Kate Danton, or, Captain Danton's Daughters: A Novel

HON. LIEUTENANT REGINALD STANFORD.

Rose Danton's slumbers were unusually disturbed that night. Mr. Reinecourt haunted her awake, Mr. Reinecourt haunted her asleep. What was the eventful morrow to reveal? Would he tell her he loved her? Would he ask her to be his wife? Did he care for her, or did he mean nothing after all?

No thought of Jules La Touche came to disturb her as she drifted off into delicious memories of the past and ecstatic dreams of the future. No thought of the promise she had given, no remorse at her own falsity, troubled her easy conscience. What did she care for Jules La Touche? What was he beside this splendid Mr. Reinecourt? She thought of him—when she thought of him at all—with angry impatience, and she drew his ring off her finger and flung it across the room.

"What a fool I was," she thought, "ever to dream of marrying that silly boy! Thank heaven I never told any one but Grace."

Rose was feverish with impatience and anticipation when morning came. She sat down to breakfast, tried to eat, and drink, and talk as usual, and failed in all. As soon as the meal was over, unable to wait, she dressed and ordered her horse. Doctor Frank was sauntering up the avenue, smoking a cigar in the cold February sunshine, as she rode off.

"Away so early, Di Vernon, and unescorted? May I—"

"No," said Rose, brusquely, "you may not. Good morning!"

Doctor Frank glanced after her as she galloped out of sight.

"What is it?" he thought. "What has altered her of late? She is not the same girl she was two weeks ago. Has she fallen in love, I wonder? Not likely, I should think; and yet—"

He walked off, revolving the question, to the house, while Rose was rapidly shortening the distance between herself and her beloved. Old Jacques was leaning over the gate as she rode up, and took off his hat with Canadian courtesy to the young lady.

"Is Mr. Reinecourt in, Mr. Jacques?" asked Rose, preparing to dismount.

Jacques lifted his eyebrows in polite surprise.

"Doesn't Mademoiselle know, then?"

"Know what?"

"That Monsieur has gone?"

"Gone?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle, half an hour ago. Gone for good."

"But he will come back?" said Rose, faintly, her heart seeming suddenly to stop beating.

Old Jacques shook his head.

"No, Mam'selle. Monsieur has paid me like a king, shook hands with Margot and me, and gone forever."

There was a dead pause. Rose clutched her bridle-rein, and felt the earth spinning under her, her face growing-white and cold.

"Did he leave no message—no message for me?"

She could barely utter the words, the shock, the consternation were so great. Something like a laugh shone in old Jacques' eyes.

"No, Mademoiselle, he never spoke of you. He only paid us, and said good-bye, and went away."

Rose turned Regina slowly round in a stunned sort of way, and with the reins loose on her neck, let her take her road homeward. A dull sense of despair was all she was conscious of. She could not think, she could not reason, her whole mind was lost in blank consternation. He was gone. She could not get beyond that—he was gone.

The boy who came to lead away her horse stared at her changed face; the servant who opened the door opened his eyes, also, at sight of her. She never heeded them; a feeling that she wanted to be alone was all she could realize, and she walked straight to a little alcove opening from the lower end of the long entrance-hall. An archway and a curtain of amber silk separated it from the drawing-room, of which it was a sort of recess. A sofa, piled high with downy pillows, stood invitingly under a window. Among these pillows poor Rose threw herself, to do battle with her despair.

While she lay there in tearless rage, she heard the drawing-room door open, and some one come in.

"Who shall I say, sir?" insinuated the servant.

"Just say a friend wishes to see Miss Danton," was the answer.

That voice! Rose bounded from the sofa, her eyes wild, her lips apart. Her hand shook as she drew aside the curtain and looked out. A gentleman was there, but he sat with his back to her, and his figure was only partially revealed. Rose's heart beat in great plunges against her side, but she restrained herself and waited. Ten minutes, and there was the rustle of a dress; Kate entered the room. The gentleman arose, there was a cry of "Reginald!" and then Kate was clasped in the stranger's arms. Rose could see his face now; no need to look twice to recognize Mr. Reinecourt.

