"How dare she marry him!" she thought, the angry blood hot in her cheeks. "How dare she twine herself, with her quiet, Quakerish ways, into his heart! He is twice her age, and it is only to be mistress where she is servant now that she marries him. Oh, how could papa think of such a thing?"
She found Rose in the drawing-room when she arrived, listening to Eeny with wide-open eyes of wonder. The moment Kate entered, she sprang up, in a high state of excitement.
"Have you heard the news, Kate? Oh, goodness, gracious me! What is the world coming to! Papa is going to be married!"
"I know it," said Kate coldly.
"Who told you? Eeny's just been telling me, and Grace told her last night. It's to Grace! Did you ever! Just fancy calling Grace mamma!"
"I shall never call her anything of the sort."
"You don't like it, then? I told Eeny you wouldn't like it. What are you going to say to papa?"
"Nothing."
"No? Why don't you remonstrate! Tell him he's old enough and big enough to have better sense."
"I shall tell him nothing of the sort; and I beg you will not, either. Papa certainly has the right to do as he pleases. Whether we like it or not, doesn't matter much; Grace Danton will more than supply our places."
She spoke bitterly, and turned to go up to her own room. With her hand on the door, she paused, and looked at Eeny.
"You are pleased, no doubt, Eeny?"
"Yes, I am," replied Eeny, stoutly. "Grace has always been like a mother to me: I am glad she is going to be my mother in reality."
"It is a fortunate thing you do," said Rose, "for you are the only one who will have to put up with her. Thank goodness! I'm going to be married."
"Thank goodness!" repeated Eeny; "there will be peace in the house when you're out of it. I don't know any one I pity half so much as that poor M. La Touche."
Kate saw Rose's angry retort in her eyes, and hurried away from the coming storm. She kept her room until luncheon-time, and she found her father alone in the dining-room when she entered. The anxious look he gave her made her think of Father Francis' words.
"I have heard all, papa," she said, smiling, and holding up her cheek. "I am glad you will be happy when we are gone."
He drew a long breath of relief as he kissed her.
"Father Francis told you? You like Grace?"
"I want to like every one you like, papa," she replied, evasively.
Grace came in as she spoke, and, in spite of herself, Kate's face took that cold, proud look it often wore; but she went up to her with outstretched hand. She never shrank from disagreeable duties.
"Accept my congratulations," she said, frigidly. "I trust you will be happy."
Two deep red spots, very foreign to her usual complexion, burned in Grace's cheeks. Her only answer was a bow, as she took her seat at the table.
It was a most comfortless repast. There was a stiffness, a restraint over all, that would not be shaken off—with one exception. Rose, who latterly had been all in the downs, took heart of grace amid the general gloom, and rattled away like the Rose of other days. To her the idea of her father's marriage was rather a good joke than otherwise. She had no deep feelings to be wounded, no tender memories to be hurt, and the universal embarrassment tickled her considerably.
"You ought to have heard everybody talking on stilts, Reginald," she said, in the flow of her returned spirits, some hours later, when the gentlemen returned. "Kate was on her dignity, you know, and as unapproachable as a princess-royal, and Grace was looking disconcerted and embarrassed, and papa was trying to be preternaturally cheerful and easy, and Eeny was fidgety and scared, and I was enjoying the fun. Did you ever hear of anything so droll as papa's getting married?"
"I never heard of anything more sensible," said Reginald, resolutely. "Grace is the queen of housekeepers, and will make the pink and pattern of matrons. I have foreseen this for some time, and I assure you I am delighted."
"So is Kate," said Rose, her eyes twinkling. "You ought to have seen her congratulating Grace. It was like the entrance of a blast of north wind, and froze us all stiff."
"I am glad June is so near," Kate said, leaning lightly on her lover's shoulder; "I could not stay here and know that she was mistress."
Mr. Stanford did not seem to hear; he was whistling to Tiger, lumbering on the lawn. When he did speak, it was without looking at her.
"I am going to Ottawa next week."
"To Ottawa! With M. La Touche?" asked Kate, while Rose's face flushed up.
"Yes; he wants me to go, and I have said yes. I shall stay until the end of April."
Kate looked at him a little wistfully, but said nothing. Rose turned suddenly, and ran upstairs.
"We shall miss you—I shall miss you," she said at last.
"It will not be for long," he answered, carelessly. "Come in and sing me a song."
The first pang of doubt that had ever crossed Kate's mind of her handsome lover, crossed it now, as she followed him into the drawing-room.
"How careless he is!" she thought; "how willing to leave me! And I—could I be contented anywhere in the world where he was not?"
By some mysterious chance, the song she selected was Eeny's "smile again, my dearest love; weep not that I leave thee."
Stanford listened to it, his sunny face overcast.
"Why did you sing that?" he asked abruptly, when she had done.
"Don't you like it?"
"No; I don't like cynicism set to music. Here is a French chansonnette—sing me that."
Kate sang for him song after song. The momentary pain the announcement of his departure had given her wore away.
