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

THE GHOST AGAIN.

Rose Danton stood leaning against the low, old-fashioned chimney piece in her bedroom staring at the fire with a very sulky face. Those who fell in love with pretty Rose should have seen her in her sulky moods, if they wished to be thoroughly disenchanted. Just at present, as she stood looking gloomily into the fire, she was wondering how the Honourable Reginald Stanford would feel on his wedding-day, or if he would feel at all, if they should find her (Rose) robed in white, floating in the fish-pond drowned! The fish-pond was large enough; and Rose moodily recollected reading somewhere that when lovely woman stoops to folly, and finds too late that men betray, the only way to hide that folly from every eye, to bring repentance to her lover, to wring his bosom, is to—die!

The clock down stairs struck eleven. Rose could hear them dispersing to their bedrooms. She could hear, and she held her breath to listen, Mr. Stanford, going past her door, whistling a tune of Kate's. Of Kate's, of course! He was happy and could whistle, and she was miserable and couldn't. If she had not wept herself as dry as a wrung sponge, she must have relapsed into hysterics once more; but as she couldn't, with a long-drawn sigh, she resolved to go to bed.

So to bed Rose went, but not to sleep. She tossed from side to side, feverish and impatient; the more she tried to sleep, the more she couldn't. It was quite a new experience for poor Rose, not used to "tears at night instead of slumber." The wintry moonlight was shining brightly in her room through the parted curtains, and that helped her wakefulness, perhaps. As the clock struck twelve, she sprang up in desperation, drew a shawl round her, and, in her night-dress, sat down by the window, to contemplate the heavenly bodies.

Hark! what noise was that?

The house was as still as a vault; all had retired, and were probably asleep. In the dead stillness, Rose heard a door open—the green baize door of Bluebeard's room. Her chamber was very near that green door; there could be no mistaking the sound. Once again she held her breath to listen. In the profound hush, footsteps echoed along the uncarpeted corridor, and passed her door. Was it Ogden on his way upstairs? No! the footsteps paused at the next door—Kate's room; and there was a light rap. Rose, aflame with curiosity, tip-toed to her own door, and applied her ear to the key-hole. Kate's door opened; there was a whispered colloquy; the listener could not catch the words, but the voice that spoke to Kate was not the voice of Ogden. Five minutes—ten—then the door shut, the footsteps went by her door again, and down stairs.

Who was it? Not Ogden, not her father; could it be—could it be Mr. Richards himself.

Rose clasped her hands, and stood bewildered. Her own troubles had so occupied her mind of late that she had almost forgotten Mr. Richards; but now her old curiosity returned in full force.

"If he has gone out," thought Rose, "what is to hinder me from seeing his rooms. I would give the world to see them!"

She stood for a moment irresolute.

Then, impulsively, she seized a dressing-gown, covered her bright head with the shawl, opened her door softly, and peeped out.

All still and deserted. The night-lamp burned dim at the other end of the long, chilly passage, but threw no light where she stood.

The green baize door stood temptingly half open; no creature was to be seen—no sound to be heard. Rose's heart throbbed fast; the mysterious stillness of the night, the ghostly shimmer of the moonlight, the mystery and romance of her adventure, set every pulse tingling, but she did not hesitate. Her slippered feet crossed the hall lightly; she was beside the green door. Then there was another pause—a moment's breathless listening, but the dead stillness of midnight was unbroken. She tip-toed down the short corridor, and looked into the room. The study was quite deserted; a lamp burned on a table strewn with books, papers, and writing materials. Rose glanced wonderingly around at the book-lined walls. Mr. Richards could pass the dull hours if those were all novels, she thought.

The room beyond was unlit, save by the moon shining brightly through the parted curtains. Rose examined it, too; it was Mr. Richard's bedroom, but the bed had not been slept in that night. Everything was orderly and elegant; no evidences of its occupant being an invalid. One rapid, comprehensive glance was all the girl waited to take; then she turned to hurry back to her own room, and found herself face to face with Ogden.

The valet stood in the doorway, looking at her, his countenance wearing its habitual calm and respectful expression. But Rose recoiled, and turned as white as though she had been a ghost.

"It is very late, Miss Rose," said Ogden calmly. "I think you had better not stay here any longer."

Rose clasped her hands supplicatingly.

"Oh, Ogden! Don't tell papa! Pray, don't tell papa!"

"I am very sorry, Miss Rose, but it would be as much as my place is worth. I must!"

He stood aside to let her pass. Rose, with all her flightiness, was too proud to plead with a servant, and walked out in silence.

Not an instant too soon. As she opened her door, some one came upstairs; some one who was tall, and slight; and muffled in a long cloak.

He passed through the baize door, before she had time to see his face, closed it after him, and was gone.

Rose locked her door, afraid of she know not what; and sat down on the bedside to think. Who was this Mr. Richards who passed for an invalid, and who was no invalid? Why was he shut up here, where no one could see him, and why was all this mystery? Rose thought of "Jane Eyre" and Mr. Rochester's wife, but Mr. Richards could not be mad or they never would trust him out alone at night. What, too, would her father say to her to-morrow? She quailed a little at the thought; she had never seen her indulgent father out of temper in her life. He took the most disagreeable contre-temps with imperturbable good-humour, but how would he take this?

"I should not like to offend papa," thought Rose, uneasily. "He is very good to me, and does everything I ask him. I do hope he won't be angry. I almost wish I had not gone!"

There was no sleep for her that night. When morning came, she was almost afraid to go down to breakfast and face her father; but when the bell rang, and she did descend, her father was not there.

Ogden came in with his master's excuses—Captain Danton was very busy, and would breakfast in his study. The news took away Rose's morning appetite; she sat crumbling her roll on her plate, and feeling that Ogden had told him, and that that was the cause of his non-appearance.

As they rose from the table, Ogden entered again, bowed gravely to Rose, and informed her she was wanted in the study.

Kate looked at her sister in surprise, and noticed with wonder her changing face. But Rose, without a word, followed the valet, her heart throbbing faster than it had throbbed last night.

