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

LOVE-MAKING.

A dismal March afternoon, an earth hard as iron, with black frost, a wild wind troubling the gaunt trees, and howling mournfully around the old house. A desolate, wintry afternoon, threatening storm; but despite its ominous aspect, the young people at Danton Hall had gone off for a long sleigh-ride. Reginald and Kate had the little shell-shaped cutter, Rose, Eeny, Mr. Howard, Junior, Miss Howard, and Doctor Frank, in the big three-seated family sleigh. Amid the jingling of silvery bells, peals of girlish laughter, and a chorus of good-byes to the Captain and Grace, standing on the stone stoop, they had departed.

Captain Danton and his housekeeper spent the bleak March afternoon very comfortably together. The fire burned brightly, the parlour was like waxwork in its perfect order; Grace, with her sewing, sat by her favourite window. Captain Danton, with the Montreal True Witness, sat opposite, reading her the news. Grace was not very profoundly interested in the political questions then disturbing Canada, or in the doings and sayings of the Canadian Legislature; but she listened with a look of pleased attention to all. Presently the Captain laid down the newspaper and looked out.

"The girls and boys will be caught in the storm, as I told them they would. You and I were wisest, Grace, to stay at home."

Grace smiled and folded up her work.

"Where are you going?" asked the Captain.

"To get the remainder of this embroidery from Agnes Darling. Do you know what it is?"

"How should I?"

"Well, then, it is a part of Miss Kate's bridal outfit. June will soon be here, although to-day does not look much like it."

She went out and descended to the sewing-room. All alone, and sitting by the window, her needle flying rapidly, was the pale seamstress.

"Have you finished those bands, Miss Darling? Ah, I see you have and very nicely. I am ready for them, and will take them upstairs. Are these the sleeves you are working on?"

Miss Darling replied in the affirmative, and Grace turned to depart. On the threshold she paused.

"You don't look very well, Miss Darling," she said, kindly; "don't work too late. There is no hurry with the things."

She returned to the parlour, where Captain Danton, who had become very fond of his housekeeper's society of late, still sat. And Agnes Darling, alone in the cosy little sewing-room, worked busily while the light lasted. When it grew too dark for the fine embroidery, she dropped it in her lap, and looked out at the wintry prospect.

The storm that had been threatening all day was rising fast. The wind had increased to a gale, and shook the windows and doors, and worried the trees, and went shrieking off over the bleak marshes, to a wild gulf and rushing river. Great snowflakes fluttered through the leaden air, faster and faster, and faster, until presently all was lost in a dizzy cloud of falling whiteness. A wild and desolate evening, making the pleasant little room, with its rosy fire, and carpet, and pretty furniture, tenfold pleasanter by contrast. A bleak and terrible evening for all wayfarers—bitterly cold, and darkening fast.

The seamstress sat while the dismal daylight faded drearily out, her hands lying idly in her lap, her great, melancholy dark eyes fixed on the fast-falling snow. The tokens of sickness and sorrow lingered more marked than ever in that wasted form and colourless face, and the ruddy glow of the fire-light flickered on her mourning dress. Weary and lonely, she looked as the dying day.

Presently, above the shrieking of the stormy wind, came another sound—the loud jingling of sleigh-bells. Dimly through the fluttering whiteness of the snow-storm she saw the sleighs whirl up to the door, and their occupants, in a tumult of laughter, hurrying rapidly into the house. She could hear those merry laughs, those feminine tones, and the pattering of gaitered feet up the stairs. She could hear the deeper voices of the gentlemen, as they stamped and shook the snow off their hats and great-coats in the hall. She listened and looked out again at the wintry twilight.

"Oh!" she thought, with weary sadness, "what happy people there are in the world! Women who love and are beloved, who have everything their hearts desire—home, and friends, and youth, and hope, and happiness. Women who scarcely know, even by hearsay, of such wretched castaways as I."

She walked from the window to the fire, and, leaning against the mantel, fixed her eyes on the flickering flame.

"My birthday," she said to herself, "this long, lonesome, desolate day. Desolate as my lost life, as my dead heart. Only two-and twenty, and all that makes life worth having, gone already."

Again she walked to the window. Far away, and pale and dim through the drifting snow, she could see the low-lying sky.

"Not all!" was the better thought that came to her in her bitterness—"not all, but oh! how far away the land of rest looks!"

She leaned against the window, as she had leaned against the mantel, and took from her bosom the locket she always wore.