"It is natural he should like change," she thought, "and it is dull here. I am glad he is going to Ottawa, and yet I shall miss him. Dear Reginald! What would life be worth without you?"
The period of M. La Touche's stay was rapidly drawing to a close. March was at its end, too—it was the last night of the month. The eve of departure was celebrated at Danton Hall by a social party. The elder Misses Danton on that occasion were as lovely and as much admired as ever, and Messrs. Stanford and La Touche were envied by more than one gentleman present. Grace's engagement to the Captain had got wind, and she shared the interest with her step-daughters-elect.
Early next morning the two young men left. There was breakfast almost before it was light, and everybody got up to see them off. It was a most depressing morning. March had gone out like an idiotic lamb, and April came in in sapping rain and enervating mist. Ceaselessly the rain beat against the window-glass, and the wind had a desolate echo that sounded far more like winter than spring.
Pale, in the dismal morning-light, Kate and Rose Danton bade their lovers adieu, and watched them drive down the dripping avenue and disappear.
An hour before he had come down stairs that morning, Mr. Stanford had written a letter. It was very short:
"Dear Old Boy:—I'm off. In an hour I shall be on my way to Ottawa, and from thence I will write you next. Do you know why I am going? I am running away from myself! 'Lead us not into temptation;' and Satan seems to have me hard and fast at Danton Hall. Lauderdale, in spite of your bad opinion of me, I don't want to be a villain if I can help it. I don't want to do any harm; I do want to be true! And here it is impossible. I have got intoxicated with flowing curls, and flashing dark eyes, and all the pretty, bewitching, foolish, irresistible ways of that piquant little beauty, whom I have no business under heaven to think of. I know she is silly, and frivolous, and coquettish, and vain; but I love her! There, the murder is out, and I feel better after it. But, withal, I want to be faithful to the girl who loves me (ah! wretch that I am!), and so I fly. A month out of sight of that sweet face—a month out of hearing of that gay, young voice—a month shooting, and riding, and exploring these Canadian wilds, will do me good, and bring me back a new man. At least, I hope so; and don't you set me down as a villain for the next four weeks, at least."
The day of departure was miserably long and dull at the Hall. It rained ceaselessly, and that made it worse. Rose never left her room; her plea was headache. Kate wandered drearily up stairs and down stairs, and felt desolate and forsaken beyond all precedent.
There was a strange, forlorn stillness about the house, as if some one lay dead in it; and from morning to night the wind never ceased its melancholy complaining.
Of course this abnormal state of things could not last. Sunshine came next day, and the young ladies were themselves again. The preparations for the treble wedding must begin in earnest now—shopping, dressmakers, milliners, jewellers, all had to be seen after. A journey to Montreal must be taken immediately, and business commenced. Kate held a long consultation with Rose in her boudoir; but Rose, marvellous to tell, took very little interest in the subject. She, who all her life made dress the great concern of her existence, all at once, in this most important crisis, grew indifferent.
She accompanied Kate to Montreal, however, and helped in the selection of laces, and silks, and flowers, and ribbons; and another dressmaker was hunted up and carried back.
It was a busy time after that; the needles of Agnes Darling, Eunice, and the new dressmaker flew from morning until night. Grace lent her assistance, and Kate was always occupied superintending, and being fitted and refitted, and had no time to think how lonely the house was, or how much she missed Reginald Stanford. She was happy beyond the power of words to describe; the time was near when they would never part again—when she would be his—his happy, happy wife.
It was all different with Rose; she had changed in a most unaccountable manner. All her movements were languid and listless, she who had been wont to keep the house astir; she took no interest in the bridal dresses and jewellery; she shrank from every one, and wanted to be alone. She grew pale, and thin, and hysterical, and so petulant that it was a risk to speak to her. What was the matter?—every one asked that question, and Grace and Grace's brother were the only two who guessed within a mile of the truth.
And so April wore away. Time, that goes on forever—steadily, steadily, for the happy and the miserable—was bringing the fated time near. The snow had fled, the new grass and fresh buds were green on the lawn and trees, and the birds sang their glorias in the branches so lately tossed by the wintry winds.
Doctor Danton was still at St. Croix, but he was going away, too. He had had an interview with Agnes Darling, whose hopes were on the ebb; and once more had tried to engraft his own bright, sanguine nature on hers.
"Never give up, Agnes," he said, cheerily. "Patience, patience yet a little longer. I shall return for my sister's wedding, and I think it will be all right then."
Agnes listened and sighed wearily. The ghost of Danton Hall had been very well behaved of late, and had frightened no one. The initiated knew that Mr. Richards was not very well, and that the night air was considered unhealthy, so he never left his rooms. The tamarack walk was undisturbed in the lonely April nights—at least by all save Doctor Frank, who sometimes chose to haunt the place, but who never saw anything for his pains.
May came—with it came Mr. Stanford, looking sunburned, and fresh, and handsomer than ever. As on the evening of his departure from the Hall, so on the eve of his departure from Ottawa, he had written to that confidential friend:
"Dear Lauderdale.—The month of probation has expired. To-morrow I return to Danton Hall. Whatever happens, I have done my best. If fate is arbitrary, am I to blame? Look for me in June, and be ready to pay your respects to Mrs. Stanford."
