_ CHAPTER XI
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-a-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. _