"This day twelvemonth he gave me this—his birthday gift. Oh, my darling! My husband! where in all the wide world are you this stormy night?"

There was a rap at the door. She thrust the locket again in her bosom, choked back the hysterical passion of tears rising in her heart, crossed the room, and opened the door. Her visitor was Doctor Danton.

"I thought I should find you here," he said, entering.

"How are you to-day, Miss Darling? Not very well, as your face plainly testifies; give me your hand—cold as ice! My dear child, what is the trouble now?"

At the kindness of his tone she broke down suddenly. She had been alone so long brooding in solitude over her troubles, that she had grown hysterical. It wanted but that kindly voice and look to open the closed flood-gates of her heart. She covered her face with her hands, and broke out into a passionate fit of crying.

Doctor Frank led her gently to a seat, and stood leaning against the chimney, looking into the dying fire, and not speaking. The hysterics would pass, he knew, if she were let alone; and when the sobbing grew less violent, he spoke.

"You sit alone too much," he said quietly; "it is not good for you. You must give it up, or you will break down altogether."

"Forgive me," said Agnes, trying to choke back the sobs. "I am weak and miserable, and cannot help it. I did not mean to cry now."

"You are alone too much," repeated the Doctor; "it won't do. You think too much of the past, and despond too much in the present. That won't do either. You must give it up."

His calm, authoritative tone soothed her somehow. The tears fell less hotly, and she lifted her poor, pale face.

"I am very foolish, but it is my birthday, and I could not help—"

She broke down again.

"It all comes of being so much alone," repeated Doctor Frank. "It won't do. Agnes, how often must I tell you so? Do you know what they say of you in the house?"

"No," looking up in quick alarm.

"They accuse you of having something on your mind. The servants look at you with suspicion, and it all comes of your love of solitude, your silence and sadness. Give it up, Agnes, give it up."

"Doctor Danton," she cried, piteously, "what can I do? I am the most unhappy woman in all the world. What can I do?"

"There is no need of you being the most unhappy woman in the world; there is no need of your being unhappy at all."

She looked up at him in white, voiceless appeal, her lips and hands trembling.

"Don't excite yourself—don't be agitated. I have no news for you but I think I may bid you hope with safety. I don't think it was a ghost you saw that night."

She gave a little cry, and then sat white and still, waiting.

"I don't think it was a ghost," he repeated, lowering his voice. "I don't think he is dead."

She did not speak; she only sat looking up at him with that white, still face.

"There is no need of your wearing a widow's weeds, Agnes," he said, touching her black dress; "I believe your husband to be alive."

She never spoke. If her life had depended on it, she could not have uttered a word—could not have removed her eyes from his face.

"I have no positive proof of what I say, but a conviction that is equal to any proof in my own mind. I believe your husband to be alive—I believe him to be an inmate of this very house."

He stopped in alarm. She had fallen back in her chair, the bluish pallor of death overspreading her face.

"I should have prepared you better," he said. "The shock was too sudden. Shall I go for a glass of water?"

She made a slight motion in the negative, and whispered the word,

"Wait!"

A few moments' struggle with her fluttering breath, and then she was able to sit up.

"Are you better again? Shall I go for the water?"

"No, no! Tell me—"

She could not finish the sentence.

"I have no positive proof," said Doctor Danton, "but the strongest internal conviction. I believe your husband to be in hiding in this house. I believe you saw him that night, and no spirit."

"Go on, go on!" she gasped.

"You have heard of Mr. Richards, the invalid, shut upstairs, have you not? Yes. Well, that mysterious individual is your husband."

She rose up and stood by him, white as death.

"Are you sure?"

"Morally, yes. As I told you, I have no proof as yet and I should not have told you so soon had I not seen you dying by inches before my eyes. Can you keep up heart now, little despondent?"

She clasped her hands over that wildly-throbbing heart, still not quite sure that she heard aright.

"You are to keep all this a profound secret," said the Doctor, "until I can make my suspicions certainties. They say women cannot keep a secret—is it true?"

"I will do whatever you tell me. Oh, thank Heaven! thank Heaven for this!"

She had found her voice, and the hysterics threatened again. Doctor Danton held up an authoritative finger.

"Don't!" he said imperatively. "I won't have it! No more crying, or I shall take back all I have said. Tell a woman good news, and she cries; tell her bad news, and she does the same. How is a man to manage them?"