CHAPTER XV.
ONE OF EARTH'S ANGELS.
Mr. Stanford's visit to Ottawa had changed him somehow, it seemed to Kate. The eyes that love us are sharp; the heart that sets us up for its idol is quick to feel every variation. Reginald was changed—vaguely, almost indefinably, but certainly changed. He was more silent than of old, and had got a habit of falling into long brown studies in the midst of the most interesting conversation. He took almost as little interest in the bridal paraphernalia as Rose, and sauntered lazily about the grounds, or lay on the tender new grass under the trees smoking endless cigars, and looking dreamily up at the endless patches of bright blue sky, and thinking, thinking—of what?
Kate saw it, felt it, and was uneasy. Grace saw it, too; for Grace had her suspicions of that fascinating young officer, and watched him closely. They were not very good friends somehow, Grace and Kate Danton; a sort of armed neutrality existed between them, and had ever since Kate had heard of her father's approaching marriage. She had never liked Grace much—she liked her less than ever now. She was marrying her father from the basest and most mercenary motives, and Kate despised her, and was frigidly civil and polite whenever she met her. She took it very quietly, this calm Grace, as she took all things, and was respectful to Miss Danton, as became Miss Danton's father's housekeeper.
"Don't you think Mr. Stanford has altered somehow, Frank, since he went to Ottawa?" she said one day to her brother, as they sat alone together by the dining-room window.
Doctor Danton looked out. Mr. Stanford was sauntering down the avenue, a fishing-rod over his shoulder, and his bride-elect on his arm.
"Altered! How?"
"I don't know how," said Grace, "but he has altered. There is something changed about him; I don't know what. I don't think he is settled in his mind."
"My dear Grace, what are you talking about? Not settled in his mind! A man who is about to marry the handsomest girl in North America?"
"I don't care for that. I wouldn't trust Mr. Reginald Stanford as far as I could see him."
"You wouldn't? But then you are an oddity, Grace. What do you suspect him of?"
"Never mind; my suspicions are my own. One thing I am certain of—he is no more worthy to marry Kate Danton than I am to marry a prince."
"Nonsense! He is as handsome as Apollo, he sings, he dances, and talks divinely. Are you not a little severe, Grace?"
Grace closed her lips.
"We won't talk about it. What do you suppose is the matter with Rose?"
"I wasn't aware there was anything the matter. An excess of happiness, probably; girls like to be married, you know, Grace."
"Fiddlestick! She has grown thin; she mopes in her room all day long, and hasn't a word for anyone—she who used to be the veriest chatterbox alive."
"All very naturally accounted for, my dear. M. La Touche is absent—doubtless she is pining for him."
"Just about as much as I am. I tell you, Frank, I hope things will go right next June, but I don't believe it. Hush! here is Miss Danton."
Miss Danton opened the door, and, seeing who were there, bowed coldly, and retired again. Unjustly enough, the brother came in for part of the aversion she felt for the sister.
Meantime Mr. Stanford sauntered along the village with his fishing-rod, nodding good-humouredly right and left. Short as had been his stay at Danton Hall, he was very well known in the village, and had won golden opinions from all sorts of people. From the black-eyed girls who fell in love with his handsome face, to the urchins rolling in the mud, and to whom he flung handfuls of pennies. The world and Mr. Stanford went remarkably well with each other, and whistling all the way, he reached his destination in half an hour—a clear, silvery stream, shadowed by waving trees and famous in fishing annals. He flung himself down on the turfy sward, lit a cigar, and began smoking and staring reflectively at vacancy.
The afternoon was lovely, warm as June, the sky was cloudless, and the sunlight glittered in golden ripples on the stream. All things were favourable; but Mr. Stanford was evidently not a very enthusiastic disciple of Isaac Walton; for his cigar was smoked out, the stump thrown away, and his fishing-rod lay unused still. He took it up at last and dropped it scientifically in the water.
"It's a bad business," he mused, "and hanging, drawing, and quartering would be too good for me. But what the dickens is a fellow to do? And then she is so fond of me, too—poor little girl!"
He laid the fishing-rod down again, drew from an inner pocket a note-book and pencil. From between the leaves he drew out a sheet of pink-tinted, gilt-edged note paper, and, using the note-book for a desk, began to write. It was a letter, evidently; and after he wrote the first line, he paused, and looked at it with an odd smile. The line was, "Angel of my Dreams."
"I think she will like the style of that," he mused; "it's Frenchified and sentimental, and she rather affects that sort of thing. Poor child! I don't see how I ever got to be so fond of her."
Mr. Stanford went on with his letter. It was in French, and he wrote very slowly and thoughtfully. He filled the four sides, ending with "Wholly thine, Reginald Stanford." Carefully he re-read, made some erasures, folded, and put it in an envelope. As he sealed the envelope, a big dog came bounding down the bank, and poked its cold, black nose inquisitively in his face.