Captain Danton was pacing up and down his study when she entered, with the sternest face she had ever seen him wear. In silence he pointed to a seat, continuing his walk; his daughter sat down, pale, but otherwise dauntless.

"Rose!" he said, stopping before her, "what took you into Mr. Richards' rooms last night?"

"Curiosity, papa," replied Rose, readily, but in secret quaking.

"Do you know you did a very mean act? Do you know you were playing the spy?"

The colour rushed to Rose's face, and her head dropped.

"You knew you were forbidden to enter there; you knew you were prying into what was no affair of yours; you knew you were doing wrong, and would displease me; and yet in the face of all this, you deliberately stole into his room like a spy, like a thief, to discover for yourself. Rose Danton, I am ashamed of you!"

Rose burst out crying. Her father was very angry, and deeply mortified; and Rose really was very fond of her indulgent father.

"Oh, papa! I didn't mean—I never thought—oh, please, papa, forgive me!"

Captain Danton resumed his walk up and down, his anger softened at the sight of her distress.

"Is it the first time this has occurred?" he asked, stopping again; "the truth, Rose, I can forgive anything but a lie."

"Yes, papa."

"You never have been there before?"

"No, never!"

Again he resumed his walk, and again he stopped before her.

"Why did you go last night?"

"I couldn't sleep, papa. I felt worried about something, and I was sitting by the window. I heard Mr. Richards' door open, and some one come out and rap at Kate's room. Kate opened it, and I heard them talking."

Her father interrupted her.

"Did you hear what they said?" he asked sharply.

"No papa—only the sound of their voices. It was not your voice, nor Ogden's; so I concluded it must be Mr. Richards' himself. I heard him go down stairs, and then I peeped out. His door was open, and I—I—"

"Went in!"

"Yes, papa," very humbly.

"Did you see Mr. Richards?"

"I saw some one, tall and slight, come up stairs and go in, but I did not see his face."

"And that is all!"

"Yes, papa."

Once more he began pacing backward and forward, his face very grave, but not so stern. Rose watched him askance, nervous and uncomfortable.

"My daughter," he said at last, "you have done very wrong, and grieved me more than I can say. This is a serious matter—more serious by far than you imagine. You have discovered, probably, that other reasons than illness confine Mr. Richards to his rooms."

"Yes, papa."

"Mr. Richards is not an invalid—at least not now—although he was ill when he came here. But the reasons that keep him a prisoner in this house are so very grave that I dare not confide them to you. This much I will say—his life depends upon it."

"Papa!" Rose cried, startled.

"His life depends upon it," repeated Captain Danton. "Only three in this house know his secret—myself, Ogden, and your sister Kate. Ogden and Kate I can trust implicitly; can I place equal confidence in you?"

"Yes, papa," very faintly.

"Mr. Richards," pursued Captain Danton, with a slight tremor of voice, "is the nearest and dearest friend I have on this earth. It would break my heart, Rose, if an ill befell him. Do you see now why I am so anxious to preserve his secret; why I felt so deeply your rash act of last night?"

"Forgive me, papa!" sobbed Rose. "I am sorry; I didn't know. Oh, please, papa!"

He stooped and kissed her.

"My thoughtless little girl! Heaven knows how freely I forgive you—only promise me your word of honour not to breathe a word of this."

"I promise, papa."

"Thank you, my dear. And now you may go; I have some writing to do. Go and take a ride to cheer you up after all this dismal talk, and get back your roses before luncheon time."

He kissed her again and held the door open for her to pass out. Rose, with a great weight off her mind went down the passage, and met Eeny running upstairs.

"I say, Rose," exclaimed her sister, "don't you want to go to a ball? Well, there are invitations for the Misses Danton in the parlour."

"A ball, Eeny? Where?"

"At the Ponsonbys', next Thursday night. Sir Ronald, Doctor Frank, papa, and Mr. Stanford are all invited."

Rose's delight at the news banished all memory of the unpleasant scene just over. A ball was the summit of Rose's earthly bliss, and a ball at the Ponsonbys' really meant something. In ten minutes her every thought was absorbed in the great question, "What shall I wear?"

"To-day is Wednesday," thought Rose. "Thursday one, Friday two, Saturday three, Monday four, Tuesday five, Wednesday six, Thursday seven. Plenty of time to have my new silk made. I'll go and speak to Agnes at once."

She tripped away to the sewing-room in search of the little seamstress. The door was ajar; she pushed it open, but paused in astonishment at the sight which met her eyes.

The sewing-room was on the ground floor, its one window about five feet from the ground. At this window which was open, sat the seamstress, her work lying idly on her lap, twisting her fingers in a restless, nervous sort of way peculiar to her. Leaning against the window from without, his arm on the sill, stood Doctor Danton, talking as if he had known Agnes Darling all his life.

The noise of Rose's entrance, slight as it was, caught his quick ear. He looked up and met her surprised eyes, coolly composedly.

"Don't let me intrude!" said Rose, entering, when she found herself discovered. "I did not expect to see Doctor Danton here."

"Very likely," replied the imperturbable Doctor; "it is an old habit of mine turning up in unexpected places. Besides, what was I to do? Grace in the kitchen was invisible, Miss Kate had gone riding with Mr. Stanford, Miss Rose was closeted mysteriously with papa. Miss Eeny, practising the 'Battle of Prague,' was not to be disturbed. In my distraction I came here, where Miss Darling has kindly permitted me to remain and study the art of dressmaking."

He made his speech purposely long, that Rose might not see Miss Darling's confused face. But Rose saw it, and believed as much of the gentleman's story as she chose.

"And now that you have discovered it," said Rose, "I dare say we will have you flying on all occasions to this refugium peccatorum. Are you going? Don't let me frighten you away."

"You don't; but I want to smoke a cigar under the tamaracks. You haven't such a thing as a match about you, have you? No matter; I've got one myself."

He strolled away. Rose looked suspiciously at the still confused face of the sewing-girl.