He walked across the room, and looked out at the night, revolving that profound question in his man's brain, and so unable to solve the enigma as the thousands of his brethren who have perplexed themselves over the same question before. After staring a moment at the blinding whirl of snow he returned to the seamstress.

"Are you all right again, and ready to listen to me?"

Her answer was a question.

"How have you found this out?"

"I haven't found it out. I have only my own suspicions—very strong ones, though."

A shadow of doubt saddened and darkened her face. Her clasped hands drooped and fell.

"Only a suspicion, after all! I am afraid to hope, seems so unreal, so improbable. If it were Harry, why should he be here? Why should Captain Danton protect and shield him?"

"That is what I am coming to. You knew very little of your husband before you married him. Are you sure he did not marry you under an assumed name?"

A flash of colour darted across her colourless face at the words. Doctor Danton saw it.

"Are you sure Darling was your husband's name?" he reiterated, emphatically.

"I am not sure," she said faintly. "I have reason to think it was not."

"Do you know what his name was?"

"No."

"Then I do. I think his name was Danton."

"Danton!"

"Henry Richard Danton—Captain Danton's only son."

She looked at him in breathless wonder.

"Captain Danton's only son," went on the Doctor. "You have not lived all these months in this house without knowing that Captain Danton had a son?"

"I have heard it."

"Three years ago this son ran away from home, and went to New York, under an assumed name. Three years ago Henry Darling came first to New York from Canada. Henry Darling commits a crime, and flies. A few months after Captain Danton comes here, with a mysterious invalid, who is never seen, who is too ill to leave his room by day, but quite able to go out for midnight rambles in the grounds. Old Margery has known Captain Danton's son from childhood. She sees Mr. Richards returning from one of those midnight walks, and falls down in a fit. She says she has seen Master Harry's ghost—Master Harry being currently believed to be dead. Shortly after, you see Mr. Richards on a like occasion, and you fall down in a fit. You say you have seen the apparition of your husband, Henry Darling. Putting all this together, and adding it up, what does it come to? Are you good at figures?"

She could not answer him. The ungovernable astonishment of hearing what she had heard, struck her speechless once more.

"Don't take the trouble to speak," said Doctor Frank, "my news has stunned you. I shall leave you to think it all over by yourself, and I trust there will be an end of tears and melancholy faces. It is ever darkest before the day dawns. Good-evening!"

He was going, but she laid her hand on his arm.

"Wait a moment," she said, finding her voice. "I am so confused and bewildered that I hardly understand what you have said. But should it all be true—you know—you know—" averting her face, "he believes me guilty!"

"We will undeceive him; I can give him proofs, 'strong as Holy Writ;' and, if he loves you, he will be open to conviction. All will come right after a while; only have patience and wait. Keep up a good heart, my dear child, and trust in God."

She dropped feebly into a chair, looking with a bewildered face at the fire.

"I can't realize it," she murmured. "It is like a scene in a novel. I can't realize it."

She heard the door close behind Doctor Frank—she heard a girlish voice accost him in the hall. It was Miss Rose, in a rustling silk dinner-dress, with laces, and ribbons, and jewels fluttering and sparkling about her.

"Is Agnes Darling in there?" she asked suspiciously.

"Yes. I have just been making a professional call."

"Professional! I thought she was well."

"Getting well, my dear Miss Rose; getting well, I am happy to say. It is the duty of a conscientious physician to see after his patients until they are perfectly recovered."

"I wonder if conscientious physicians find the duty more binding in the case of young and pretty patients than in that of old and ugly ones?"

"No," said Doctor Frank, impressively. "To professional eyes, the suffering fellow-creature is a suffering fellow-creature, and nothing more. Think better of us, my dear girl; think better of me."

After dinner, in the drawing-room, Captain Danton, with Grace for a partner, the Doctor with Eeny, sat down to a game of cards. Kate sat at the piano, singing a fly-away duet with Miss Howard. Mr. Howard stood at Miss Danton's right elbow devotedly turning the music; and in a little cozy velvet sofa, just big enough for two, Reginald and Rose were tête-à-tête.

In the changed days that came after, Doctor Frank remembered that picture—the exquisite face at the piano, the slender and stately form, the handsome man, and the pretty coquette on the sofa. The song sung that night brought the tableau as vividly before him years and years after, as when he saw it then.