"Ah! Tiger, mein Herr, how are you? Where is your master?"
"Here," said Doctor Frank. "Don't let me intrude. Write the address, by all means."
"As if I would put you au fait of my love letters," said Mr. Stanford, coolly putting the letter in his note-book, and the note-book in his pocket. "I thought you were off to-day?"
"No, to-morrow. I must be up and doing now; I am about tired of St. Croix and nothing to do."
"Are you ever coming back!"
"Certainly. I shall come back on the fourth of June, Heaven willing, to see you made the happiest man in creation."
"Have a cigar?" said Mr. Stanford, presenting his cigar-case. "I can recommend them. You would be the happiest man in creation in my place, wouldn't you?"
"Most decidedly. But I wasn't born, like some men I know of, with a silver spoon in my mouth. Beautiful wives drop into some men's arms, ripe and ready, but I am not one of them."
"Oh, don't despond! Your turn may come yet!"
"I don't despond—I leave that to—but comparisons are odious."
"Go on."
"To Miss Rose Danton. She is pining on the stem, at the near approach of matrimony, and growing as pale as spirit. What is the matter with her?"
"You ought to know best. You're a doctor."
"But love-sickness; I don't believe there is anything in the whole range of physic to cure that. What's this—a fishing-rod?"
"Yes," said Mr. Stanford, taking a more comfortable position on the grass. "I thought I would try my luck this fine afternoon, but somehow I don't seem to progress very fast."
"I should think not, indeed. Let me see what I can do."
Reginald watched him lazily, as he dropped the line into the placid water.
"What do you think about it yourself?" he asked, after a pause.
"About what?"
"This new alliance on the tapis. He's a very nice little fellow, I have no doubt; but if I were a pretty girl, I don't think I should like nice little fellows. He is just the last sort of a man in the world I could fancy our bright Rose marrying."
"Of course he is! It's a failing of the sex to marry the very last man their friends would expect. But are you quite sure in this case; no April day was ever more changeable than Rose Danton."
"I don't know what you mean. They'll be married to a dead certainty."
"What will you bet on the event?"
"I'm not rich enough to bet; but if I were, it wouldn't be honourable, you know."
Doctor Frank gave him a queer look, as he hooked a fish out of the water.
"Oh, if it becomes a question of honour, I have no more to say. Do you see this fellow wriggling on my hook?"
"Yes."
"Well, when this fish swims again, Rose Danton will be Mrs. La Touche, and you know it."
He said the last words so significantly, and with such a look, that all the blood of all the Stanfords rushed red to Reginald's face.
"The deuce take your inuendoes!" he exclaimed. "What do you mean?"
"Don't ask me," said Doctor Frank. "I hate to tell a lie: and I won't say what I suspect. Suppose we change the subject. Where is Sir Ronald Keith?"
"In New Brunswick, doing the wild-woods and shooting bears. Poor wretch! With all his eight thousand a year, and that paradise in Scotland, Glen Keith, I don't envy him. I never saw anyone so hopelessly hard hit as he."
"You're a fortunate fellow, Stanford; but I doubt if you know it. Sir Ronald would be a far happier man in your place."
The face of the young Englishman darkened suddenly.
"Perhaps there is such a thing as being too fortunate, and getting satiated. I wish I could be steadfast, and firm, and faithful forever to one thing, like some men, but I can't. Sir Ronald's one of that kind, and so are you, Danton; but I—"
He threw his cigar into the water, and left the sentence unfinished. There was a long silence. Doctor Frank fished away as if his life depended on it; and Stanford lay and watched him, and thought—who knows what?
The May afternoon wore on, the slanting lines of the red sunset flamed in the tree-tops, and shed its reflected glory on the placid water. The hum of evening bustle came up from the village drowsily; and Doctor Danton, laying down his line, looked at his watch.
"Are you asleep, Stanford? Do you know it is six o'clock?"
"By George!" said Reginald, starting up. "I had no idea it was so late. Are you for the Hall?"
"Of course. Don't I deserve my dinner in return for this string of silvery fish? Come along."
The two young men walked leisurely and rather silently homeward. As they entered the gates, they caught sight of a young lady advancing slowly towards them—a young lady dressed in pale pink, with ribbons fluttering and curls flowing.
"The first rose of summer!" said Doctor Frank. "The future Madame La Touche!"
"Have you come to meet us, Rose?" asked Stanford. "Very polite of you."
"I won't be de trop," said the Doctor; "I'll go on."
Rose turned with Reginald, and Doctor Danton walked away, leaving them to follow at their leisure.
In the entrance Hall he met Kate, stately and beautiful, dressed in rustling silk, and with flowers in her golden hair.
"Have you seen Mr. Stanford?" she asked, glancing askance at the fish.
"Yes; he is in the grounds with Rose."
She smiled, and went past. Doctor Frank looked after her with a glance of unmistakable admiration.
