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

VIA CRUCIS.

So once more Miss Danton was "engaged;" once more preparations for a double wedding went on; once more her wedding day was named.

There was very little noise made about the matter this time. Father Francis and Doctor Danton were almost the only two outside the household who knew anything about it, and somehow these were the very two Kate herself wished most to keep it from.

She was ashamed of her mercenary marriage; in spite of herself she despised herself for it, and she felt they must despise her for it too. She shrank away guiltily under the clear steadfast, searching gaze of Father Francis, feeling how low she must have fallen in his estimation. She respected and esteemed the priest and the Doctor so much, that it was humiliating to lose their respect by her own voluntary act. But it was too late to draw back, even if she wished it; her fetters were forged—she was bound beyond recall.

Sir Ronald Keith had got the desire of his heart—Kate Danton was his promised wife, and yet he was not quite happy. Are we ever quite happy, I wonder, when we attain the end for which we have sighed and longed, perhaps for years? Our imagination is so very apt to paint that desire of our heart in rainbow-hues, and we are so very apt to find it, when it comes, only dull gray, after all.

Sir Ronald loved his beautiful and queenly affianced with a changeless devotion nothing could alter. He had thought her promise to marry him would satisfy him perfectly; but he had that promise, and he was not satisfied. He wanted something more—he wanted love in return, although he knew she did not love him; and he was dissatisfied. It is not exactly pleasant, perhaps, to find the woman you love and are about to marry as cold as an iceberg—to see her shrink at your approach, and avoid you on all possible occasions. It is rather hard, no doubt, to put up with the loose touch of cold fingers for your warmest caress, and heavy sighs in answer to your most loving speeches.

Sir Ronald had promised to be content without love; but he was not, and was huffish and offended, and savagely jealous of Reginald Stanford and all the hated past.

So the baronet's wooing was on the whole rather gloomy, and depressing to the spirits, even of the lookers-on; and Kate was failing away once more to a pale, listless shadow, and Sir Ronald was in a state of perpetual sulkiness.

But the bridal-cakes and bridal-dresses were making, and the December days were slipping by, one by one, bringing the fated time near. Miss Danton still zealously and unweariedly continued her mission of love. No weather kept her indoors, no pleadings of her future husband were strong enough to make her give up one visit for his pleasure or accommodation.

"Let me alone, Sir Ronald Keith," she would answer, wearily, and a little impatiently; "it will not be for long. Let me alone!"

The fever that had swept off so many was slowly dying out. The sick ones were not so bad or so many now, but that Miss Danton, with a safe conscience, might have given them up; but she would not. She never wanted to be alone—she who had been so fond of solitude such a short time ago. She was afraid of herself—afraid to think—afraid of that dim future that was drawing so very near. Every feeling of heart and soul revolted at the thought of that loveless marriage—the profanation of herself seemed more than she could bear.

"I shall turn desperate at the very altar!" she thought, with something like despair. "I can't marry him—I can't! It sets me wild to think of it. What a wretch I am! What a weak, miserable, cowardly wretch, not to be able to face the fate I have chosen for myself! I don't know what to do, and I have no one to consult—no one but Father Francis, and I am afraid to speak to him. I don't love him; I loathe the thought of marrying him; but it is too late to draw back. If one could only die, and end it all!"

Her arm lay across the window-sill; her head drooped and fell on it now, with a heavy sigh. She was unspeakably miserable, and lonely, and desolate; she was going to seal her misery for life by a loveless marriage, which her soul abhorred, and she had no power to draw back. She was like a rudderless ship, drifting without helm or compass among shoals and quicksands—drifting helplessly to ruin.

"If I dared only ask Father Francis, he would tell me what to do," she thought, despondingly; "he is so wise and good, and knows what is best for every one. He would tell me how to do what is right, and I want to do what is right if I can. But I have neglected, and avoided, and prevaricated with him so long that I have no right to trouble him now. And I know he would tell me I am doing wrong; I have read it in his face; and how can I do right?"

She sat thinking drearily, her face lying on her arm. It was the afternoon of the 14th—ten days more, and it would indeed, be too late. The nearer the marriage approached, the more abhorrent it grew. The waving trees of Glen-Keith cast inviting shadows no longer. It was all darkness and desolation. Sir Ronald's moody, angry face frightened and distressed her—it was natural, she supposed. She did not behave well, but he knew she did not care for him; she had told him so, honestly and plainly; and if he looked like that before marriage, how would he look after? She was unutterably wretched, poor child; and a remorseful conscience that would give her no rest did not add to her comfort.

She sat there for a long time, her face hidden on her arm, quite still. The short, wintry afternoon was wearing away; the cold, yellow sun hung low in the pale western sky, and the evening wind was sighing mournfully amid the trees when she rose up. She looked pale, but resolved; and she dressed herself for a walk, with a veil over her face, and slowly descended the stairs.