"How do you come to know Doctor Danton?" she asked abruptly.

"I—he—I mean the window was open and he was passing, and he stopped to speak," stammered Agnes, more confusedly still.

"I dare say," said Rose; "but he would not have stopped unless he had known you before, would he?"

"I—saw him once by accident before—I don't know him—"

She stopped and looked piteously at Rose. She was a childish little thing, very nervous, and evidently afraid of any more questions.

"Well," said Rose, curtly; "if you don't choose to tell, of course you needn't. He never was a lover of yours, was he?"

"Oh, no! no! no!"

"Then I don't see anything to get so confused about. What are you working at?"

"Miss Eeny's jacket."

"Then Miss Eeny's jacket must wait, for I want my new silk made for Thursday evening. Come up to my room, and get to work at once."

Agnes rose obediently. Rose led the way, her mind straying back to the scene in the sewing-room her entrance had disturbed.

"Look here, Miss Darling," she broke out; "you must have known Doctor Danton before. Now you needn't deny it. Your very face proves you guilty. Tell the truth, and shame the——. Didn't you know him before you came to Danton Hall?"

They were in Roses room by this time. To the great surprise of that inquisitive young lady, Agnes Darling sank down upon a lounge, covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.

"Goodness me!" exclaimed the second Miss Danton, as soon as surprise would let her speak, "what on earth is the matter with you? What are you crying about? What has Doctor Danton done to you?"

"Nothing! nothing!" cried the worried little seamstress. "Oh, nothing! It is not that! I am very foolish and weak; but oh, please don't mind me, and don't ask me about it. I can't help it, and I am very, very unhappy."

"Well," said Rose, after a blank pause; "stop crying. I didn't know you would take it so seriously, or I shouldn't have asked you. Here's the dress, and I want you to take a great deal of pains with it, Agnes. Take my measure."

Rose said no more to the seamstress on a subject so evidently distressing; but that evening she took Doctor Frank himself to task. She was at the piano, which Kate had vacated for a game of chess with Mr. Stanford, and Grace's brother was devotedly turning her music. Rose looked up at him abruptly, her fingers still rattling off a lively mazurka.

"Doctor Danton, what have you been doing to Agnes Darling?"

"I! Doing! I don't understand!"

"Of course you don't. Where was it you knew her?"

"Who says I knew her?"

"I do. There, no fibs; they won't convince me, and you will only be committing sin for nothing. Was it in Montreal?"

"Really, Miss Rose—"

"That will do. She won't tell, she only cries. You won't tell; you only equivocate. I don't care. I'll find out sooner or later."

"Was she crying?"

"I should think so. People like to make mysteries in this house, in my opinion. Where there is secrecy there is something wrong. This morning was not the first time you ever talked to Agnes Darling."

"Perhaps not," replied Doctor Danton, with a very grave face; "but, poor child! what right have I to make known the trials she has undergone? She has been very unfortunate, and I once had the opportunity to befriend her. That is all I know of her, or am at liberty to tell."

There was that in Doctor Frank's face that, despite Rose's assurance, forbade her asking any more questions.

"But I shall never rest till I find out," thought the young lady. "I've got at Mr. Richards' and I'll get at yours as sure as my name is Rose."

The intervening days before the ball, Rose was too much absorbed in her preparations, and anticipations of conquest, to give her mind much to Agnes Darling and her secrets. That great and hidden trouble of her life—her unfortunate love affair, was worrying her too. Mr. Stanford, in pursuance of his promise to Kate, played the agreeable to her sister with a provoking perseverance that was proof against any amount of snubbing, and that nearly drove Rose wild. He would take a seat by her side, always in Kate's presence, and talk to her by the hour, while she could but listen, and rebel inwardly. Never, even while she chafed most, had she loved him better. That power of fascination, that charm of face, of voice, of smile, that had conquered her fickle heart the first time she saw him, enthralled her more and more hopelessly with every passing day. It was very hard to sit there, sullen and silent, and keep her eyes averted, but the Danton pluck stood her in good stead, and the memory of his treachery to her goaded her on.

"It's of no use, Kate," he said to his lady-love; "our pretty Rose will have nothing to say to me. I more than half believe she is in love with that very clever Doctor Frank."

"Dr. Frank? Oh, no; he is not half handsome enough for Rose."

"He is a thoroughly fine fellow, though. Are you quite sure he has not taken Rose captive?"

"Quite. He is very well to flirt with—nothing more. Rose cares nothing for him, but I am not so sure he does not care for her. Rose is very pretty."

"Very," smiled Mr. Stanford, "and knows it. I wonder if she will dance with me the night of the ball?"

The night of the ball came, bright, frosty, and calm. The large, roomy, old-fashioned family carriage held Rose, Eeny, Sir Ronald, and Doctor Danton, while Mr. Stanford drove Kate over in a light cutter. The Ponsonbys, who were a very uplifted sort of people, had not invited Grace; and Captain Danton, at the last moment, announced his intention of staying at home also.

"I am very comfortable where I am," said the Captain, lounging in an arm-chair before the blazing fire; "and the trouble of dressing and going out this cold night is more than the ball is worth. Make my excuses, my dear; tell them I have had a sudden attack of gout, if you like, or anything else that comes uppermost."

"But, papa," expostulated Kate, very much surprised, for the master of Danton Hall was eminently social in his habits, "I should like you to come so much, and the Ponsonbys will be so disappointed."

"They'll survive it, my dear, never fear. I prefer staying at home with Grace and Father Francis, who will drop in by-and-by. There, Kate, my dear, don't waste your breath coaxing. Reginald, take her away."

Mr. Stanford, with the faintest shadow of a knowing smile on his face, took Kate's arm and led her down stairs.

"The brown eyes and serene face of your demure housekeeper have stronger charms for my papa-in-law than anything within the four walls of the Ponsonbys. What would Kate say, I wonder, if I told her?"