"Blind! blind! blind!" he thought. "What fools men are! Only children of a larger growth, throwing away gold for the pitiful glistening of tinsel."
Kate caught a glimpse of a pink skirt, fluttering in and out among the trees, and made for it. Her light step on the sward gave back no echo. How earnestly Reginald was talking—how consciously Rose was listening with downcast face! What was that he was giving her? A letter! Surely not; and yet how much it looked like it. Another moment, and she was beside them, and Rose had started away from Reginald's side, her face crimson. If ever guilt's red banner hung on any countenance, it did on hers; and Kate's eyes wandered wonderingly from one to the other. Mr. Stanford was as placid as the serene sunset sky above them. Like Talleyrand, if he had been kicked from behind, his face would never have shown it.
"I thought you were away fishing," said Kate. "Was Rose with you?"
"I was not so blessed. I had only Doctor Frank—Oh, don't be in a hurry to leave us; it is not dinner-time yet."
This last to Rose, who was edging off, still the picture of confusion, and one hand clutching something white, hidden in the folds of her dress. With a confused apology, she turned suddenly, and disappeared among the trees. Kate fixed her large, deep eyes suspiciously on her lover's laughing face.
"Well?" she said, inquiringly.
"Well?" he repeated, mimicking her tone.
"What is the meaning of all this?"
Stanford laughed carelessly, and drew her hand within his arm.
"It means, my dear, that pretty sister of yours is a goose! I paid her a compliment, and she blushed after it, at sight of you, as if I had been talking love to her. Come, let us have a walk before dinner."
"I thought I saw you give her something? Was it a letter?"
Not a muscle of his face moved; not a shadow of change was in his tone, as he answered:
"A letter! Of course not. You heard her the other day ask me for that old English song that I sang? I wrote it out this afternoon, and gave it to her. Are you jealous, Kate?"
"Dreadfully! Don't you go paying compliments to Rose, sir; reserve them for me. Come down the tamarack walk."
Leaning fondly on his arm, Kate walked with her lover up and down the green avenue until the dinner-bell summoned them in.
And all the time, Rose, up in her own room, was reading, with flushed cheeks and glistening eyes, that letter written by the brook-side, beginning, "Angel of my Dreams."
When the family assembled at dinner, it was found that Rose was absent. A servant sent in search of her returned with word that Miss Rose had a headache, and begged they would excuse her.
Kate went up to her room immediately after dinner. But found it locked. She rapped, and called, but there was no sign, and no response from within.
"She is asleep," thought Kate; and went down again.
She tried again, some hours later, on her way to her own room, but still was unable to obtain entrance or answer. If she could only have seen her, sitting by the window reading and re-reading that letter in French, beginning "Angel of my Dreams."
Rose came down to breakfast next morning quite well again. The morning's post had brought her a letter from Quebec, and she read it as she sipped her coffee.
"Is it from Virginie Leblanc?" asked Eeny. "She is your only correspondent in Quebec."
Rose nodded and went on reading.
"What does she want?" Eeny persisted.
"She wants me to pay her a visit," said Rose, folding up her letter.
"And of course you won't go?"
"No—yes—I don't know."
She spoke absently, crumbling the roll on her plate, and not eating. She lingered in the room after breakfast, when all the rest had left it, looking out of the window. She was still there when, half an hour later, Grace came in to sew; but not alone. Mr. Stanford was standing beside her, and Grace caught his last low words:
"It is the most fortunate thing that could have happened. Don't lose any time."
He saw Grace and stopped, spoke to her, and sauntered out of the room. Rose did not turn from the window for fully ten minutes. When she did, it was to ask where her father was.
"In his study."
She left the room and went to the study. Captain Danton looked up from his writing, at her entrance, in some surprise.
"Don't choke me, my dear, what is it?"
"Papa, may I go to Quebec?"
"Quebec? My dear, how can you go?"
"Very easily, papa. Virginie wants me to go, and I should like to see her. I won't stay there long."
"But all your wedding finery, Rose—how is it to be made if you go away?"
"It is nearly all made, papa; and for what remains they can get along just as well without me. Papa, say yes. I want to go dreadfully; and I will only stay a week or so. Do say yes, there's a darling papa!"
"Well, my dear, go, if you wish; but don't forget to come back in time. It will never do for M. La Touche to come here the fourth of June and find his bride missing."
"I won't stay in Quebec until June, papa," said Rose, kissing him and running out of the room. He called after her as she was shutting the door:
"Doctor Frank goes to Montreal this afternoon. If you are ready, you might go with him."
"Yes, papa; I'll be ready."
Rose set to work packing at once, declining all assistance. She filled her trunk with all her favourite dresses; stowed away all her jewellery—taking a very unnecessary amount of luggage, one would think, for a week's visit.
Every one was surprised, at luncheon, when Rose's departure was announced. None more so than Mr. Stanford.
"It is just like Rose!" exclaimed Eeny; "she is everything by starts, and nothing long. Flying off to Quebec for a week, just as she is going to be married, with half her dresses unmade. It's absurd."
