to Newport, that is, you know, we really could plan nothing until you came. And, oh, Floyd, it will be so delightful to have Madame Lepelletier! We have been talking it over, and she will help me do my shopping. She is just as good as she is lovely. But if you only could have ordered me some things in Paris!"
"Why, I never bought any such thing in my life," says Floyd, laughingly. "But I have some trinkets among my luggage that you may like, gems and cameos, and some curious bracelets. I did remember that I had some sisters at home."
"Oh, you are really charming! You cannot imagine how doleful we have been. Eugene could not do anything about the money, and he has been in a worry with Mr. Wilmarth and cross if any one said a word."
Floyd laughs at this. The idea of Eugene being cross is amusing.
Laura flits out of the room much elated. She and Arthur can settle everything to-day, and the shopping will be so delightful, for Madame Lepelletier is quite as good as a Frenchwoman.
Mrs. Grandon sighs, and Floyd looks at her questioningly.
"You are so good, Floyd. It is such a relief to have you. I only hope the business will not weary you out, and that—there will be no real trouble."
He kisses Cecil's little hand that is wandering through his beard, and presses her closer as she sits quietly on his knee. "I shall think nothing a trouble," he says. "It is father's trust to me. Come, you must be gay and happy, and not cloud Laura's wedding with forebodings. Let us take a tour through the house now. I am quite curious to know if I have remembered it rightly."
"I wonder if you can find your way. I must look after the luncheon."
"Oh, yes," he replies. "I think there is no labyrinth."
On one side of the hall there is the long drawing-room, and a smaller apartment that might be a conservatory it is so full of windows, or a library, but it is a sort of sitting-room at present. Then the tower, that has a large entrance, and might be the façade, if one pleased. An oaken stairway winds a little to the room above, which is empty but for a few chairs and a bamboo settee. Up again to another lovely room, and then it is crowned by an observatory. From here the prospect is magnificent. The towns above, that dot the river's edge, and the long stretch below, are like a panorama. How wonderfully changed! How busy and thriving this new world is! He thinks of the leagues and leagues he has traversed where a mill or a factory would be an unknown problem, and the listless stupor of content is over all. Yet buried in the sand or under ruins is the history of ages as prosperous, as intellectual, and as wise. How strange a thing the world of life really is!
Cecil breaks into his thoughts with her tender chatter. She is not an obtrusive child, and, though bright, has grave moods and strange spells of thought. She is delighted to be so high up and able to look down over everything.
They return at length, and he carries her down-stairs. On the second floor there is a connecting passage to the main house, and two beautiful rooms that he planned for himself because they were retired. Feminine belongings are scattered about,—satchels and fans and queer bottles of perfumery. He guesses rightly that Laura is domiciled here, and in the adjoining chamber Gertrude lies on the bed with a novel.
"Oh, Floyd!"
"Pardon me."
"Come in," she says, raising herself on one elbow. "I am up here a good deal, because I like quiet and my health is so wretched. Everybody else is busy about something, and I bore them, so I keep out of their way."
"You do look poorly," he answers, sympathetically. She is not only pale, but sallow, and there are hollows in her cheeks. Her hands, which were once very pretty, are thin as birds' claws. There is a fretful little crease in her forehead, and her eyes have a look of utter weariness.
"Yes, I am never strong. I cannot bear excitement. Marcia's life would exhaust me in a month, and Laura's fuss would drive me crazy. Have they said anything about her marriage?"
"It is all settled, or will be when her lover comes to-day. Do you like him, Gertrude?"
"He is well enough, I suppose, and rich. You couldn't imagine Laura marrying a poor man."
Floyd Grandon is not at all sure that he understands the hidden or manifest purposes of love, but he has a secret clinging to the orthodox belief that it is a necessary ingredient in marriages.
"You are cynical," he says, with a pleasant laugh. "You do not have enough fresh air."
"But I see Laura." Then, after a pause, "Do not imagine I have the slightest objection. There will be only two of us left, and it does seem as if Marcia might pick up some one. Floyd——"
"Well," as she makes a long pause.
"Do you know anything about the business? Eugene is so—so unsatisfactory. Where is Laura going to get her money?"
"I shall attend to that. Gertrude, what has been said about affairs that makes you all so desponding?"
Floyd Grandon asks a question as if he expected an answer. Gertrude gives a little twist to her long, slender figure, and pushes one shoulder forward.