As usual, Captain Danton's two daughters were the belles of the room. Kate was queenly as ever, and as far out of the reach of everything masculine, with one exception, as the moon; Rose, in a changeful silk, half dove, half pink, that blushed as she walked, with a wreath of ivy in her glossy hair, turned heads wherever she went. Doctor Frank had the privilege of the first dance. After that she was surrounded by all the most eligible young men in the room. Rose, with a glow on her rounded cheeks, and a brilliancy in her eyes, that excitement had lent, danced and flirted, and laughed, and sang, and watched furtively, all the while, the only man present she cared one iota for. That eminently handsome young officer, Mr. Stanford, after devoting himself, as in duty bound, to his stately fiancée, resigned her, after a while, to an epauletted Colonel from Montreal, and made himself agreeable to Helen Ponsonby, and Emily Howard, and sundry other pretty girls. Rose watched him angry and jealous inwardly, smiling and radiant outwardly. Their fingers touched in the same set, but Rose never deigned him a glance. Her perfumed skirts brushed him as she flew by in the redowa, but she never looked up.

"He shall see how little I care," thought jealous Rose. "I suppose he thinks I am dying for him, but he shall find out how much he is mistaken."

With this thought in her mind, she sat down while her partner went for an ice. It was the first time that night she had been a moment alone. Mr. Stanford, leaning against a pillar idly, took advantage of it, and was beside her before she knew it. Her cheeks turned scarlet, and her heart quickened involuntarily as he sat down beside her.

"I have been ignored so palpably all evening that I am half afraid to come near you," he said; "will it be high treason to ask you to waltz with me!"

Alas for Rose's heroic resolutions! How was she to resist the persuasive voice and smile of this man? How was she to resist the delight of waltzing with him? She bowed in silence, still with averted eyes; and Lieutenant Stanford, smiling slightly, drew her hand within his arm. Her late partner came up with the ice, but Rose had got something better than ice cream, and did not want it. The music of the German waltz filled the long ball-room with harmony; his arm slid round her waist, her hand was clasped in his, the wax floor slipped from under her feet, and Rose floated away into elysium.

The valse d'ecstase was over, and they were in a dim, half-lighted conservatory. Tropical flowers bloomed around them, scenting the warm air; delicious music floated entrancingly in. The cold white wintry moon flooded the outer world with its frosty glory, and Rose felt as if fairyland were no myth, and fairy tales no delusion. They were alone in the conservatory; how they got there she never knew; how she came to be clinging to his arm, forgetful of past, present, and future, she never could understand.

"Rose," said that most musical of voices; "when will you learn to forget and forgive? See, here is a peace-offering!"

He had a white camellia in his button-hole—a flower that half an hour ago had been chief beauty of Kate's bouquet. He took it out now, and twined its long stem in and out of her abundant curls.

"Wear it," he said, "and I shall know I am forgiven. Wear it for my sake, Rose."

There was a rustling behind them of a lady's-dress, and the deep tones of a man's voice talking. Rose started away from his side, the guilty blood rushing to her face at sight of her elder sister on Doctor Danton's arm.

Kate's clear eyes fixed on her sister's flushed, confused face, on the waxen camellia, her gift to her lover, and then turned upon Mr. Stanford. That eminently nonchalant young Englishman was as cool as the frosty winter night.

"I should think you two might have selected some other apartment in the house for a promenade, and not come interrupting here," he said, advancing. "Miss Rose and I were enjoying the first tête-à-tête we have had since my arrival. But as you are here, Kate, and as I believe we are to dance the German together—"

"And you resign Miss Rose to me?" said Doctor Frank.

"There is no alternative. Take good care of her, and adieu."

He led Kate out of the conservatory. Doctor Frank offered his arm to Rose, still hovering guiltily aloof.

"And I believe you promised to initiate me into the mysteries of the German. Well, do you want me?"

This last was to a man-servant who had entered, and looked as if he had something to say.

"Yes, sir—if you are Doctor Danton."

"I am Doctor Danton. What is it?"

"It's a servant from the Hall, sir. Captain Danton's compliments, and would you go there at once?"

Rose gave a little scream, and clutched her companion's arm.

"Oh, Doctor Frank, can papa be sick?"

"No, Miss," said the man, respectfully, "it's not your father; it's the young woman what sews, Thomas says—" hesitating.

"Well," said Doctor Frank, "Thomas says what?"

"Thomas says, sir, she see a ghost!"

"A what?"

"A ghost, sir; that's what Thomas says," replied the man, with a grin; "and she's gone off into fainting-fits, and would you return at once, he says. The sleigh is at the door."

"Tell him I will be there immediately."

He turned to Rose, smiling at her blank face.

"What shall I do with you, Mademoiselle? To whom shall I consign you? I must make my adieus to Mrs. Ponsonby and depart."

Rose grasped his arm, and held it tight, her bewildered eyes fixed on his face.

"Seen a ghost!" she repeated blankly. "That is twice! Doctor Frank, is Danton Hall haunted?"

"Yes; haunted by the spirit of mischief in the shape of Rose Danton, nothing worse."

"But this is the second time. There was old Margery, and now Agnes Darling. There must be something in it!"

"Of course there is—an over-excited imagination. Miss Darling has seen a tall tree covered with snow waving in the moonlight, and has gone into fainting fits. Now, my dear Miss, don't hold me captive any longer; for, trying as it is, I really must leave you."

Rose dropped his arm.

"Yes, go at once. Never mind me; I am going in search of Kate."

It took some time to find Kate. When found, she was dancing with a red-coated officer, and Rose had to wait until the dance was over.

She made her way to her sister's side immediately. Miss Danton turned to her with a brilliant smile, that faded at the first glance.

"How pale you are, Rose! What is it?"

"Am I pale?" said Rose, carelessly; "the heat, I dare-say. Do you know Doctor Frank has gone?"

"Gone! Where?"

"To the Hall. Papa sent for him."

"Papa? Oh, Rose—"

"There! There is no occasion to be alarmed; papa is well enough; it is Agnes Darling."

"Agnes! What is the matter with Agnes?"

"She has seen a ghost!"

Kate stared—so did the young officer.