The afternoon train for Montreal passed through St. Croix at three o'clock. Kate and Reginald drove to the station with her, and saw her safely seated beside Doctor Frank. Her veil of drab gauze was down over her face, flushed and excited; and she kissed her sister good-bye without lifting it. Reginald Stanford shook hands with her—a long, warm, lingering clasp—and flashed a bright, electric glance that thrilled to her inmost heart. An instant later, and the train was in motion, and Rose was gone.
The morning of the third day after brought a note from Quebec. Rose had arrived safely, and the Leblanc family were delighted to see her. That was all.
That evening, Mr. Stanford made the announcement that he was to depart for Montreal next morning. It was to Kate, of course. She had strolled down to the gate to meet him, in the red light of the sunset, as he came home from a day's gunning. He had taken, of late, to being absent a great deal, fishing and shooting; and those last three days he had been away from breakfast until dinner.
"Going to Montreal?" repeated Kate. "What for?"
"To see a friend of mine—Major Forsyth. He has come over lately, with his wife, and I have just heard of it. Besides, I have a few purchases to make."
He was switching the tremulous spring flowers along the path with his cane, and not looking at her as he spoke.
"How long shall you be gone?"
He laughed.
"Montreal has no charms for me, you know," he replied; "I shall not remain there long, probably not over a week."
"The house will be lonely when you are gone—now that Rose is away."
She sighed a little, saying it. Somehow, a vague feeling of uneasiness had disturbed her of late—something wanting in Reginald—something she could not define, which used to be there and was gone. She did not like this readiness of his to leave her on all occasions. She loved him with such a devoted and entire love, that the shortest parting was to her acutest pain.
"Are you coming in?" he asked, seeing her linger under the trees.
"Not yet; the evening is too fine."
"Then I must leave you. It will hardly be the thing, I suppose, to go to dinner in this shooting-jacket."
He entered the house and ran up to his room. The dinner-bell was ringing before he finished dressing; but when he descended, Kate was still lingering out of doors. He stood by the window watching her, as she came slowly up the lawn. The yellow glory of the sunset made an aureole round her tinseled hair; her slender figure robed in shimmering silk; her motion floating and light. He remembered that picture long afterwards: that Canada landscape, that blue silvery mist filling the air, and the tall, graceful girl, coming slowly homeward, with the fading yellow light in her golden hair.
After dinner, when the moon rose—a crystal-white crescent—they all left the drawing-room for the small hall and portico. Kate, a white shawl on her shoulders, sat on the stone step, and sang, softly, "The Young May Moon;" Mr. Stanford leaned lightly against one of the stone pillars, smoking a cigar, and looking up at the blue, far-off sky, his handsome face pale and still.
"Sing 'When the Swallows Homeward Fly,' Kate," her father said.
She sang the song, softly and a little sadly, with some dim foreshadowing of trouble weighing at her heart. They lingered there until the clock struck ten—Kate's songs and the moonlight charming the hours away. When they went into the house, and took their night-lamps, Stanford bade them good-bye.
"I shall probably be off before any of you open your eyes on this mortal life to-morrow morning," he said, "and so had better say good-bye now."
"You leave by the eight A. M. train, then," said the Captain. "It seems to me everybody is running off just when they ought to stay at home."
Stanford laughed, and shook hands with Grace and Kate—with one as warmly as with the other—and was gone. Kate's face looked pale and sad, as she went slowly upstairs with that dim foreshadowing still at her heart.
Breakfast was awaiting the traveller next morning at half-past seven, when he ran down stairs, ready for his journey. More than breakfast was waiting. Kate stood by the window, looking out drearily at the matinal sunlight.
"Up so early, Kate?" her lover said, with an expression of rapture. "Why did you take the trouble?"
"It was no trouble," Kate said, slowly, feeling cold and strange.
He sat down to table, but only drank a cup of coffee. As he arose, Captain Danton and Grace came in.
"We got up betimes to see you off," said the Captain. "A delightful morning for your journey. There is Sam with the gig now. Look sharp, Reginald; only fifteen minutes left."
Reginald snatched up his overcoat.
"Good-bye," he said, hurriedly shaking hands with the Captain, then with Grace. Kate, standing by the window, never turned round. He went up to her, very, very pale, as they all remembered afterward, holding out his hand.
"Good-bye, Kate."
The hand she gave him was icy cold, her face perfectly colourless. The cold fingers lingered around his for a moment; the deep, clear, violet eyes were fixed wistfully on his face. That was her only good-bye—she did not speak. In another moment he was out of the house; in another he was riding rapidly down the avenue; in another he was gone—and forever.
CHAPTER XVI.
EPISTOLARY.
[From Madame Leblanc to Captain Danton.]
Dear Sir:—I write to you in the utmost distress and confusion of mind. I hardly know how to break to you the news it is my painful duty to reveal, lest some blame should attach itself to me or mine, where I assure you none is deserved. Your daughter Rose has left us—run away; in fact, I believe, eloped. I have reason to think she was married yesterday; but to whom I have not yet discovered. I beg to assure you, Captain Danton, that neither I nor any one in my house had the remotest idea of her intention; and we are all in the greatest consternation since the discovery has been made. I would not for worlds such a thing had happened under my roof, and I earnestly trust you will not hold me to blame.