The song was ended. Miss Danton's ringed white fingers were flying over the keys in a brilliant waltz. George Howard and Rose were floating round and round, in air, as it seemed, and Stanford was watching with half-closed eyes. And in the midst of all, above the ringing music and the sighing of the wild wind, there came the clanging of sleigh-bells and a loud ring at the house-door. Rose and George Howard ceased their waltz. Kate's flying fingers stopped. The card-party looked up inquisitively.

"Who can it be," said the Captain, "'who knocks so loud, and knocks so late,' this stormy night?"

The servant who threw open the drawing-room door answered him. "M. La Touche," announced Babette, and vanished.

There was a little cry of astonishment from Rose; an instant's irresolute pause. Captain Danton arose. The name was familiar to him from his daughter. But Rose had recovered herself before he could advance, and came forward, her pretty face flushed.

"Where on earth did you drop from?" she asked, composedly shaking hands with him. "Did you snow down from Ottawa?"

"No," said M. La Touche. "I've snowed down from Laprairie. I came from Montreal in this evening's train, and drove up here, in spite of wind and weather."

Captain Danton came forward; and Rose, still a little confused, presented M. La Touche. The cordial Captain shook with his usual heartiness the proffered hand of the young man, bade him welcome, and put an instant veto on his leaving them that night.

"There are plenty of bedrooms here, and it is not a night to turn an enemy's dog from the door. My cousin, Miss Grace Danton, M. La Touche; my daughter, Eveleen; and Doctor Frank Danton."

M. La Touche bowed with native grace to these off-hand introductions, and then was led off by Rose to the piano-corner, to be duly presented there. She had not made up her mind yet whether she were vexed or pleased to see her lover. Whatever little affection she had ever given him—and it must have been of the flimsiest from the first—had evaporated long ago, like smoke. But Rose had no idea of pining in maiden solitude, even if she lost the fascinating Reginald, and she knew that homely old saw about coming to the ground between two stools.

M. La Touche had the good fortune to produce a pleasing impression upon all to whom he was introduced. He was very good-looking, with dark Canadian eyes and hair, and olive skin. He was rather small and slight, and his large dark eyes were dreamy, and his smile as gentle as a girl's.

Mr. Stanford, resigned his place on the sofa to M. La Touche, and Rose and the young Canadian were soon chattering busily in French.

"Why did you not write and tell me you were coming?"

"Because I did not know I was coming. Rose, I am the luckiest fellow alive!"

His dark eyes sparkled; his olive face flushed. Rose looked at him wonderingly.

"How?"

"I have had a fortune left me. I am a rich man, and I have come here to tell you, my darling Rose."

"A fortune!" repeated Rose, opening her brown eyes.

"Yes, m'amour! You have heard me speak of my uncle in Laprairie, who is very rich? Well, he is dead, and has left all he possesses to me."

Rose clasped her hands.

"And how much is it?"

"Forty thousand pounds!"

"Forty thousand pounds!" repeated Rose, quite stunned by the magnitude of the sum.

"Am I not the luckiest fellow in the world?" demanded the young legatee with exultation. "I don't care for myself alone, Rose, but for you. There is nothing to prevent our marriage now."

Rose wilted down suddenly, and began fixing her bracelets.

"I shall take a share in the bank with my father," pursued the young man; "and I shall speak to your father to-morrow for his consent to our union!"

Rose still twitched her bracelets, her colour coming and going. She could see Reginald Stanford without looking up; and never had he been so handsome in her eyes; never had she loved him as she loved him now.

"You say nothing, Rose," said her lover. "Mon Dieu! you cannot surely love me less!"

"Hush!" said Rose, rather sharply, "they will hear you. It isn't that, but—but I don't want to be married just yet. I am too young."

"You did not think so at Ottawa."

"Well," said Rose, testily; "I think so now, and that is enough. I can't get married yet; at least not before July."

"I am satisfied to wait until July," said La Touche, smiling. "No doubt, you will feel older and wiser by that time."

"Does your father know?" asked Rose.

"Yes, I told him before I left home. They are all delighted. My mother and sisters send endless love."

Rose remained silent for a moment, thoughtfully twisting her bracelet. She liked wealth, but she liked Reginald Stanford better than all the wealth in the world. Jules La Touche, with forty thousand pounds, was not to be lightly thrown over; but she was ready at any moment to throw him over for the comparatively poor Englishman. She had no wish to offend her lover. Should her dearer hopes fail, he would be a most desirable party.