"Well, there has been no money, and Eugene cannot get any. And all you hear about is notes to pay."
The house certainly does not look as if there was any lack. The table is bountiful, and he has seen four servants, he is quite sure.
"My not being here has delayed the settlement, no doubt," he answers, cheerfully. "It will all come right."
"You quite put courage into one. I suppose you always feel well and strong; you have grown handsome, Floyd, and there is nothing to make you desponding."
"Yes, I am always well. Do you stay in-doors all the time and read? You must have a change, something to stir your nerves and brain, and infuse a new spirit in you."
"I am too weak for exercise. Even carriage-riding tires me dreadfully. And my nerves cannot bear the least thing. I dread this wedding and all the tumult, only it will be excellent to have it finished up and off one's mind." Then she sighs and turns to her book again.
"We are on a tour of discovery," says Floyd, rather gayly, as he moves forward. "The house seems quite new to me, and extremely interesting."
She makes no effort to detain him. They turn into the hall, and a voice from above calls Floyd.
"Oh, are you up here, Marcia?" beginning to ascend.
"Yes. Here is my eyrie, my den, my study, or whatever name fits it best. I have a fancy for being high up. Nothing disturbs me. I have never been able, though, to decide which I really liked best, this or the tower. Only here I have three connecting rooms. Cecil, you little darling, come and kiss me! Floyd, I must paint that heavenly child! I have been doing a little at portraits. I want to take some lessons as soon as the ships come in. I hope you have brought fair weather, and—is it a high tide that floats the barque in successfully?"
She utters all this in a breath, and makes a dash at Cecil, who buries her face in her father's coat-sleeve.
"Cecil's kisses do not seem to be very plentiful," he remarks. "But how quaint and pretty you are up here!"
The sleeping chamber is done up in white, gold, and blue, and in very tolerable order. This middle room is characteristic. The floor is of hard wood and oiled, and rugs of every description are scattered about. Easels with and without pictures, studies, paintings in oil and water-colors, bric-à-brac of every shape and kind, from pretty to ugly, a cabinet, some book-shelves, a wide, tempting lounge in faded raw silk, with immense, loose cushions, two tables full of litter, and several lounging chairs. Evidently Marcia is not of the severe order.
The third room really beggars description. An easel stands before the window, with a pretentious canvas on which a winding river has made its appearance, but the dry land has not yet emerged from chaos.
"You paint"—he begins, when she interrupts,—
"And now that you have come, Floyd, you can give me some advice. I was such a young idiot when I ran over Europe, but you have done it leisurely. Did you devote much time to French art? I can't decide which to make a specialty. The French are certainly better teachers, but why, then, do so many go to Rome? It is my dream." And she clasps her hands in a melodramatic manner.
"What have you been doing?" he asks, as she pauses for breath.
"I took up those things first," nodding to some flower pieces. "But every school-girl paints them."
"These are exceedingly well done," he says, examining them closely.
"There is nothing distinctive about them. Who remembers a rose or a bunch of field flowers? Half a dozen women have honorable mention and one cannot be told from the other. But a landscape or a story or a striking portrait,—you really must let me try Cecil," glancing at her with rapture. "Oh, there is an article here in theArt Journalon which you must give me an opinion." And flying up, she begins a confusing search. "It is so good to find a kindred soul——"
A light tap at the door breaks up the call. It is Jane, who with a true English courtesy says,—
"If you please, Mr. Grandon, Miss Laura sent me to say that Mr. Delancy has come."
Floyd has been so amused with Marcia that he goes rather reluctantly, and finds his sister's betrothed in the drawing-room, quite at home with Madame Lepelletier, though possibly a little dazzled. Arthur Delancy is a blond young man of five or six and twenty, well looking, well dressed, and up in all the usages of "the best society." He greets Mr. Grandon with just the right shade of deference as the elder and a sort of guardian to hisfinancé. He pays his respects to Miss Cecil with an air that completely satisfies the little lady, it has the distance about it so congenial to her.
"Floyd," Laura says, with a laugh, "that child is intensely English. She has the 'insular pride' we hear so much about."
"And English hair and complexion," continues Mr. Delancy; while madame adds her graceful little meed.