As she opened the house door, Sir Ronald came out of the drawing-room, not looking too well pleased at having been deserted all the afternoon.

"Are you going out?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Up the village."

"Always up the village!" he exclaimed, impatiently, "and always alone. May I not go with you? It is growing, late."

"There is no occasion," she replied, looking at him proudly. "I need no protector in St. Croix."

She opened the door and went out, and walked rapidly down the bleak avenue to the gates. The authoritative tone of the baronet stung her proud spirit to the quick.

"What right has he to talk to me like that?" she thought, angrily. "If I loved him, I would not endure it; I don't love him, and I won't endure it."

Her eyes flashed as she walked along, lightly and rapidly, holding her haughty head very erect. Greetings met her on every hand as she passed through the village. She never paused until she reached the church, and stood by the entrance gate of the little garden in front of the Curé's house. There she paused irresolute. How peaceful it was—what a holy hush seemed to linger round the place! All her courage left her, and she stood as timid and fluttering as any school-girl. While she hesitated, the door opened, and Father Francis stood looking at her.

"Come in, Miss Danton," he said. "You look as if you were almost afraid."

She opened the little gate and went up the path, looking strangely downcast and troubled. Father Francis held out his hand with a smile.

"I thought you would come to see me before you left Canada," he said, "although you seem to have rather forgotten your old friends of late. Come in."

"Are you alone?" Kate asked, following him into the little parlour.

"Quite alone. The Curé has gone two miles off on a sick call. And how are the good people of Danton Hall?"

"Very well," Kate answered, taking a seat by the window and looking out at the pale, yellow sunset.

"That is, except yourself, Miss Danton. You have grown thin within the last fortnight. What is the matter?"

"I am not very happy," she said, with a little tremor of the voice; "perhaps that is it."

"Not happy?" repeated Father Francis, with a short, peculiar laugh. "I thought when young ladies married baronets, the height of earthly felicity was attained. It seems rather sordid, this marrying for wealth and title. I hardly thought Kate Danton would do it; but it appears I have made a foolish mistake."

"Thank you," Kate said, very slowly. "I came here to ask you to be cruel to me—to tell me hard truths. You know how to be cruel very well, Father Francis."

"Why do you come to me for hard truths?" said the priest, rather coldly. "You have been deluding yourself all along; why don't you go on? What is the use of telling you the truth? You will do as you like in the end."

"Perhaps not. I have not fallen quite so low as you think. I dare say you despise me, but you can hardly despise me more than I despise myself."

"Then why walk on in the path that leads you downward? Why not stop before it is too late?"

"It is too late now!"

"Stuff and nonsense! That is more of your self-delusion. You, or rather that pride of yours, which has been the great stumbling-block of your life, leads you on in that self-delusion. Too late! It would not be too late if you were before the altar! Better stop now and endure the humiliation than render your own and this man's future life miserable. You will never be happy as Sir Ronald Keith's wife; he will never be happy as your husband. I know how you are trying to delude yourself; I know you are trying to believe you will love him and be happy by-and-by. Don't indulge such sophistry any longer; don't be led away by your own pride and folly."

"Pride and folly!" she echoed indignantly.

"Yes, I repeat it. Your heart, your conscience, must own the truth of what I say, if your lips will not. Would you ever have accepted Sir Ronald Keith if your father had not been about to marry Grace Danton?"

The sudden flush that overspread her face answered for her, though she did not speak. She sat looking straight before her into vacancy, with a hard, despairing look in her dark, deep eyes.

"You know you would not. But your father is going to marry a most excellent and most estimable woman; his affection is not wholly his daughter's any longer; she must stand a little in the shade, and see another reign where she used to be queen. She cannot hold the first place in her father's heart and home; so she is ready to leave that home with the first man who asks her. She does not love him; there is no sympathy or feeling in common between them; they are not even of the same religion; she knows that she will be wretched, and that she will make him wretched too. But what does it all matter? Her pride is to be wounded, her self-love humiliated, and every other consideration must yield to that. She is ready to commit perjury, to swear to love and honour a man who is no more to her than that peasant walking along the road. She is ready to degrade herself and risk her soul by a mercenary marriage sooner than bear that wound to pride!"

"Go on!" Kate said, bitterly; "it is well to have one's heart lacerated sometimes, I suppose. Pray go on."