"What is the matter with you, Rose?" demanded Jules, uneasily. "You are changed. You are not what you were in Ottawa. Even your letters of late are not what they used to be. Why is it? What have I done?"

"You foolish fellow," said Rose, smiling, "nothing! I am not changed. You only fancy it."

"Then I may speak to your father?"

"Wait until to-morrow," said Rose. "I will think of it. You shall have my answer after breakfast. Now, don't wear that long face—there is really no occasion."

Rose dutifully lingered by his side all the evening; but she stole more glances at Kate's lover than she did at her own. Jules La Touche felt the impalpable change in her; and yet it would have puzzled him to define it. His nature was gentle and tender, and he loved the pretty, fickle, rosy beauty with a depth and sincerity of which she was totally unworthy.

Upstairs, in her room, that night, Rose sat before the fire, toasting her feet and thinking. Yes, thinking. She was not guilty of it often; but to-night she was revolving the pros and cons of her own case. If she refused to let Jules speak to her father, nothing would persuade him that her love had not died out. He might depart in anger, and she might lose him forever. That was the very last thing she wished. If she lost Reginald, it would be some consolation to marry, immediately after, a richer man. It would be revenge; it would prove how little she cared for him; it would deprive him of the pleasure of thinking she was pining in maiden loneliness for him. Then, too, the public announcement of her engagement and approaching marriage to M. La Touche might arouse him to the knowledge of how much he loved her. "How blessings brighten as they take their flight!" and jealousy is infallible to bring dilatory lovers to the point. No question of the right or wrong of the matter troubled the second Miss Danton's easy conscience.

On the whole, everything was in favour of M. La Touche's speaking to papa. Rose resolved he should speak, took off her considering cap, and went to bed.

M. La Touche was not kept long in suspense next day; he got his answer before breakfast. The morning was sunny and mild, but the snow lay piled high on all sides; and Rose, running down stairs some ten minutes before breakfast-time, found her lover in the open hall door, watching the snowbirds and smoking a cigar. Rose went up to him with very pretty shyness, and the young man flung away his cigar, and looked at her anxiously.

"What a lovely morning," said Rose; "what splendid sleighing we will have."

"I'm not going to talk of sleighing," said M. La Touche, resolutely. "You promised me an answer this morning. What is it?"

Rose began playing with her cord and tassels.

"What is it?" reiterated the Canadian. "Yes or No?"

"Yes!"

M. La Touche's anxious countenance turned rapturous, but Miss Grace Danton was coming down stairs, and he had to be discreet. Grace lingered a few moments talking of the weather, and Rose took the opportunity of making her escape.

After breakfast, when the family were dispersing, M. La Touche followed Captain Danton out of the room, and begged the favour of a private interview. The Captain looked surprised, but agreed readily, and led the way to his study, no shadow of the truth dawning on his mind.

That awful ordeal of most successful wooers, "speaking to papa," was very hard to begin; but M. La Touche, encouraged by the recollection of the forty thousand pounds, managed to begin somehow. He made his proposal with a modest diffidence that could not fail to please.

"We have loved each other this long time," said the young man; "but I never dreamed of speaking to you so soon. I was only a clerk in our house, and Rose and I looked forward to years of waiting. This legacy, however, has removed all pecuniary obstacles, and Rose has given me consent to speak to you."

Imagine the Captain's surprise. His little curly-haired Rose, whom he looked upon as a tall child, engaged to be married!

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Captain Danton, naïvely; "you have taken me completely aback! I give you my word of honour, I never thought of such a thing!"

"I hope you will not object, sir; I love your daughter most sincerely."

The anxious inquiry was unneeded. Captain Danton had no idea of objecting. He knew the La Touche family well by repute; he liked this modest young wooer; and forty thousand pounds for his dowerless daughter was not to be lightly refused.

"Object!" he cried, grasping his hand. "Not I. If you and Rose love each other, I am the last one in the world to mar your happiness. Take her, my lad, with my best wishes for your happiness."

The young Canadian tried to express his gratitude, but broke down at the first words.

"Never mind," said the Captain, laughing. "Don't try to thank me. Your father knows, of course?"

"Yes, sir. I spoke to him before I left Ottawa. He and all our family are delighted with my choice."

"And when is it to be?" asked the Captain, still laughing.

"What?"

"The wedding, of course!"

M. La Touche's dark face reddened like a girl's. "I don't know, sir. We have not come to that yet."

"Let me help you over the difficulty, then. Make it a double wedding."