The curtain dropped from Rose's hand, she stood still, breath coming and going in gasps. She saw it all as by an electric light—Mr. Reinecourt was Kate's betrothed husband, Reginald Stanford. He had known her from the first; from the first he had coolly and systematically deceived her. He knew that she loved him—he must know it—and had gone on fooling her to the top of his bent. Perhaps he and Kate would laugh over it together before the day was done. Rose clenched her hands, and her eyes flashed at the thought. Back came the colour to her cheeks, back the light to her eyes; anger for the moment quenched every spark of love. Some of the old Danton pluck was in her, after all. No despair now, no lying on sofa cushions any more in helpless woe.

"How dared he do it—how dared he?" she thought "knowing me to be Kate's sister. I hate him! oh, I hate him!"

And here Rose broke down, and finding the hysterics would come, fled away to her room, and cried vindictively for two hours.

She got up at last, sullen and composed. Her mind was made up. She would show Mr. Reinecourt (Mr. Reinecourt indeed)! how much she cared for him. He should see the freezing indifference with which she could treat him; he should see she was not to be fooled with impunity.

Rose bathed her flushed and tear-stained face until every trace of the hysterics was gone, called Agnes Darling to curl her hair and dress her in a new blue glacé, in which she looked lovely. Then, with a glow like fever on her cheeks, a fire like fever in her eyes, she went down stairs. In the hall she met Eeny.

"Oh, Rose! I was just going up to your room. Kate wants you."

"Does she? What for?"

"Mr. Stanford has come. He is with her in the drawing-room; and, Rose, he is the handsomest man I ever saw."

Rose shook back her curls disdainfully, and descended to the drawing-room. A la princesse she sailed in, and saw the late M. Reinecourt seated by the window, Kate beside him, with, oh, such a happy face! She arose at her sister's entrance, a smile of infinite content on her face.

"Reginald, my sister Rose. Rose, Mr. Stanford."

Rose made the most graceful bow that ever was seen, not the faintest sign of recognition in her face. She hardly glanced at Mr. Stanford—she was afraid to trust herself too far—she was afraid to meet those magnetic dark eyes. If he looked aback at her sang-froid, she did not see it. She swept by as majestically as Kate herself, and took a distant seat.

Kate's face showed her surprise. Rose had been a puzzle to her of late; she was more a puzzle now than ever. Rose was standing on her dignity, that was evident; and Rose did not often stand on that pedestal. She would not talk, or only in monosyllables. Her replies to Mr. Stanford were pointedly cold and brief. She sat, looking very pretty in her blue glacé and bright curls, her fingers toying idly with her châtelaine and trinkets, and as unapproachable as a grand duchess.

Mr. Stanford made no attempt to approach her. He sat and talked to his betrothed of the old times and the old friends and places, and seemed to forget there was any one else in the world. Rose listened, with a heart swelling with angry bitterness—silent, except when discreetly addressed by Kate, and longing vindictively to spring up and tell the handsome, treacherous Englishman what she thought of him there and then.

As luncheon hour drew near, her father, who had been absent, returned with Sir Ronald Keith and Doctor Danton. They were all going upstairs; but Kate, with a happy flush on her face, looked out of the drawing-room door.

"Come in papa," she said; "come in, Sir Ronald; there is an old friend here."

She smiled a bright invitation to the young Doctor, who went in also. Reginald Stanford stood up. Captain Danton, with a delighted "Hallo!" grasped both his hands.

"Reginald, my dear boy, I am delighted, more than delighted, to see you. Welcome to Canada, Sir Ronald; this is more than we bargained for."

"I was surprised to find you here, Sir Ronald," said the young officer, shaking the baronet's hand cordially; "very happy to meet you again."

Sir Ronald, with a dark flush on his face, bowed stiffly, in silence, and moved away.

Doctor Frank was introduced, made his bow, and retreated to Rose's sofa.