A very pleasant general conversation ensues, followed by an elegant luncheon, to which Eugene adds a measure of gayety. Afterward the two gentlemen discuss business, and with several references to Laura the bridal day is appointed six weeks hence. The marriage they decide will be in church, and a wedding breakfast at home, quiet, with only a few friends and relatives, and after a week in Canada they will go to Newport.
"But how can I ever get ready?" cries Laura in dismay to madame. "Why, I haven't anything! I shall actually wear you out with questions and decisions. Oh, do you realize that you are a perfect godsend?" and she kisses her enthusiastically.
"Yes," says Madame Lepelletier, so softly and sweetly that it is like a breath of musical accord. "I will settle myself in the city and you must come to me——"
"In the city!" interrupts Laura, with both dismay and incredulity in her tone. "My dearest dear, you will not be allowed to leave Grandon Park, except with myself for keeper, to return as soon as may be."
"But I cannot trespass on your hospitality."
"Mamma, Floyd, will you come and invite Madame Lepelletier to make a two months' visit? I want her for six full weeks, and then she must have a little rest."
They overrule all her delicate scruples, though Mrs. Grandon does it rather against her will. Is it bringing temptation to Floyd's hand, that perhaps might not reach out otherwise!
That is settled. Floyd's boxes and trunks make their appearance, Eugene orders the horses, and the four go to drive on this magnificent afternoon.
"I think," Floyd says to his mother when the sound of wheels has subsided, "this luggage may as well go to the tower room. I wish——" Will he not seem ungracious to declare his preferences so soon?
"What?" she asks, a little nervously.
"It would make too much fuss at this crisis to change rooms with the girls, I suppose?"
"Let Laura take the larger front room? She did have it until we heard you were coming. Oh, she wouldn't mind. But you——"
"I should be out of the way there by myself," he pleads. "All my traps would be handy, and if I wanted to sit up at night I should disturb no one."
"It shall be just as you like. Yes, it would be more convenient for you. Why, we could go at it this very afternoon."
"But Gertrude——"
"Give Gertrude a book and she would sit in the débris of Mount Vesuvius," says her mother.
Mary, the housemaid, is called upon, and cook generously offers her services. Gertrude comes down-stairs grumbling a little. The two rooms are speedily dismantled of feminine belongings, but the quaint old mahogany bedroom suite is taken over because Floyd prefers it to the light ash with its fancy adornments. James, the coachman, and Briggs, the young lad, carry up the luggage. There is a little sweeping and dusting, and Floyd settles his rooms as he has often settled a tent or a cabin or a cottage. He has grown to be as handy as a woman.
He feels more at home over here, not so much like a guest. His room is not so large, but he has all the tower and the wide prospect on both sides. He can read and smoke and sit up at his pleasure without disturbing a soul. The "girls" and the wedding finery will all be together.
"Laura will be delighted," declares Mrs. Grandon again. In her secret heart she feels this arrangement will take Floyd a little out of madame's reach. Beside the tower there is a back stairway leading to a side entrance, quite convenient to Eugene's room. It is admirable altogether.
Floyd begins to unpack with hearty energy. Only the most necessary articles, the rest will keep till a day of leisure. To-morrow he must look into the business, and he hopes he will not find matters very troublesome. He has a good deal of his own work to do, and he sighs a little, wishing the wedding were well over.
Laura leaves her lover at the station, and is not a whit disconcerted by the change in affairs.
She and Madame Lepelletier are going to the city to-morrow to spend several days in shopping, and this evening they must devote to a discussion of apparel. They scarcely miss Floyd, who goes to bed at last with the utmost satisfaction.
CHAPTER IV.
My heart no truer, but my words and ways more true to it.—Robert Browning.
"Say good by to papa." And Floyd Grandon stoops to kiss his little daughter. "Jane will take you out to walk, and Aunt Gertrude will show you the pictures again if you ask her."
The evening before she had evinced a decided liking for Gertrude.
"Where are you going?" There was a quick apprehensiveness in her tone as she caught his hand.
"On some business," with a smile.
"Take me, too. I don't want to stay here alone," she cries, imperiously.
There is a soft rustle in the hall. Madame has come down in advance of Laura. The carriage stands waiting to take them to the station.
Floyd bites his lips in annoyance. Since they left Devonshire, Cecil has scarcely been an hour out of his sight save when asleep. He cannot take her now,—the thought is absurd.