"A double wedding?"

"Yes. My daughter Kate is to be married to Mr. Stanford on the fifth of June. Why not make it a double match."

"With all my heart, sir, if Rose is willing!"

"Go and ask her then. But first, of course, after this, you remain with us for some time?"

"I can stay a week or two; after that, business will compel me to leave."

"Well, business must be attended to. Go, speak to Rose, and success to you!"

Jules found Rose in the drawing-room, and alone. His face told how eminently satisfactory his interview had been. He sat down beside her, and related what had passed, ending with her father's proposal.

"Do say yes, Rose," pleaded Jules. "June is as long as I can wait, and I should like a double wedding of all things."

Rose's face turned scarlet, and she averted her head. The familiar announcement of Reginald's marriage to her sister, as a matter of certainty, stung her to the heart.

"You don't object, Rose?" he said uneasily. "You will be married the same day?"

"Settle it as you like," answered Rose petulantly. "If I must be married, it doesn't much matter when."

That day, when the ladies were leaving the dinner-table, Captain Danton arose.

"Wait one moment," he said; "I have a toast to propose before you go. Fill your glasses and drink long life and prosperity to Mr. and Mrs. Jules La Touche."

Every one but Grace was electrified, and Rose fairly ran out of the room. M. La Touche made a modest little speech of thanks, and then Mr. Stanford held the door open for the ladies to pass.

Rose was not in the drawing-room when they entered, and Kate ran up to her room; but the door was locked, and Rose would not let her in.

"Go away, Kate," she said, almost passionately. "Go away and leave me alone."

Rose kept her chamber all the evening, to the amazement of the rest. The young Canadian was the lion of the hour, and bore his honours with that retiring modesty which so characterized him, and which made him such a contrast to the brilliant and self-conscious Mr. Stanford.

Rose descended to the breakfast next morning looking shy and queer. Before the meal was over, however, the bashfulness, quite foreign to her usual character, wore pretty well away, and she agreed to join a sleighing-party over to Richelieu, a neighbouring village.

They were six in all—Kate and Mr. Stanford, Rose and Mr. La Touche, Eeny and Doctor Frank. Sir Ronald Keith had departed some time previously, for a tour through the country with Lord Ellerton, and his memory was a thing of the past already.

The Captain, an hour after their departure, sought out Grace in the dining-room, where she sat at work. He looked grave and anxious, and, sitting down beside her, said what he had to say with many misgivings.

"I am double her age," he thought. "I have a son old enough to be her husband; how can I hope?"

But for all that he talked, and Grace listened, her sewing lying idly in her lap; one hand shading her face, the other held in his. He talked long and earnestly, and she listened, silent and with shaded face.

"And now Grace, my dear, you have heard all; what do you say? When I lose my girls, shall I go back to the old life, or shall I stay? I can't stay unless you say yes, Grace. I am double your age, but I love you very dearly, and will do my best to make you happy. My dear, what do you say?" She looked up at him for the first time, her eyes full of tears.

"Yes!"

TRYING TO BE TRUE.

Late that evening, the sleighing party returned in high good spirits—all exhilaration after their long drive through the frosty air. Crescent moon and silver stars spangled the deep Canadian sky, glittering coldly bright in the hard white snow, as they jingled merrily up to the door.

"Oh, what a night!" Kate cried. "It is profanation to go indoors."

"It is frostbitten noses to stay out," answered Reginald. "Moonlight is very well in its place; but I want my dinner."

The sleighing party had had one dinner that day, but were quite ready for another. They had stopped at noon at a country inn, and fared sumptuously on fried ham and eggs and sour Canadian bread, and then had gone off rambling up the hills and into the woods.

How it happened, no one but Reginald Stanford ever knew; but it did happen that Kate was walking beside Jules La Touche up a steep, snowy hill, and Reginald was by Rose's side in a dim, gloomy forest-path. Rose had no objection. She walked beside him, looking very pretty, in a black hat with long white plume and little white veil. They had walked on without speaking until her foolish heart was fluttering, and she could stand it no longer. She stopped short in the woodland aisle, through which the pale March sunshine sifted, and looked up at him for the first time.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"For a walk," replied Mr. Stanford, "and a talk. You are not afraid, I hope?"

"Afraid?" said Rose, the colour flushing her face. "Of what should I be afraid?"

"Of me!"

"And why should I be afraid of you?"

"Perhaps because I may make love to you? Are you?"