"What did you say, Rose?" inquired Kate, wonderingly.

"She—has—seen—a—ghost!" slowly repeated Rose; "as old Margery did before her, you know; and, like Margery, has gone off into fits. Papa sent for Doctor Frank, and he departed half an hour ago."

Slowly out of Kate's face every trace of colour faded. She rose abruptly, a frightened look in her blue eyes.

"Rose, I must go home—I must see Agnes. Captain Grierson, will you be kind enough to find Mr. Stanford and send him?"

Captain Grierson hastened on his mission. Rose looked at her with wide open eyes.

"Go home—so early! Why, Kate, what are you thinking of?"

"Of Agnes Darling. You can stay, if you like. Sir Ronald is your escort."

"Thank you. A charming escort he is, too—grimmer than old Time in the primer. No; if you leave, so do I."

Mr. Stanford sauntered up while she was speaking, and Rose drew back.

"What is it, Kate? Grierson says you are going home."

Kate's answer was an explanation. Mr. Reginald Stanford set up an indecorous laugh.

"A ghost! That's capital! Why did you not tell me before that Danton Hall was haunted, Kate?"

"I want to return immediately," was Kate's answer a little coldly. "I must speak to Mr. Ponsonby and find Eeny. Tell Sir Ronald, please, and hold yourself in readiness to attend us."

She swept off with Rose to find their hostess. Mrs. Ponsonby's regrets were unutterable, but Miss Danton was resolute.

"How absurd, you know, Helen," she said, to her daughter, when they were gone; "such nonsense about a sick seamstress."

"I thought Kate Danton was proud," said Miss Helen. "That does not look like it. I am not sorry she has gone, however, half the men in the room were making idiots of themselves about her."

Kate and Reginald Stanford returned as they had come, in the light sleigh; and Sir Ronald, Rose and Eeny, in the carriage. Rose, wrapped in her mantel, shrunk away in a corner, and never opened her lips. She watched gloomily, and so did the baronet, the cutter flying past over glittering snow, and Kate's sweet face, pale as the moonlight itself.

Captain Danton met them in the entrance hall, his florid face less cheery than usual. Kate came forward, her anxious inquiring eyes speaking for her.

"Better, my dear; much better," her father answered. "Doctor Frank works miracles. Grace and he are with her; he has given her an opiate, and I believe she is asleep."

"But what is it, papa?" cried Rose. "Did she see a ghost!"

"A ghost, my dear," said the Captain, chucking her under the chin. "You girls are as silly as geese, and imagine you see anything you like. She isn't able to tell what frightened her, poor little thing! Eunice is the only one who seems to know anything at all about it."

"And what does Eunice say?" asked Kate.

"Why," said Captain Danton, "it seems Eunice and Agnes were to sit up for you two young ladies, who are not able to take off your own clothes yet, and they chose Rose's room so sit in. About two hours ago, Agnes complained of toothache, and said she would go down stairs for some painkiller that was in the sewing-room. Eunice, who was half-asleep, remained where she was; and ten minutes after heard a scream that frightened her out of her wits. We had all retired, but the night-lamp was burning; and rushing out, she found Agnes leaning against the wall, all white and trembling. The moment Eunice spoke to her, 'I saw his ghost!' she said, in a choking whisper, and fell back in a dead faint in Eunice's arms. I found her so when I came out, for Eunice cried lustily for help, and Grace and all the servants were there in two minutes. We did everything for her, but all in vain. She lay like one dead. Then Grace proposed to send for her brother. We sent. He came, and brought the dead to life."

"An extraordinary tale," said Reginald Stanford. "When she came to life, what did she say?"

"Nothing. Doctor Frank gave her an opiate that soothed her and sent her to sleep."

As he spoke, Doctor Frank himself appeared, his calm face as impenetrable as ever.

"How is your patient, Doctor?" asked Kate.

"Much better, Miss Kate. In a day or two we will have her all right, I think. She is a nervous little creature, with an overstrung and highly imaginative temperament. I wonder she has not seen ghosts long ago."

"You are not thinking of leaving us," said Captain Danton. "No, no, I won't hear of it. We can give you a bed and breakfast here equal to anything down at the hotel, and it will save you a journey up to-morrow morning. Is Grace with her yet?"

"Yes, Grace insists on remaining till morning. There is no necessity, though, for she will not awake."

Kate gathered up the folds of her rich ball-dress, and ran up the polished oaken stair, nodding adieu. Not to her own room, however, but to that of the seamstress.

The small chamber was dimly lighted by a lamp turned low. By the bedside sat Grace, wrapped in a shawl; on the pillow lay the white face of Agnes Darling, calm in her slumber, but colourless as the pillow itself.

Kate bent over her, and Grace arose at her entrance. It was such a contrast; the stately, beautiful girl, with jewelled flowers in her hair, her costly robe trailing the carpetless floor, the perfume of her dress and golden hair scenting the room, and the wan little creature, so wasted and pale, lying asleep on the low bed. Her hands grasped the bed-clothes in her slumber, and with every rise and fall of her breast, rose and fell a little locket worn round her neck by a black cord. Kate's fingers touched it lightly.

"Poor soul!" she said; "poor little Agnes! Are you going to stay with her until morning, Grace?"

"Yes, Miss Danton."

"I could not go to my room without seeing her; but now, there is no necessity to linger. Good-morning."

Miss Danton left the room. Grace sat down again, and looked at the locket curiously.

"I should like to open that and see whose picture it contains, and yet—"

She looked a little ashamed, and drew back the hand that touched it. But curiosity—woman's intensest passion—was not to be resisted.

"What harm can it be?" she thought. "She will never know."

She lifted the locket, lightly touched the spring, and it flew open. It contained more than a picture, although there was a picture of a handsome, boyish face that somehow had to Grace a familiar look. A slip of folded paper, a plain gold ring, and a tress of brown, curly hair dropped out. Grace opened the little slip of paper, and read it with an utterly confounded face. It was partly written and partly printed, and was the marriage certificate of Agnes Grant and Henry Darling. It bore date New York, two years before.