"No, my dear. It would not amuse a little girl, and I shall be too busy. Do not be naughty," he entreats.
"I want to go with you. I will not stay here!"
"Cecil!"
"I will run away," she says, daringly. "I will not look at pictures nor walk with Jane."
"Then you will be naughty, and papa cannot love you," bending his face down to hers. "I shall not be glad to come back to a little girl who will not please or obey me."
"Take me, then!" There is a great, dry sob in her throat.
If only Madame Lepelletier were away! His experience with children is so very limited, that he is almost weak enough to yield to this sweet tyranny.
"Kiss me." Eugene has driven around with his horse and the buggy.
Cecil drops her hands by her side, and her large, deep eyes float in tears, but her brilliant lips are set. Just once they open.
"You are naughty to me," she says, with childish audacity.
"Very well." He takes a slow step as if to give her time for repentance. He could bestow an undignified shake upon the proud little mite, but he refrains.
"Jane, come and look after Miss Cecil," he exclaims, authoritatively. Then he gives her a quick kiss, but she stands with swelling chest and eyes glittering in tears, watching him out of sight.
Aunt Laura rustles down.
"Mutiny in the camp," says madame, with a little laugh; and though Cecil does not understand, she knows she is meant.
"Floyd will have his hands full with that child," comments Laura. "She is not so angelic as she looks."
Floyd has stepped into the buggy. Sultan snuffs with his thin nostrils, and paces with proud grace.
"There's a beauty for you, Floyd," Eugene says, triumphantly. "You cannot find his match anywhere about here."
Floyd is very fond of handsome horses, and Sultan stirs a sudden enthusiasm. Eugene expatiates eloquently upon his merits, which are evident. The shady road, the fragrant air, the glimpses of the broad river glittering in the morning sun, and the purple cliff opposite, are indeed a dream of beauty. He more than half wishes there was no business to distract one's mind.
"How it has all changed!" he says, presently. "I was amazed yesterday, looking from the tower, to see how Westbrook had enlarged her borders and indulged in high chimneys. There must be considerable business in the town. There is quite a length of dock and shipping, and streets in every direction."
"Yes. Floyd, will you go to Connery's first or to the factory? The will is in the safe, the letter of instruction at the lawyer's."
"Why not stop and get that? I want to see both, you know."
"And Connery's room is a stuffy little den. Well, we will stop for it, and if you want to consult him afterward, you can."
Mr. Connery has gone to the city on important business. The clerk hunts up the packet, and they go on.
The old factory has altered as well. A new part has been built, with a pretentious business office, and an ante-room that is quite luxuriously appointed, with Russia-leather chairs, lounge, a pretty cabinet, pictures, and several lovely statuettes.
"Now if you want to go through all these things, Floyd, you can do it at your leisure. We can't talk business until we know what basis it is to be on, and the will is a sort of dead letter without further instructions. I have a little errand to do which will take an hour or so, and——"
"Yes," is the quick affirmative. He is holding his dead father's letter in his hand and wishing to be alone with it.
"Here is the will," taking it from the safe. "There are cigars, so make yourself comfortable, and if you should prove the arbiter of my fate, deal gently." And the young man gives a gay little laugh.
Floyd seats himself by the window, but fond as he is of smoking, the cigars do not tempt him. His eyes rest upon these words until they all seem to run together:—"For my eldest son, Floyd Grandon. To be read by him before any settlement of the business." How different these irregular letters from his father's usual firm business hand! Ah, how soon afterward the trembling fingers were cold in death! He presses it to his lips with an unconscious, reverent tenderness.
The love between them had not been of the romantic kind, but he recalls his father's pride and pleasure in his young manhood, his interest in the house and the marriage arrangement. The later letters of his father have touched him, too, with a sort of secret weariness, as if his absorbing interest in business had begun to decline. He had planned some release and journeys for him, but the last journey of all had been taken, and he was at rest.
Slowly he broke the double seal and took the missive out of its enclosure, and began the perusal.
To my dear Son Floyd,—When you read this the hand that penned it will be mouldering in the dust, its labor ended but not finished.
To my dear Son Floyd,—When you read this the hand that penned it will be mouldering in the dust, its labor ended but not finished.