"No."

"Come on, then."

He offered his arm, and Rose put her gloved fingers gingerly in his coat-sleeve, her heart fluttering more than ever.

"You are going to be married," he said, "and I have had no opportunity of offering my congratulations. Permit me to do it now."

"Thank you."

"Your M. La Touche is a pleasant little fellow, Rose. You and he have my best wishes for your future happiness."

"The 'pleasant little fellow' and myself are exceedingly obliged to you!" her eyes flashing; "and now, Mr. Stanford, if you have said all you have to say, suppose we go back?"

"But I have not said all I have to say, nor half. I want to know why you are going to marry him?"

"And I want to know," retorted Rose, "what business it is of yours?"

"Be civil Rose! I told you once before, if you recollect, that I was very fond of you. Being fond of you, it is natural I should take an interest in your welfare. What are you going to marry him for?"

"For love!" said Rose, spitefully.

"I don't believe it! Excuse me for contradicting you, my dear Rose; but I don't believe it. He is a good-looking lamb-like little fellow, and he is worth forty thousand pounds; but I don't believe it!"

"Don't believe it, then. What you believe, or what you disbelieve, is a matter of perfect indifference to me," said Rose, looking straight before her with compressed lips.

"I don't believe that, either. What is the use of saying such things to me?"

"Mr. Stanford, do you mean to insult me?" demanded Rose furiously. "Let me go this instant. Fetch me back to the rest. Oh, if papa were here, you wouldn't dare to talk to me like that. Reginald Stanford, let me go. I hate you!"

For Mr. Stanford had put his arm around her waist, and was looking down at her with those darkly daring eyes. What could Rose do?—silly, love-sick Rose. She didn't hate him, and she broke out into a perfect passion of sobs.

"Sit down, Rose," he said, very gently, leading her to a mossy knoll under a tree; "and, my darling, don't cry. You will redden your eyes, and swell your nose, and won't look pretty. Don't cry any more!"

If Mr. Stanford had been trying for a week, he could have used no more convincing argument.

Rose wiped her eyes gracefully; but wouldn't look at him.

"That's a good girl!" said Stanford. "I will agree to everything rather than offend you. You love M. La Touche, and you hate me. Will that do?"

"Let us go back," said Rose, stiffly, getting up. "I don't see what you mean by such talk. I know it is wrong and insulting."

"Do you feel insulted?" he asked, smiling down at her.

"Let me alone!" cried Rose, the passionate tears starting to her eyes again. "Let me alone, I tell you! You have no business to torment me like this!"

He caught her suddenly in his arms, and kissed her again and again.

"Rose! Rose! my darling! you love me, don't you? My dear little Rose, I can't let you marry Jules La Touche, or any one else."

He released her just in time.

"Rose! Rose!" Kate's clear voice was calling somewhere near.

"Here we are," returned Stanford, in answer, for Rose was speechless; and two minutes later they were face to face with Miss Danton and M. La Touche.

Mr. Stanford's face was clear as the blue March sky, but Rose looked as flushed and guilty as she felt. She shrank from looking at her sister or lover, and clung involuntarily to Reginald's arm.

"Have you been plotting to murder any one?" asked Kate. "You look like it."

"We have been flirting," said Mr. Stanford, with the most perfect composure. "You don't mind, do you? M. La Touche, I resign in your favour. Come, Kate."

Rose and Reginald did not exchange another word all day. Rose was very subdued, very still. She hardly opened her lips all the afternoon to the unlucky Jules. She hardly opened them at dinner, except to admit the edibles, and she was unnaturally quiet all the evening. She retired into a corner with some crochet-work, and declined conversation and coffee alike, until bedtime. She went slowly and decorously upstairs, with that indescribable subdued face, and bade everybody good-night without looking at them.

Eeny, who shared Grace's room, sat on a stool before the bedroom fire a long time that night, looking dreamily into the glowing coals.

Grace, sitting beside her, combing out her own long hair, watched her in silence.

Presently Eeny looked up.

"How odd it seems to think of her being married."

"Who?"

"Rose. It seems queer, somehow. I don't mind Kate. I heard before ever she came here that she was going to be married; but Rose—I can't realize it."

"I have known it this long time," said Grace. "She told me the day she returned from Ottawa. I am glad she is going to do so well."

"I like him very much," said Eeny; "but he seems too quiet for Rose. Don't he?"