"I intend to go on. You have been used to queening it all your life—to being flattered, and indulged, and pampered to the top of your bent, and it will do you good. When you are this man's miserable wife, you shall never say Father Francis might have warned me—Father Francis might have saved me. You have ruled here with a ring and a clatter; you have been pleased to dazzle and bewilder the simple people of St. Croix, to see yourself looked up to as a sort of goddess. Your rank, and accomplishments, and beauty—we are talking plain truth now, Miss Danton—all these gifts that God has bestowed upon you so bountifully, you have misused. It doesn't seem so to you, does it? You think you have been very good, very charitable, very condescending. I don't deny that you have done good, that you have been a sort of guardian angel to the poor and the sick; but what was your motive? Was it that which makes thousands of girls, as young, and rich, and handsome as yourself, resign everything for the humble garb and lowly duties of a Sister of Charity? Oh, no! You liked to be idolized, to be venerated, and looked up to as an angel upon earth. That pride of yours which induces you to sell yourself for so many thousand pounds per annum was at the bottom of it all. You want to hold a foremost place in the great battle of life—you want all obstacles to give way before you. It can't be; and your whole life is a failure."

"Go on," Kate reiterated, never stirring, never looking at him, and white as death.

"You have fancied yourself very good, very immaculate, and thanked Heaven in an uplifted sort of way that you were not as other women, false, and mean, and sordid. You wanted to walk through life in a pathway of roses without thorns, to a placid death, and a heritage of glory in Heaven. The trials of common people were not for you; sorrow, and disappointment, and suffering were to pass Miss Danton by. You were so good, and so far up in the clouds, nothing low or base could reach you. Well, it was not to be. You were only clay, after all—the porcelain of human clay, perhaps, but very brittle stuff withal. Trouble did come; the man you had made a sort of idol of, to whom you had given your whole heart, with a love so intense as to be sinful—this man abandons you. The sister you have trusted and been fond of, deceives you, and you find that trouble is something more than a word of two syllables. You have been very great, and noble, and heroic all your life, in theory—how do we find you in practice? Why, drooping like any other lovelorn damsel, pining away without one effort at that greatness and heroism you thought so much of; without one purpose to conquer yourself, without one effort to be resigned to the will of Heaven. You rebel against your father's marriage; everybody else ought to be lonely and unhappy because you are; the world ought to wear crape, and the light of the sun be darkened. But the world laughs and sings much as usual, the sun shines as joyously. Your father's marriage will be an accomplished fact, and our modern heroine says 'yes' to the first man who asks her to marry him in a fit of spleen, because she will be Grace Danton's step-daughter, and must retire a little into the background, and look forward to the common humdrum life ordinary mortals lead. She doesn't ask help where help alone is to be found; so in the hour of her trial there is no light for her in earth or Heaven. Oh, my child! stop and think what you are going to do before it is too late."

"I can't think," she said, in a hollow voice. "I only know I am a miserable, sinful, fallen creature. Help me, Father Francis; tell me what I am to do."

"Do not ask help from me," the young priest said, gravely; "ask it of that compassionate Father who is in Heaven. Oh! my child, the way to that land of peace and rest is the way of the Cross—the only way. There are more thorns than roses under our feet, but we must go on like steadfast soldiers to the end, bearing our cross, and keeping the battle-cry of the brave old Crusaders in our hearts, 'God wills it.' Your trouble has been heavy, my poor child, I don't doubt, but you cannot be exempt from the common lot. I am sorry for you, Heaven knows, and I would make your life a happy one if I could, in spite of all the harsh things I may say. It is because I would not have your whole life miserable that I talk to you like this. Your heart acknowledges the truth of every word I have said; and remember there is but one recipe for real happiness—goodness. Be good and you will be happy. It is a hackneyed precept out of a copy-book," Father Francis said, with a slight smile; "but believe me, it is the only infallible rule. Rouse yourself to a better life, my dear Kate; begin a new and more perfect life, and God will help you. Remember, dear child, 'There is a love that never fails when earthly loves decay.'"

She did not speak. She rose up, cold, and white, and rigid. The priest arose too.

"Are you going?" he asked.

"Yes."

"You are not offended with me for all this plain talk? I like you so much, you know, that I want to see you happy."

"Offended?" she answered, "oh, no! Some day I will thank you; I cannot now."

She opened the door and was gone, flitting along, a lonely figure in the bleak winter twilight. She never paused in her rapid walk until she reached Danton Hall; and then, pale and absorbed, she ran rapidly upstairs, and shut herself into her room. Throwing off her bonnet and mantle, she sat down to her writing-desk at once, and without waiting to think, took up a pen and dashed off a rapid note:

She folded the note rapidly, placed it in an envelope, wrote the address, "Sir Ronald Keith," and sealed it. Still in the same rapid way, as if she were afraid to pause, afraid to trust herself, she arose and rang the bell. Eunice answered the summons, and stared aghast at her mistress' face.

"Do you know if Sir Ronald is in the house?" Miss Danton asked.

"Yes, Miss; he's sitting in the library, reading a paper."