Grace dropped the paper astounded. Miss Agnes Darling was a married woman, then, and, childish as she looked, had been so for two years. What were her reasons for denying it, and where was Henry Darling—dead or deserted?

She look at the pictured face again. Very good-looking, but very youthful and irresolute. Whom had she ever seen that looked like that? Some one, surely, for it was as familiar as her own in the glass; but who, or where, or when, was all densest mystery.

There was an uneasy movement of the sleeper. Grace, feeling guilty, put back hastily the tress of hair—his, no doubt—the ring—a wedding-ring, of course—and the marriage certificate. She closed the locket, and laid it back on the fluttering heart. Poor little pale Agnes! that great trouble of woman's life, loving and losing, had come to her then already.

In the cold, gray dawn of the early morning, Grace resigned her office to Babette, the housemaid, and sought her room. Agnes Darling still slept—the merciful sleep Doctor Frank's opiate had given her.

A GAME FOR TWO TO PLAY AT.

A cold, raw, rainy, dismal morning—the sky black and hopeless of sunshine, the long bleak blasts complaining around the old house, and rattling ghostily the skeleton trees. The rain was more sleet than rain; for it froze as it fell, and clattered noisily against the blurred window-glass. A morning for hot coffee and muffins, and roaring fires and newspapers and easy-chairs, and in which you would not have the heart to turn your enemy's dog from the door.

Doctor Danton stood this wild and wintry February morning at his chamber window, looking out absently at the slanting sleet, not thinking of it—not thinking of the pale blank of wet mist shrouding the distant fields and marshes, and village and river, but of something that made him knit his brows in perplexed, reflection.

"What was it she saw last, night?" he mused. "No spectre of the imagination, and no bona-fide ghost. Old Margery saw something, and now Agnes. I wonder—"

He stopped, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," he said, and Grace entered.

"I did not know you were up," said Grace. "But it is very fortunate as it happens. I have just been to Miss Darling's room, and she is crying out for you in the wildest Manner."

"Ah!" said her brother, rising, "has she been awake long?"

"Nearly an hour, Babette tells me, and all that time she has been frantically calling for you. Her manner is quite frenzied, and I fear—"

"What do you fear?"

"That last night's fright has disordered her reason."

"Heaven forbid! I will go to her at once."

He left the room as he spoke, and ran upstairs to the chamber of the seamstress. The gray morning twilight stole drearily through the closed shutter, and the lamp burned dim and dismal still. Babette sat by the bedside trying to soothe her charge in very bad English, and evidently but with little success. The bed-clothes had been tossed off, the little thin hands closed and unclosed in them—the great dark eyes were wide and wild—the black hair all tossed and disordered on the pillow.

Babette rose precipitately at the Doctor's entrance.

"Here's the Doctor, Mees Darling. May I go now, Monsieur?"

"Yes, you may go; but remain outside, in case I should, want you."

He shut the door on Babette, and took her place by the sick girl's bedside.

Babette lingered in the passage, staring at the stormy morning, and gaping forlornly.

"I hope he won't be long," she thought. "I want to go to bed."

Dr. Frank, however, was long. Eight struck somewhere in the house; that was half an hour, and there was no sign of his coming. Babette shivered under her shawl, and looked more drearily than ever at the lashing sleet.

Nine—another hour, and no sign from the sick-room, yet. Babette rose up in desperation, but just at that moment Grace came upstairs.

"You here, Babette!" she said, surprised. "Who is with Agnes?"

"The Doctor, Mademoiselle! he told me to wait until he came out, and I have waited, and I am too sleepy to wait any longer. May I go, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, go," said Grace, "I will take your place."

Babette departed with alacrity, and Grace sat down by the storm-beaten window. She listened for some sound from the sick-room, but none rewarded her. Nothing was to be heard but the storm, without, and now and then the opening and shutting of some door within.

Another half-hour. Then the door of the seamstress's room opened, and her brother came out. How pale he was—paler and graver than his sister ever remembered seeing him before.

"Well," she said, rising, "how is your patient?"

"Better," he briefly answered, "very much better."

"I thought she was worse, you look so pale."

"Pale, do I? This dismal morning, I suppose. Grace," he said, lowering his tone and looking at her fixedly, "whose ghost did old Margery say she saw?"

"Whose ghost! What a question!"

"Answer it!"

"Don't be so imperative, please. Master Harry's ghost, she said."

"And Master Harry is Captain Danton's son?"

"Was—he is dead now."

"Yes, yes! he was killed in New York, I believe."

"So they say. The family never speak of him. He was the black sheep of the flock, you know. But why do you ask? Was it his ghost Agnes saw?"

"Nonsense! Of course not! What should she know of Captain Danton's son? Some one—one of the servants probably—came up the stairs and frightened her out of her nervous wits. I have been trying to talk a little sense into her foolish head these two hours."

"And have you succeeded?"

"Partly. But don't ask her any questions on the subject; and don't let Miss Danton or any one who may visit her ask any questions. It upsets her, and I won't be answerable for the consequences."

"It is very strange," said Grace, looking at her brother intently, "very strange that old Margery and Agnes Darling should both see an apparition in this house. There must be something in it."

"Of course there is—didn't I tell you so—an overheated imagination. I have known more extraordinary optical illusions than that in my time. How is Margery—better again?"

"No, indeed. She will never get over her scare in this world. She keeps a light in her room all night, and makes one of the maids sleep with her, and won't be alone a moment, night or day."

"Ah!" said Doctor Frank, with professional phlegm. "Of course! She is an old woman, and we could hardly expect anything else. Does she talk much of the ghost?"

"No. The slightest allusion to the subject agitates her for the whole day. No one dare mention ghosts in Margery's presence."

"I hope you will all be equally discreet with Miss Darling. Time will wear away the hallucination, if you women only hold your tongues. I must caution Rose, who has an unfortunate habit of letting out whatever comes uppermost. Ah! here she is!"