Six days ago, on the afternoon of the 11th, your daughter arrived here. We were all delighted to see her, Virginie in particular; for, hearing of her approaching marriage with M. La Touche, we were afraid she might not come. We all noticed a change in her—her manner different from what it used to be—a languor, an apathy to all things—a general listlessness that nothing could arouse her from. She, who used to be so full of life and spirits, was now the quietest in the house, and seemed to like nothing so well as being by herself and dreaming the hours away. On the evening of the third day this lassitude left her. She grew restless and nervous—almost feverishly so. Next morning this feverish restlessness grew worse. She refused to leave the house in the afternoon to accompany my daughter on a shopping expedition. Her plea was toothache, and Virginie went alone. The early afternoon post brought her what I believe she was waiting for—a letter. She ran up with it to her own room, which she did not leave until dusk. I was standing in the entrance-hall when she came down, dressed for a walk, and wearing a veil over her face. I asked her where she was going. She answered for a walk, it might help her toothache. An hour afterward Virginie returned. Her first question was for Rose. I informed her she was gone out.
"Then," exclaimed Virginie, "it must have been Rose that I met in the next street, walking with a gentleman. I thought the dress and figure were hers, but I could not see her face for a thick veil. The gentleman was tall and dark, and very handsome."
Half an hour later, Rose came back. We teased her a little about the gentleman; but she put it off quite indifferently, saying he was an acquaintance she had encountered in the street, and that she had promised to go with him next morning to call on a lady-friend of hers, a Mrs. Major Forsyth. We thought no more about it; and next morning, when the gentleman called in a carriage, Rose was quite ready, and went away with him. It was then about eleven o'clock, and she did not return until five in the afternoon. Her face was flushed, her manner excited, and she broke away from Virginie and ran up to her room. All the evening her manner was most unaccountably altered, her spirits extravagantly high, and colour like fever in her face. She and Virginie shared the same room, and when they went upstairs for the night, she would not go to bed.
"You can go," she said to Virginie; "I have a long letter to write, and you must not talk to me, dear."
Virginie went to bed. She is a very sound sleeper, and rarely wakes, when she lies down, until morning. She fell asleep, and never awoke all night. It was morning when she opened her eyes. She was alone. Rose was neither in the bed nor in the room.
Virginie thought nothing of it. She got up, dressed, came down to breakfast, expecting to find Rose before her. Rose was not before her—she was not in the house. We waited breakfast until ten, anxiously looking for her; but she never came. None of the servants had seen her, but that she had gone out very early was evident; for the house-door was unlocked and unbolted, when the kitchen-girl came down at six in the morning. We waited all the forenoon, but she never came. Our anxiety trebly increased when we made the discovery that she had taken her trunk with her. How she had got it out of the house was the profoundest mystery. We questioned the servants; but they all denied stoutly. Whether to believe them or not I cannot tell, but I doubt the housemaid.
The early afternoon post brought Virginie a note. I inclose it. It tells you all I can tell. I write immediately, distressed by what has occurred, more than I can say. I earnestly trust the poor child has not thrown herself away. I hope with all my heart it may not be so bad as at first sight if seems. Believe me my dear sir, truly sorry for what has occurred, and I trust you will acquit me of blame.
With the deepest sympathy, I remain,
Mathilde Leblanc.
[Miss Rose Danton to Mlle. Virginie Leblanc. Inclosed in the preceding.]
My Darling Virginie:—When you read this, we shall have parted—perhaps forever. My pet, I am married! To-day, when I drove away, it was not to call on Mrs. Major Forsyth, but be married. Oh, my dearest, dearest Virginie, I am so happy, so blessed—so—so—oh! I can't tell you of my unutterable joy! I am going away to-night, in half an hour. I shall kiss you good-bye as you sleep. In a day or two I leave Canada forever, to be happy, beyond the power of words to describe, in another land. Adieu, my pet. If we never meet, don't forget your happy, happy Rose.
[Miss Grace Danton to Doctor Frank Danton.]
My Dear Frank:—Do you recollect your last words to me as you left St. Croix: "Write to me, Grace. I think you will have news to send me before long." Had you, as I had, a presentment of what was to come? My worst forebodings are realized. Rose has eloped. Reginald Stanford is a villain. They are married. There are no positive proofs as yet, but I am morally certain of the fact. I have long suspected that he admired that frivolous Rose more than he had any right to do, but I hardly thought it would come to this. Heaven forgive them, and Heaven pity Kate, who loved them both so well! She knows nothing of the matter as yet. I dread the time when the truth will be revealed.