Capricious womanhood! Rose, that morning, had decidedly snubbed him; Rose, at noon, welcomed him with her most radiant smile. Never, perhaps, in all his experience had any young lady listened to him with such flattering attention, with such absorbed interest. Never had bright eyes and rosy lips given him such glances and smiles. She hung on his words; she had eyes and ears for no one else, least of all for the supremely handsome gentleman who was her sister's betrothed, and who talked to her father; while Sir Ronald glowered over a book.

The ringing of the luncheon-bell brought Grace and Eeny, and all were soon seated around the Captain's hospitable board.

Lieutenant Reginald Stanford laid himself out to be fascinating, and was fascinating. There was a subtle charm in his handsome face, in his brilliant smile and glance, in his pleasant voice, in his wittily-told stories, and inexhaustible fund of anecdote and mimicry. Now he was in Ireland, now in France, now in Scotland, now in Yorkshire; and the bad English and the patois and accent of all were imitated to the life. With that face, that voice, that talent for imitation, Lieutenant Stanford, in another walk of life, might have made his fortune on the stage. His power of fascination was irresistible. Grace felt it, Eeny felt it, all felt it, except Sir Ronald Keith. He sat like the Marble Guest, not fascinated, not charmed, black and unsmiling.

Rose, too—what was the matter with Rose? She, so acutely alive to well-told stories, to handsome faces, so rigidly cold, and stately, and uninterested now. She shrugged her dimpled shoulders when the table was in a roar; she opened her rather small hazel eyes and stared, as if she wondered, what they could see to laugh at. She did not even deign to glance at him, the hero of the feast; and, in fact, so greatly overdid her part as to excite the suspicions of that astute young man, Doctor Danton. There is no effect without a cause. What was the cause of Rose's icy indifference? He looked at her, then at Stanford, then back at her, and set himself to watch.

"She has met him before," thought the shrewd Doctor; "but where, if he has just come from England? I'll ask him, I think."

It was some time before there was a pause in the conversation. In the first, Dr. Frank struck in.

"How did you come, Mr. Stanford?" he asked.

"On the Hysperia, from Southampton to New York."

"How long ago?" inquired Kate, indirectly helping him; "a week?"

"No," said Lieutenant Stanford, coolly carving his cold ham; "nearly five."

Every one stared. Kate looked blankly amazed.

"Impossible!" she exclaimed; "five weeks since you landed in New York? Surely not."

"Quite true, I assure you. The way was this—"

He paused and looked at Rose, who had spilled a glass of wine, trying to lift it, in a hand that shook strangely. Her eyes were downcast, her cheeks scarlet, her whole manner palpably and inexplicably embarrassed.

"Four, weeks ago, I reached Canada. I did not write you, Kate, that I was coming. I wished to give you a surprise. I stopped at Belleplain—you know the town of Belleplain, thirty miles from here—to see a brother officer I had known at Windsor. Travelling from Belleplain in a confounded stage, I stopped half frozen at an old farm-house six miles off. Next morning, pursuing my journey on foot, I met with a little mishap."

He paused provokingly to fill at his leisure a glass of sherry; and Doctor Danton watching Rose under his eyelashes, saw the colour coming and going in her traitor face.

"I slipped on a sheet of ice," continued Mr. Stanford. "I am not used to your horrible Canadian roads, remember, and strained my ankle badly. I had to be conveyed back to the farm-house on a sled—medical attendance procured, and for three weeks I have been a prisoner there. I could have sent you word, no doubt, and put you to no end of trouble bringing me here, but I did not like that; I did not care to turn Danton Hall into a hospital, and go limping through life; so I made the best of a bad bargain and stayed where I was."

There was a general murmur of sympathy from all but Sir Ronald and Rose. Sir Ronald sat like a grim statue in granite; and Rose, still fluttering and tremulous, did not dare to lift her eyes.

"You must have found it very lonely," said Doctor Danton.