"Were you talking of me?" inquired Miss Rose, tripping upstairs, fresh and pretty, in a blue merino morning dress, with soft white trimmings.

"Do I ever talk of any one else?" said Dr. Frank.

"Pooh! How is Agnes Darling?"

"As well as can be expected, after seeing a ghost!"

"Did she see a ghost, though?" asked Rose, opening her hazel eyes.

"Of course she did; and my advice to you, Miss Rose, is to go to bed every night at dark, and to sleep immediately, with your head covered up in the bed-clothes, or you may happen to see one too."

"Thank you for your advice, which I don't want and won't take. Whose ghost did she see?"

"The ghost of Hamlet's father, perhaps—she doesn't know; before she could take a second look it vanished in a cloud of blue flame, and she swooned away!"

"Doctor Danton," said Rose, sharply, "I wish you would talk sense. I'll go and ask Agnes herself about it. I want to get at the bottom of this affair."

"A very laudable desire, which I regret being obliged to frustrate," said Doctor Danton, placing himself between her and the door.

"You!" cried Rose, drawing herself up. "What do you mean, sir?"

"As Miss Agnes Darling's medical attendant, my dear Miss Rose,—deeply as it wounds me to refuse your slightest request—I really must forbid any step of the kind. The consequences might be serious."

"And I am not to see her if I choose?" demanded Rose, her eyes quite flashing.

"Certainly you are to see her, and to fetch her jelly, and chicken, and toast, and tea, if you will; but you are not to speak of the ghost. That blood-curdling subject is absolutely tabooed in the sick-room, unless—"

"Unless what?" inquired Rose, angrily.

"Unless you want to make a maniac of her. I am serious in this; you must not allude in the remotest way to the cause of her illness when you visit her, or you may regret your indiscretion while you live."

He spoke with a gravity that showed that he was in earnest. Rose shrugged her shoulders impatiently, and walked to Agnes' door. Grace followed at a sign from her brother, who ran down stairs.

The sick girl was not asleep—she lay with her eyes wide open, staring vacantly at the white wall. She looked at them, when they entered, with a half-frightened, half-inquiring gaze.

"Are you better, Agnes?" asked Rose, looking down at the colourless face.

"Oh, yes!"

She answered nervously, her fingers twisting in and out of her bed-clothes—her eyes wandering uneasily from one to the other.

"Wouldn't you like something to eat?" inquired Rose, not knowing what else to say.

"Oh, no!"

"You had better have some tea," said Grace decisively. "It will do you good. I will fetch you up some presently. Rose, there is the breakfast bell."

Rose, with a parting nod to Agnes, went off, very much disappointed, and in high dudgeon with Doctor Frank for not letting her cross-examine the seamstress on the subject of the ghost.

"The ghost she saw must have been Mr. Richards returning from his midnight stroll," thought Rose, shrewdly. "My opinion is, he is the only ghost in Danton Hall."

There was very little allusion made to the affair of last night, at the breakfast-table. It seemed to be tacitly understood that the subject was disagreeable; and beyond an inquiry of the Doctor, "How is your patient this morning?" nothing was said. But all felt vaguely there was some mystery. Doctor Frank's theory of optical illusion satisfied no one—there was something at the bottom that they did not understand.

The stormy day grew stormier as it wore on. Rose sat down at the drawing-room piano after breakfast, and tried to while away the forlorn morning with music. Kate was there, trying to work off a bad headache with a complicated piece of embroidery and a conversation with Mr. Reginald Stanford. That gentleman sat on an ottoman at her feet, sorting silks, and beads, and Berlin wool, and Rose was above casting even a glance at them. Captain Danton, Sir Ronald, and the Doctor were playing billiards at the other end of the rambling old house. And upstairs poor Agnes Darling tossed feverishly on her hot pillow, and moaned, and slept fitfully, and murmured a name in her troubled sleep, and Grace watching her, and listening, heard the name "Harry."

Some of the gloom of the wretched day seemed to play on Rose's spirits. She sang all the melancholy songs she knew, in a mournful, minor key, until the conversation of the other two ceased, and they felt as dismal as herself.

"Rose, don't!" Kate cried out in desperation at length. "Your songs are enough to give one the horrors. Here is Reginald with a face as gloomy as the day."

Rose got up in displeased silence, closed the piano, and walked to the door.

"Pray don't!" said Stanford; "don't leave us. Kate and I have nothing more to say to one another, and I have a thousand things to say to you."

"You must defer them, I fear," replied Rose. "Kate will raise your spirits with more enlivening music when I am gone."

"A good idea," said Kate's lover, when the door closed; "come, my dear girl, give us something a little less depressing than that we have just been favoured with."

"How odd," said Kate languidly, "that Rose will not like you. I cannot understand it."

"Neither can I," replied Mr. Stanford; "but since the gods have willed it so, why, there is nothing for it but resignation. Here is 'Through the woods, through the woods, follow and find me.' Sing that."

Kate essayed, but failed. Her headache was worse, and singing an impossibility.

"I am afraid I must lie down," she said. "I am half blind with the pain. You must seek refuge in the billiard-room, Reginald, while I go upstairs."

Mr. Stanford expressed his regrets, kissed her hand—he was very calm and decorous with his stately lady-love—and let her go.

"I wish Rose had stayed," he thought; "poor little girl! how miserable she does look sometimes. I am afraid I have not acted quite right; and I don't know that I am not going to make a scoundrel of myself; but how is a fellow to help it? Kate's too beautiful and too perfect for mortal man; and I am very mortal, indeed, and should feel uncomfortable married to perfection."

He walked to the curtained recess of the drawing-room, where Rose had one morning battled with her despair, and threw himself down among the pillows of the lounge. Those very pillows whereon his handsome head rested had been soaked in Rose's tears, shed for his sweet sake—but how was he to know that? It was such a cozy little nook, so still and dusky, and shut in, that Mr. Stanford, whose troubles did not prey on him very profoundly, closed his dark eyes, and went asleep in five minutes.