The pathos blurred his eyes, and he turned them to the window. The sun shone, the busy feet tramped to and fro, there was the ceaseless hum of the machinery, but the brain that had planned, the heart that had hoped, was away from it all, silent and cold, and the mantle had fallen on one who had no part or lot in the matter.
The letter had been written at intervals, and gave a clear statement of the business. Mr. Wilmarth had one quarter-share, Mr. St. Vincent had another quarter-share, and a certain amount of royalty on a patent that Mr. Grandon felt would secure a fortune to them all if rightly managed. For this, he asked Floyd's supervision. Eugene was too young to feel the importance of strict, vigorous attention. There was no ready money, the factory was mortgaged, and the only maintenance of the family must come from the business.
A chill sped over Floyd. Commercial pursuits had always wearied and disgusted him. Now, when he understood the bent and delight of his own soul, to lay his work aside and take up this—ah, he could not, he said.
Then he went over the will. To his mother, the furniture and silver, and, in lieu of dower, the sum of two thousand dollars yearly. To his sisters, the sum of five thousand apiece, to be paid as soon as the business would allow, and at the expiration of a term of years five thousand more. The half-share of the business to belong to Eugene solely after the legacies were paid. The library and two valuable pictures were bequeathed to Floyd, and in the tender explanation, he knew it was from no lack of affection that he had been left out of other matters.
The heavy bell clangs out the hour of noon. No one comes to disturb him. It seems like being in the presence of the dead, in a kind of breathless, waiting mystery. The duty is thrust upon him, if it can be done. His father seems confident, but how will liabilities and assets balance? Then he remembers the luxury at home, Eugene's fast horse, and his air of easy indifference. Certainly there must be something.
After a while the quiet oppresses him. He saunters around the room, that wears the aspect of indolent ease rather than business. Then he emerges into a wide hallway, and strolls over opposite. Here is a well-packed storehouse, then a small place in semi-obscurity, into which he peers wonderingly, when a figure rises that startles him out of his self-possession for a moment.
A man whose age would be hard to tell, though his thick, short hair is iron gray and his beard many shades whiter. Short of stature, with very high shoulders, that suggest physical deformity, squarely built and stout, a square, rugged face, with light, steely eyes and overhanging brows. Itisa repellent face and form, and Floyd Grandon says slowly,—
"Pardon my intrusion. I—" rather embarrassed at the steady gaze—"I am Mr. Floyd Grandon."
"Ah!" There is something akin to a sneer in the exclamation. "Doubtless your brother has spoken of me,—Jasper Wilmarth."
This, then, is his father's partner. He is utterly amazed, bewildered.
"I heard of your return," he continues. There is something peculiar, as if the man weighed every word. "We have been looking for you," rather dryly.
"I hope my delay has not proved injurious to the business," says Grandon, recovering his usual dignity. "I find that I am executor of the estate with my mother, and I suppose some steps are necessary. I shall qualify immediately. In what condition is the business?"
"Bad enough," is the reply. "Trade is dull, and I am sorry to say that our new machinery, put in at a great expense, does not work satisfactorily."
Floyd is startled at the frankness, as well as the admission.
"Where is the other partner, Mr. St. Vincent?"
"Out of town somewhere," indifferently.
"He holds the patent——"
"That we were wild enough to undertake; yes."
"My father seemed to have great hopes of it."
The high shoulders are shrugged higher. There is something bitter and contemptuous in the man's face, a look that indicates fighting, though what can there be to fight about?
The great bell rings out again. Nooning is over, and there are hurrying steps up the wide alleyway.
"I wonder," Floyd begins, "if you know where my brother went. He said something about Rockwood,—and was to be back shortly."
"If he has gone to Rockwood, I doubt if you see him before mid-afternoon." The sneer is plainly evident here, and Grandon feels some antagonistic blood rise.
"I suppose," he continues, in his usual courteous tone, "that it will be best to have a business meeting as soon as possible. I will consult Mr. Connery; an inventory was taken, I suppose."
"Yes. It is in his hands."
Wilmarth is certainly hard to get on with. To natural brusqueness is added an evident disinclination to discuss the business. Floyd is much too proud to seem curious, though here he has a right to know all, but he feels that he will not be able to make much headway alone.
"I think I will return," he says. "If my brother comes in, tell him, if you please, that I have gone home. We have not discussed any business yet, but will begin to-morrow. Good day."