"No. I regretted not getting here, of course; but otherwise it was not unpleasant. They took such capital care of me, you see, and I had a select little library at my command; so, on the whole, I have been in much more disagreeable quarters in my lifetime."

Doctor Frank said no more. He had gained his point, and he was satisfied.

"It is quite clear," he thought. "By some hocus-pocus, Miss Rose has made his acquaintance during those three weeks, and helped the slow time to pass. He did not tell her he was her sister's lover, hence the present frigidity. The long morning rides are accounted for now. I wonder"—he looked at pretty Rose—"I wonder if the matter will end here?"

It seemed as if it would. Doctor Danton, coming every day to the Hall, and closely observant always, saw no symptoms of thawing out on Rose's part, and no effort to please on the side of Mr. Stanford. He treated her as he treated Eeny and Grace, courteously, genially, but nothing more. He was all devotion to his beautiful betrothed, and Kate—what words can paint the infinite happiness of her face! All that was wanting to make her beauty perfect was found. She had grown so gentle, so sweet, so patient with all; she was so supremely blessed herself, she could afford to stoop to the weaknesses of less fortunate mortals. That indescribable change, the radiance of her eyes, the buoyancy of her step, the lovely colour that deepened and died, the smiles that came so rapidly now—all told how much she loved Reginald Stanford.

Was it returned, that absorbing devotion? He was very devoted; he was beside her when she sang; he sought her always when he entered the room, he was her escort on all occasions; but—was it returned? It seemed to Doctor Frank, watching quietly, that there was something wanting—something too vague to be described, but lacking. Kate did not miss it herself, and it might be only a fancy. Perhaps it was that she was above and beyond him, with thoughts and feelings in that earnest heart of hers he could never understand. He was very handsome, very brilliant; but underlying the beauty and the brilliancy of the surface there was shallowness, and selfishness, and falsity.

He was walking up and down the tamarack walk, thinking of this and smoking a cigar, one evening, about a week after the arrival of Stanford. The February twilight fell tenderly over snowy ground, dark, stripped trees, and grim old mansion. A mild evening, windless and spring-like, with the full moon rising round and red. His walk commanded a view of the great frozen fish-pond where a lively scene was going on. Kate, Rose, and Eeny, strapped in skates, were floating round and round, attended by the Captain and Lieutenant Stanford.

Rose was the best skater on the pond, and looked charming in her tucked-up dress, crimson petticoat, dainty boots, and coquettish hat and plume. She flitted in a dizzying circle ahead of all the rest, disdaining to join them. Stanford skated very well for an Englishman, and assisted Kate, who was not very proficient in the art. Captain Danton had Eeny by the hand, and the gay laughter of the party made the still air ring. Grace stood on the edge of the pond watching them, and resisting the Captain's entreaties to come on the ice and let him teach her to skate. Her brother joined her, coming up suddenly, with Tiger at his side.

"Not half a bad tableau," the Doctor said, removing his inevitable cigar; "lovely women, brave men, moonlight, and balmy breezes. You don't go in for this sort of thing, ma soeur? No, I suppose not. Our good-looking Englishman skates well, by the way. What do you think of him, Grace?"

"I think with you, that he is a good-looking young Englishman."

"Nothing more?"

"That the eldest Miss Danton is hopelessly and helplessly in love with him, and that it is rather a pity. Rose would suit him better."

"Ah! sagacious as usual, Grace. Who knows but the Hon. Reginald thinks so too. Where is our dark Scotchman to-night?"

"Sir Ronald? Gone to Montreal."

"Is he coming back?"

"I don't know. Very likely. If it were to murder Mr. Stanford he would come back with pleasure."

"He is a little jealous, then?"

"Just a little. There is the Captain calling you. Go."

They went over. Captain Danton whirled round and came to a halt at sight of them.

"Here, Frank," he said; "I'm getting tired of this. Take my skates, and let us see what you are capable of on ice."

Doctor Frank put on the skates, and struck off.

Rose, flashing past, gave him a bright backward glance.