And sleeping, Rose found him. Going to her room to read, she remembered she had left her book on the sofa in the recess, and ran down stairs again to get it. Entering the little room from the hall, she beheld Mr. Stanford asleep, his head on his arm, his handsome face as perfect as something carved in marble, in its deep repose.

Rose stood still—any one might have stood and looked, and admired that picture, but not as she admired. Rose was in love with him—hopelessly, you know, therefore the more deeply. All the love that pride had tried, and tried in vain, to crush, rose in desperation stronger than ever within her. If he had not been her sister's betrothed, who could say what might not have been? If that sister was one degree less beautiful and accomplished, who could say what still might be? She had been such a spoiled child all her life, getting whatever she wanted for the asking, that it was very hard she should be refused now the highest boon she had ever craved—Mr. Reginald Stanford.

Did some mesmeric rapport tell him in his sleep she was there? Perhaps so, for without noise, or cause, his eyes opened and fixed on Rose's flushed and troubled face. She started away with a confused exclamation, but Stanford, stretching out his arm, caught and held her fast.

"Don't run away, Rose," he said, "How long have you been here? How long have I been asleep?"

"I don't know," said Rose, confusedly: "I came here for a book a moment ago only. Let me go, Mr. Stanford."

"Let you go? Surely not. Come, sit down here beside me, Rose. I have fifty things to say to you."

"You have nothing to say to me—nothing I wish to hear. Please let me go."

"On your dignity again, Rose?" he said, smiling, and mesmerizing her with his dark eyes; "when will you have done wearing your mask?"

"My mask!" Rose echoed, flushing; "what do you mean, Mr. Stanford?"

"Treating me like this! You don't want to leave me now, do you? You don't hate me as much as you pretend. You act very well, my pretty little Rose; but you don't mean it—you know you don't!"

"Will you let me go, Mr. Stanford?" haughtily.

"No, my dear; certainly not. I don't get the chance of tête-à-tête with you so often that I should resign the priceless privilege at a word. We used to be good friends, Rose; why can't we be good friends again?"

"Used to be!" Rose echoed; and then her voice failed her. All her love and her wounded pride rose in her throat and choked her.

Reginald Stanford drew her closer to him, and tried to see the averted face.

"Won't you forgive me, Rose? I didn't behave well, I know; but I liked you so much. Won't you forgive me?"

A passionate outburst of tears, that would no longer be restrained, answered him.

"Oh! how could you do it? How could you do it? How could you deceive me so?" sobbed Rose.

Stanford drew her closer still.

"Deceive you, my darling! How did I deceive you? Tell me, Rose, and don't cry!"

"You said—you said your name was Reinecourt, and it wasn't; and I didn't know you were Kate's lover, or I never would have—would have—oh! how could you do it?"

"My dear little girl, I told you the truth. My name is Reinecourt."

Rose looked up indignantly.

"Reginald Reinecourt Stanford is my name; and the reason I only gave you a third of it was, as I said before, because I liked you so much. You know, my dear little Rose, if I had told you that day on the ice my name was Reginald Stanford, you would have gone straight to the Hall, told the news, and had me brought here at once. By that proceeding I should have seen very little of you, of course. Don't you see?"

"Ye-e-e-s," very falteringly.

"I looked up that day from the ice," continued Stanford, "and saw such a dear little curly-headed, bright-eyed, rose-cheeked fairy, that—no, I can't tell you how I felt at the sight. I gave you my middle name, and you acted the Good Samaritan to the wounded stranger—came to see me every day, and made that sprained ankle the greatest boon of my life!"

"Mr. Stanford—"

"Call me Reginald."

"I cannot. Let me go! What would Kate say?"

"She will like it. She doesn't understand why you dislike me so much."

He laughed as he said it. The laugh implied so much, that Rose started up, colouring vividly.

"This is wrong! I must go. Don't hold me, Mr. Stanford."

"Reginald, if you please!"

"I have no right to say Reginald."

"Yes, you have a sister's right!"

"Let me go!" said Rose, imperiously. "I ought not to be here."

"I don't see why. It is very pleasant to have you here. You haven't told me yet that you forgive me."

"Of course I forgive you. It's of no consequence. Will you let me go, Mr. Stanford?"

"Don't be in such a hurry. I told you I had fifty things to—"

He stopped short. The drawing-room door had opened, and Captain Danton's voice could be heard talking to his two companions at billiards.

"All deserted," said the Captain; "I thought we should find the girls here. Come in. I dare-say somebody will be along presently."

"Oh, let me go!" cried Rose, in dire alarm. "Papa may come in here. Oh, pray—pray let me go!"

"If I do, will you promise to be good friends with me in the future?"

"Yes, yes! Let me go!"

"And you forget and forgive the past?"

"Yes—yes—yes! Anything, anything."

Stanford, who had no more desire than Rose herself to be caught just then by papa-in-law, released his captive, and Rose flew out into the hall and upstairs faster than she had ever done before.

How the four gentlemen got on alone in the drawing-room she never knew. She kept her room all day, and took uncommon pains with her dinner-toilet. She wore the blue glacé, in which she looked so charming, and twisted some jeweled stars in her bright auburn hair. She looked at herself in the glass, her eyes dancing, her cheeks flushed, her rosy lips apart.

"I am pretty," thought Rose. "I like my own looks better than I do Kate's, and every one calls her beautiful. I suppose her eyes are larger, and her nose more perfect, and her forehead higher; but it is too pale and cold. Oh, if Reginald would only love me better than Kate!"

She ran down-stairs as the last bell rang, eager and expectant, but only to be disappointed. Grace was there; Eeny and Kate were there, and Sir Ronald Keith; but where were the rest?

"Where's papa?" said Rose, taking her seat.

"Dining out," replied Kate, who looked pale and ill. "And Reginald and Doctor Danton are with him. It is at Mr. Howard's. They drove off over an hour ago."

Rose's eyes fell and her colour faded. Until the meal was over, she hardly opened her lips; and when it was concluded, she went back immediately to her room. Where was the use of waiting when he would not be there?