Floyd Grandon's Honor

by Amanda M. Douglas

There has been no little undercurrent of curiosity concerning Mr. Floyd Grandon's wife. The feeling has gone abroad that there is something about it "not quite, you know." Mrs. Grandon has not concealed her chagrin and disappointment; Marcia's descriptions are wavering and unreliable, as well as her regard. This is such an excellent opportunity for everybody to see and to judge according to individual preference or favor, and behold there is nothing to see. Mrs. Floyd has sprained her ankle and is a prisoner in that queer, lonely little cottage, where her father lived like a hermit. The impression gains ground that Mr. St. Vincent was something of an adventurer, and that his connection with the business has been an immense misfortune for the Grandons; that his daughter is a wild, hoydenish creature, who climbs rocks and scales fences, and is quite unpresentable in society, though she may know how to sit still in church.

Floyd Grandon would very much like to escape this dinner, but he cannot. His position as head of the house, his own house, too, his coming fame, his prestige as a traveller, make him too important an object to be able to consult his own wishes. Then there are old neighbors, who hold out a hand of cordial welcome, who are interested in his success, and whom he has no disposition to slight.

He takes madame in to dinner, who is regal in velvet and lace. There is a little whisper about the old love, a suspicion if something that cannot quite be explained had not happened with the St. Vincent girl, the "old love" would be on again. There is a delicate impression that madame was persuaded into her French marriage very much against her will. She is charming, fascinating, perfection. She distances other women so far that she even extinguishes jealousy.

It certainly is a delightful dinner party, and Mrs. Grandon is in her glory. She almost forgives Violet her existence for the opportuneness of the accident. She is just as much mistress as ever, and to be important is Mrs. Grandon's great delight. She hates secondary positions. To be a dowager without the duchess is the great cross of her life. If Mr. Grandon could have left her wealthy, the sting of his death would not be half so bitter.

It is late when the guests disperse. Violet has insisted that he shall not give her an anxious thought, but he is a man, and he does some incipient envying on her account. Of course to have her up-stairs, an invalid, would not better the position, but to have her here, bright and well and joyous, full of quaint little charms, and he has never known how full, how over-brimming she was with all manner of fascinating devices until the last few days. If his mother could realize that under this courteous and attentive exterior, the breeding of the polished man of the world, he is thinking only of Violet in white wrappers, with a cluster of flowers at her throat, she would be more than ever amazed at his idiocy.

There is to be a small company at Mrs. Brade's the next evening, a reception to "dear Laura."

"You must come," declares Mrs. Brade, emphatically. "We ought to have a chance at our old friend, and you and the boys grew up together. Do you remember how you used to roast corn and apples at the kitchen fire, and go over your Latin? Why, it seems only yesterday, and all my children are married and gone, save Lucia."

"I shall have to be excused," Floyd Grandon says, in a quiet tone, but with a smile that is fully as decisive. "I shall owe to-morrow evening to my wife, who cannot yet leave her room."

"How very sad and unfortunate! Are we never to have a sight of her, Mr. Grandon, except the glimpses in the carriage and at church?"

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