"Catch me, Doctor Danton!" she cried. "Catch me if you can!"

"A fair field and no favour!" exclaimed Stanford, wheeling round. "Come on Danton; I am going to try, too."

Eeny and Kate stood still to watch.

The group on the bank were absorbed in the chase. Doctor Danton was the better skater of the two; but fleet-footed Rose outstripped both.

"Ten to one on the Doctor!" cried the Captain, excited. "Reginald is nowhere!"

"I don't bet," said Grace; "but neither will catch Rose if Rose likes."

Round and round the fish-pond the trio flew—Rose still ahead, the Doctor outstripping the Lieutenant. The chase was getting exciting. There was no chance of gaining on Rose by following her. Danton tried strategy. As she wheeled airily around, he abruptly turned, headed her off, and caught her with a rebound in his arms.

"By Jove!" cried the Captain, delighted, "he has her. Reginald, my boy, you are beaten."

"I told you you stood no chance, Stanford," said the Doctor.

"What am I to have for my pains, Miss Rose?"

"Stoop down and you'll see."

He bent his head. A stinging box on the ear rewarded him, and Rose was off, flying over the glittering ice and out of reach.

"Beaten, Reginald," said Kate, as he drew near. "For shame, sir."

"Beaten, but not defeated," answered her lover; "a Stanford never yields. Rose shall be my prize yet."

Rose had whirled round the pond, and was passing. He looked at her as he spoke; but her answer was a flash of the eye and a curl of the lip as she flew on. Kate saw it, and looked after her, puzzled and thoughtful.

"Reginald," she said, when, the skating over, they were all sauntering back to the house, "what have you done to Rose?"

Reginald Stanford raised his dark eyebrows.

"Done to her! What do you imagine I have done to her?"

"Nothing; but why, then, does she dislike you so?"

"Am I so unfortunate as to have incurred your pretty sister's dislike?"

"Don't you see it? She avoids you. She will not talk to you, or sing for you, or take your arm, or join us when we go out. I never saw her treat any gentleman with such pointed coldness before."

"Extraordinary," said Mr. Stanford, with profoundest gravity; "I am the most unlucky fellow in the world. What shall I do to overcome your fair sister's aversion?"

"Perhaps you do not pay her attention enough. Rose knows she is very pretty, and is jealously exacting in her demands for admiration and devotion. Sir Ronald gave her mortal offence the first evening he came, by his insensibility. She has never forgiven him, and never will. Devote yourself more to her and less to me, and perhaps Rose will consent to let you bask in the light of her smile."

He looked at her with an odd glance. She was smiling, but in earnest too. She loved her sister and her lover so well, that she felt uncomfortable until they were friends; and her heart was too great and faithful for the faintest spark of jealousy. He had lifted the hand that wore his ring to his lips.

"Your wishes are my law. I shall do my best to please Rose from to-night."

That evening, for the first time, Stanford took a seat beside Rose, and did his best to be agreeable. Kate smiled approval from her place at the piano, and Doctor Danton, on the other side of Rose, heard and saw all, and did not quite understand. But Rose was still offended, and declined to relent. It was hard to resist that persuasive voice, but she did. She hardened herself resolutely at the thought of how he had deceived her—he who was soon to be her sister's husband. Rose got up abruptly, excused herself, and left the room.

When the family were dispersing to their chambers that night, Reginald lingered to speak to Kate.

"I have failed, you see," he said.

"Rose is a mystery," said Kate, vexed; "she has quite a new way of acting. But you know," smiling radiantly, "a Stanford never yields."

"True. It is discouraging, but I shall try again. Good-night, dearest and best, and pleasant dreams—of me."

He ascended to his bedroom, lamp in hand. A fire blazed in the grate; and sitting down before it, his coat off, his slippers on, his hands in his pockets, he gazed at it with knitted brow, and whistling softly. For half an hour he sat, still as a statue. Then he got up, found his writing-case, and sat down to indite a letter. He was singing the fag-end of something as he dipped his pen in the ink.