The morning of the 19th brought Captain Danton a letter from Quebec, in a strange hand. It came after breakfast, and I carried it myself into his study. I returned to the dining-room before he opened it, and sat down to work; but in about fifteen minutes the Captain came in, his face flushed, his manner more agitated and excited than I had ever seen it. "Read that," was all that he could say, thrusting the open letter into my hand. No wonder he was agitated. It was from Madam Leblanc, and contained the news that Rose had made a clandestine marriage, and was gone, no one knew where.
Inclosed there was a short and rapturous note from Rose herself, saying that she had been married that day, and was blessed beyond the power of words to describe, and was on the point of leaving Canada forever. She did not give her new name. She said nothing of her husband, but that she loved him passionately. There was but one name mentioned in the letter, that of a Mrs. Major Forsyth, whom she left home ostensibly to visit.
From the moment I read the letter, I had no doubt to whom she was married. Three days after Rose's departure for Quebec, Mr. Stanford left us for Montreal. He was only to be absent a week. The week has nearly expired, and there is no news of him. I knew instantly, as I have said, with whom Rose had run away; but as I looked up, I saw no shadow of a suspicion of the truth in Captain Danton's face.
"What does it mean?" he asked, with a bewildered look. "I can't understand it. Can you?"
There was no use in disguising the truth; sooner or later he must find it out.
"I think I can," I answered. "I believe Rose left here for the very purpose she has accomplished, and not to visit Virginie Leblanc."
"You believe that letter, then?"
"Yes: I fear it is too true."
"But, heavens above! What would she elope for? We were all willing she should marry La Touche."
"I don't think it is with M. La Touche," I said, reluctantly. "I wish it were. I am afraid it is worse than that."
He stood looking at me, waiting, too agitated to speak. I told him the worst at once.
"I am afraid it is with Reginald Stanford."
"Grace," he said, looking utterly confounded, "what do you mean?"
I made him sit down, and told him what perhaps I should have told him long ago, my suspicions of that young Englishman. I told him I was certain Rose had been his daily visitor during those three weeks' illness up the village; that she had been passionately in love with him from the first, and that he was a villain and a traitor. A thousand things, too slight to recapitulate, but all tending to the same end, convinced me of it. He was changeful by nature. Rose's pretty piquant beauty bewitched him; and this was the end.
"I hope I may be mistaken," I said; "for Kate's sake I hope so, for she loves him with a love of which he is totally unworthy; but, I confess, I doubt it."
I cannot describe to you the anger of Captain Danton, and I pray I may never witness the like again. When men like him, quiet and good-natured by habit, do get into a passion, the passion is terrible indeed.
"The villain!" he cried, through his clenched teeth. "The cruel villain! I'll shoot him like a dog!"
I was frightened. I quail even now at the recollection, and the dread of what may come. I tried to quiet him, but in vain; he shook me off like a child.
"Let me, alone, Grace!" he said, passionately. "I shall never rest until I have sent a bullet through his brain!"
It was then half-past eleven; the train for Montreal passed through St. Croix at twelve. Captain Danton went out, and ordered round his gig, in a tone that made the stable-boy stare. I followed him to his room, and found him putting his pistols in his coat-pocket. I asked him where he was going, almost afraid to speak to him, his face was so changed.
"To Montreal first," was his answer; "to look for that matchless scoundrel; afterwards to Quebec, to blow out his brains, and those of my shameful daughter!"
I begged, I entreated, I cried. It was all useless. He would not listen to me; but he grew quieter.
"Don't tell Kate," he said. "I won't see her; say I have gone upon business. If I find Stanford in Montreal, I will come back. Rose may go to perdition her own way. If I don't—" He paused, his face turning livid. "If I don't, I'll send you a despatch to say I have left for Quebec."
He ran down-stairs without saying good-bye, jumped into the gig, and drove off. I was so agitated that I dared not go down stairs when luncheon-hour came. Eeny came up immediately after, and asked me if I was ill. I pleaded a headache as an excuse for remaining in my room all day, for I dreaded meeting Kate. Those deep, clear eyes of hers seem to have a way of reading one's very thoughts, and seeing through all falsehoods. Eeny's next question was for her father. I said he had gone to Montreal on sudden business, and I did not know when he would return—probably soon.
She went down-stairs to tell Kate, and I kept my chamber till the afternoon. I went down to dinner, calm once more. It was unspeakably dull and dreary, we three alone, where a few days ago we were so many. No one came all evening, and the hours wore away, long, and lonely, and silent. We were all oppressed and dismal. I hardly dared to look at Kate, who sat playing softly in the dim piano-recess.
This morning brought me the dreaded despatch. Captain Danton had gone to Quebec; Mr. Stanford was not in Montreal.
I cannot describe to you how I passed yesterday. I never was so miserable in all my life. It went to my heart to see Kate so happy and busy with the dressmakers, giving orders about those wedding-garments she is never to wear. It was a day of unutterable wretchedness, and the evening was as dull and dreary as its predecessor. Father Francis came up for an hour, and his sharp eyes detected the trouble in my face. I would have told him if Kate had not been there; but it was impossible, and I had to prevaricate.
This morning has brought no news; the suspense is horrible. Heaven help Kate! I can write no more.