He goes back, folds up the papers, and places them carefully in his breast-pocket, takes his hat and walks slowly out, wondering if his father really trusted this man. He inspires Floyd with a deep, inveterate dislike, a curious suspicion before he knows there is anything to suspect. He wishes—ah, at that moment he feels inclined to pay the legacies and his mother's pension, and wash his hands of the other distasteful charge. Then some words of his father's come back: "Remember that Eugene is young and thoughtless, and be patient."
It is very warm as he steps into the street, and he remembers a sort of river road that used to be shady, where he has rambled many a time. Everything is changed, the hills levelled, the valleys filled up, but he presently finds a strip of woodland near the shore edge, and a path much overgrown with blackberry-vines. He picks his way along, now and then meeting with a remembered aspect, when he comes across a sort of Swisschâleton the sloping hillside. Two peaks of roof, odd, long, narrow windows, with diamond-shape panes of glass, a vine-covered porch, an old woman in black, with white kerchief and high-crowned cap suggestive of Normandy; and through an open window a man sitting at a table, with instruments or machinery before him, engrossed with some experiments. A peculiar, delicate face, with a high, narrow forehead, thin white hair worn rather long and now tumbled, a drooping nose, a snowy white, pointed beard, and thin, long fingers, as colorless as Gertrude's.
Somewhere he has seen a picture of an alchemist not unlike this. He can even discern the intent eagerness of the face as the fingers delicately manipulate something. So interested is he that he forgets his recent perplexity, and, seating himself on a rocky ledge, watches. The air is tensely clear, the river blue as the sky in the intervals of shade. Here and there a dappled rift of cloud floating slowly, a picture of virginal beauty, tinctured with the essence of a hundred summers. The air is drowsily sweet, and he lapses into forgetfulness,—a traveller's trick.
When he opens his eyes the student is still there; the old woman has had her nap and is knitting. A large-eyed greyhound sits at her side. Floyd has half a mind to break in upon the scholar's sanctity, but remembering that he is now a part and parcel of civilization, refrains and resumes his journey; and now it is of Cecil he thinks. The perplexities of the morning have quite excluded baby naughtiness. Will she be glad to see him,—first in her half-shy, wholly seductive manner, then with her ardent, entire love? Heispleased to find her not easily won from him.
The house is very quiet. Bruno, the great dog, comes forward and studies him with sagacious, penetrating eyes. He pats him and says kindly,—
"Your mother knew and loved me, good Bruno."
Gertrude is on the library sofa. "Oh," she cries with a start, "where is Eugene?"
"I have not seen him since morning. Gertrude, is there anything special at Rockwood?"
"Why no,—the Casino, and the track, you know. They speed horses, and sometimes have races, I believe. Have you had lunch?"
"Just a biscuit and a glass of wine will do," he says. "Don't disturb yourself. Where is Cecil?"
"Jane has had her all day. She wouldn't even be friendly with me. Marcia and mother have gone out for calls, I believe."
Just as he enters the dining-room he turns his head. "Gertrude, do you know an odd little cottage on the side of what used to be Savin Rock?"
"A sort of chapel-looking place, with pointed roof?"
"Yes. Who lives there?"
"Why, Mr. St. Vincent."
"The partner, do you mean?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever see him? What kind of looking person is he?"
"Yes. He was here several times. He had the patent, you know. O Floyd,doyou understand anything about the business? Papa thought he should make a great deal of money. Did you see Mr. Wilmarth? Isn't he queer and——" She ends with a shiver.
"I feel just that way about him myself. But what is St. Vincent like?"
"Tall and thin and deadly pale. A kind of French Canadian, I believe. You see he was so enthusiastic and so sure, and so was papa, but something went wrong. Oh, I do hope we will not lose our money! To be ill and wretched and homeless, for no doubt you will marry again, and——"
Floyd laughs heartily. "You shall not be homeless," he says, "and I will even promise to keep you in books. There, don't distress yourself." How often he has to administer comfort!
His lunch is the matter of a few moments, then he hurries up-stairs. The tower door is open, and there is no one to be seen. He keeps on and on until he catches a flutter of a white dress. Cecil is running around the observatory, and his heart beats as he glances at the dazzling little sprite, with her sparkling eyes and her hair a golden mist about her face. He could watch forever, but it is a daring pastime.
"Cecil," he calls softly.