"People like to marry their own opposite," answered Grace. "Not that but Rose is getting remarkably quiet herself. She hadn't a word to say all the evening."

"It will be very lonely when June comes, won't it, Grace?" said Eeny, with a little sigh. "Kate will go to England, Rose to Ottawa, your brother is going to Montreal, and perhaps papa will take his ship again, and there will be no one but you and I, Grace."

Grace stooped down and kissed the delicate, thoughtful young face.

"My dear little Eeny, papa is not going away."

"Isn't he? How do you know?"

"That is a secret," laughing and colouring. "If you won't mention it, I will tell you."

"I won't. What is it?"

Grace stooped and whispered, her falling hair hiding her face.

Eeny sprang up and clasped her hands.

"Oh, Grace!"

"Are you sorry, Eeny?"

Eeny's arms were around her neck. Eeny's lips were kissing her delightedly.

"I am so glad! Oh, Grace, you will never go away any more!"

"Never, my pet. And now, don't let us talk any longer; it is time to go to bed."

Rather to Eeny's surprise, there was no revelation made next morning of the new state of affairs. When she gave her father his good-morning kiss, she only whispered in his ear:

"I am so glad, papa."

And the Captain had smiled, and patted her pale cheek, and sat down to breakfast, talking genially right and left.

After breakfast, Doctor Frank, Mr. Stanford, and M. La Touche, with the big dog Tiger at their heels, and guns over their shoulders, departed for a morning's shooting. Captain Danton went to spend an hour with Mr. Richards. Rose secluded herself with a book in her room, and Kate was left alone. She tried to play, but she was restless that morning, and gave it up. She tried to read. The book failed to interest her. She walked to the window, and looked out at the sunshine glittering on the melting snow.

"I will go for a walk," she thought, "and visit some of my poor people in the village."

She ran up stairs for her hat and shawl, and sallied forth. Her poor people in the village were always glad to see the beautiful girl who emptied her purse so bountifully for them, and spoke to them so sweetly. She visited half-a-dozen of her pensioners, leaving pleasant words and silver shillings behind her, and then walked on to the Church of St. Croix. The presbytery stood beside it, surrounded by a trim garden with gravelled paths. Kate opened the garden gate, and walked up to where Father Francis stood in the open doorway.

"I have come to see you," she said, "since you won't come to see us. Have you forgotten your friends at Danton Hall? You have not been up for a week."

"Too busy," said Father Francis; "the Curé is in Montreal, and all devolves upon me. Come in."

She followed him into the little parlour, and sat down by the open window.

"And what's the news from Danton Hall?"

"Nothing! Oh!" said Kate, blushing and smiling, "except another wedding!"

"Another! Two more weddings, you mean?"

"No!" said Kate, surprised: "only one. Rose, you know, father, to M. La. Touche!"

Father Francis looked at her a moment smilingly. "They haven't told you, then?"

"What?"

"That your father is going to be married!"

Her heart stood still; the room seemed to swim around in the suddenness of the shock.

"Father Francis!"

"You have not been told? Are you surprised? I have been expecting as much as this for some time."

"You are jesting, Father Francis," she said, finding voice, which for a moment had failed her; "it cannot be true!"

"It is quite true. I saw your father yesterday, and he told me himself."

"And to whom—?"

She tried to finish the sentence, but her rebellious tongue would not.

"To Grace! I am surprised that your father has not told you. If I had dreamed it was in the slightest degree a secret, I certainly would not have spoken." She did not answer.

He glanced at her, and saw that her cheeks and lips had turned ashen white, as she gazed steadfastly out of the window.

"My child," said the priest, "you do not speak. You are not disappointed—you are not grieved?"

She arose to go, still pale with the great and sudden surprise.

"You have given me a great shock in telling me this. I never dreamed of another taking my dear dead mother's place. I am very selfish and unreasonable, I dare say; but I thought papa would have been satisfied to make my home his. I have loved my father very much, and I cannot get used to the idea all in a moment of another taking my place."

She walked to the door. Father Francis followed her.

"One word," he said. "It is in your power, and in your power alone, to make your father seriously unhappy. You have no right to do that; he has been the most indulgent of parents to you. Remember that now—remember how he has never grieved you, and do not grieve him. Can I trust you to do this?"

"You can trust me," said Kate, a little softened. "Good morning."

She walked straight home, her heart all in a rebellious tumult. From the first she had never taken very kindly to Grace; but just now she felt as if she positively hated her.