The hours pass on and night comes. Violet kisses him and then takes Cecil to her own little room, where they fall asleep in each other's arms. The child is so sweet. She can never be quite forlorn with her. So much of her life has been passed apart from her father that it seems now as if he was going on a journey and would come back presently.
But in the morning he goes on the last journey, holding Floyd Grandon's warm hand in his nerveless grasp. "My son," he sighs, and gives his fond, fond love to Violet.
They let her go in the room with Denise; she pleads to have it so. Floyd paces the hall with Cecil in his arms. He cannot explain the mystery to her and does not attempt it, but she is quite content in the promise that Miss Violet is to come and live with them.
Jane goes over with a note, and instructions to mention nothing beside the fact of the death, Mrs. Grandon and madame get off to New York, and Floyd fortifies himself for the evening's explanation.
Violet is not noisy in her grief. She would like to sit all day and hold the dead hand in hers, watch the countenance that looks no paler now, and much more tranquil than it has for days. She is utterly incredulous in the face of this great mystery. He is asleep. He will come back.
"Violet," Grandon says, at length. Is he going to love and cherish her as some irksome duty? He has never proffered love. In that old time all was demanded and given. Violet will demand nothing and be content. He draws her to him, the round, quivering chin rests in the palm of his hand, the eyes are tearful, entreating. He kisses the red, tremulous lips, not with a man's passionate fervor, but he feels them quiver beneath his, and he sees a pale pink tint creep up to the brow. She is very sweet, and she is his, not his ward, but his wife.
"I hope we shall be happy," he says. "I shall try to do everything——"
"You have been so good, so kind. Denise worships you," she says, simply.
He wonders if she will ever worship him? He thought he should not care about it, but some feeling stirs within him now that makes cold possession seem a mockery.
If they two could go away somewhere with Cecil, and live a quiet, comfortable life, with no thought of what any one will say. But explanations rise mountain high. It looks now as though he must give an account to everybody of what he has done.