"O papa!" She stops and flushes a deeper pink, then suddenly remembers in the midst of her delight, and there is a tacit reproach in her eyes.
"Have you a kiss for papa?"
She considers gravely, then with a quick bound she is in his arms.
"What are you doing up here, alone?"
"I ran away, a little. I am close up to the birdies, papa, see!"
A flock of swallows were wheeling and circling around. She claps her hands in glee. "Couldn't you open the windows?"
"Not now. The sun is too warm. And, my darling, I wish you would not come up here without Jane. You might fall."
"Miss Cecil, are you up there?" calls Jane.
Grandon takes her down in his arms. "Jane," he says in a low tone, "never let Miss Cecil out of your sight."
"Papa," she begins again, "grandmamma went out in such a pretty carriage. Can't we go, too?"
"Why, yes, I think so. Stay here until I see whether I can find a horse."
He goes out to the stables. The coachman and the gardener are enjoying their afternoon pipes. Everything out here seems on the same lavish scale. There must be money somewhere, Floyd thinks, or debt, and of that he has a horror.
The carriage horses are in, and Mr. Eugene's pretty saddle mare, Beauty. Then Marcia has a pony, and Sultan counts up five. He orders the carriage without any comment, and actually persuades Gertrude to accompany them, or takes her against her will.
The sun is slipping westward now. They leave the beaten ways and go out among farm-houses and orchards, broad fields of grain and waving grasses, making a mass of subtile harmonies. A feeling of rare content fills Floyd Grandon's soul again. There will be so much to enjoy that he need not grudge the few months spent in this wearisome business.
Dinner is ready when they return. Marcia is in unusually high spirits, but Eugene seems tired and out of humor. He apologizes to Floyd for his defection, something quite unexpected detained him.
"Eugene," he says afterward, "let us have a little talk. I want to know how matters stand. I saw Mr. Wilmarth and he feels doubtful, I should say. What is there about the machinery? The new arrangement does not work? Is there any special indebtedness?"
"Wilmarth is looking after that. Trade has somehow fallen off, but it is out of season. What are you to do?" he asks, cautiously.
"First, begin to pay the legacies,—fifteen thousand to the girls."
"Well, you can't. There are two notes falling due, and the whole thing will have to be squeezed,—if it can be raised. Floyd, you are a lucky chap, with a fortune ready made to your hand. I wish I stood in your shoes. I hate business!"
He says this with a kind of vicious fling.
The handsome, ease-loving face deepens into a frown. It is eager for enjoyment and indifferent to consequences, at once fascinating and careless.
"Would you really like to keep the business, Eugene?" asks the elder.
"I wouldn't keep it a day if Wilmarth could take the whole thing. But there are so many complications and so much money to pay out. I really do not see what is to be left for me," discontentedly.
"If the other two make anything, your half-share ought to be worth something."
"But you see it nevercanpay the—the family."
"It does not seem to me that father would have made just such a will if he had not believed it equitable or possible. I shall ask Connery to call a meeting to-morrow or as soon as possible. When does this note fall due?"
"I really do not know. I told you Wilmarth looked out for those things," he says impatiently.
"Have you any clear idea about the new patent? Is it really worth working? What are Mr. Wilmarth's views on the subject?"
"St. Vincent has to change something or other. He is very sanguine, and wants Wilmarth to wait a little. I don't believe hehasperfect faith in it."
"I want you to read father's letter," Floyd says gravely.
"Not to-night, old fellow. To tell the truth, my head aches and I feel stupid. We'll look into things to-morrow. Only, Floyd, don't bring up a fellow with too sharp a turn."
Floyd sighs. He will not have much help in his task, he can plainly foresee. There remains Mr. St. Vincent.
"Eugene," and there is a touch of deep feeling in his tone, "I want us to work together harmoniously. Remember that I have nothing to gain in all this. Whatever I do must be for your benefit and that of the family. I have my own plans and aims, but you will always find me brotherly."
"Oh, well, don't pull such a solemn face about it. I dare say it will come out right. St. Vincent will get everything fixed up presently. Every business gets in a tight place now and then. Let us wind up our conclave with a friendly cigar."
Floyd is still holding Cecil in his arms, now asleep, but he will not relinquish his precious burden. Marcia has some guests on the porch; he hears their chatter and laughter. Is he, too; growing captious and uncomfortable?