"Is he alone?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Take this letter to him, then; and, Eunice, tell Miss Grace I will not be down to dinner. You can fetch me a cup of tea here. I do not feel very well."

Eunice departed on her errand. Kate drew a long, long breath of relief when she closed the door after her. She drew her favourite chair up before the fire, took a book off the table, and seated herself resolutely to read. She was determined to put off thought—to let events take their course, and cease tormenting herself, for to-night at least.

Eunice brought up the tea and a little trayful of dainties, drew the curtain, and lit the lamp. Kate laid down her book and looked up.

"Did you deliver the note, Eunice?"

"Yes, Miss."

"And my message to Miss Grace?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Very well, then—you may go."

The girl went away, and Kate sat sipping her tea and reading. She sat for upward of half an hour, and then she arose and took the way to the apartments of Mr. Richards. It was after ten before she returned and entered her sitting-room. She found Eunice waiting for her, and she resigned herself into her hands at once.

"I shall go to bed early to-night," she said. "My head aches. I must try and sleep."

Sleep mercifully came to her almost as soon as she laid her head on her pillow. She slept as she had not done for many a night before, and awoke next morning refreshed and strengthened for the new trials of the new day. She dreaded the meeting with her discarded suitor, with a nervous dread quite indescribable; but the meeting must be, and she braced herself for the encounter with a short, fervent prayer, and went down stairs.

There was no one in the dining-room, but the table was laid. She walked to the window, and stood looking out at the black, bare trees, writhing and groaning in the morning wind, and the yellow sunshine glittering on the frozen snow. While she stood, a quick, heavy tread crossed the hall—a tread she knew well. Her heart throbbed; her breath came quick. A moment later, and Sir Ronald entered, the open note she had sent him in his hand.

"What is the meaning of this folly, Kate?" he demanded, angrily, striding towards her. "Here, take it back. You did not mean it."

"I do mean it," Kate said, shrinking. "I have behaved very badly; I am very sorry, but I mean it."

His black brows contracted stormily over his gloomy eyes.

"Do you mean to say you have jilted me? Have you been playing the capricious coquette from first to last?"

"I am very sorry! I am very sorry!" poor Kate faltered. "I have done wrong! Oh, forgive me! And please don't be angry."

He broke into a harsh laugh.

"You are sorry! and you have done wrong! Upon my soul, Miss Danton, you have a mild way of putting it. Here, take back this nonsensical letter. I can't and won't free you from your engagement."

He held the letter out, but she would not take it. The strong and proud spirit was beginning to rise; but the recollection that she had drawn this on herself held her in check.

"I cannot take back one word in that letter. I made a great mistake in thinking I could marry you; I see it now more than ever. I have owned my fault. I have told you I am sorry. I can do no more. As a gentleman you are bound to release me."

"Of course," he said, with a bitter sneer. "As a gentleman, I am bound to let you play fast and loose with me to your heart's content. You have behaved very honourably to me, Miss Danton, and very much like a gentlewoman. Is it because you have been jilted yourself, that you want the pleasure of jilting another? It is hardly the thing to revenge Reginald Stanford's doings on me."

Up leaped the indignant blood to Kate's face; bright flashed the angry fire from her eyes.

"Go!" she cried, in a ringing tone of command. "Leave my father's house, Sir Ronald Keith! I thought I was talking to a gentleman. I have found my mistake. Go! If you were monarch of the world, I would not marry you now."

He ground his teeth with a savage oath of fury and rage. The letter she had sent him was still in his hand. He tore it fiercely into fragments, and flung them in a white shower at her feet.

"I will go," he said; "but I shall remember this day, and so shall you. I shall take good care to let the world know how you behave to an honourable man when a dishonourable one deserts you."

With the last unmanly taunt he was gone, banging the house door after him until the old mansion shook. And Kate fled back to her room, and fell down on her knees before her little white bed, and prayed with a passionate outburst of tears for strength to bear her bitter, bitter cross.

Later in the day a man from the village hotel came to Danton Hall for the baronet's luggage. Captain Danton, mystified and bewildered, sought his daughter for an explanation of these strange goings on. Kate related the rather humiliating story, leaving out Sir Ronald's cruel taunts, in dread of a quarrel between him and her father.

"Don't say anything about it, papa," Kate said, imploringly. "I have behaved very badly, and I feel more wretched and sorry for it all than I can tell you. Don't try to see Sir Ronald. He is justly very angry, and might say things in his anger that would provoke a quarrel. I am miserable enough now without that."

Captain Danton promised, and quietly dispatched the Scotchman's belongings. That evening Sir Ronald departed for Quebec, to take passage for Liverpool.

BEARING THE CROSS.

The dead blank that comes after excitement of any kind is very trying to bear. The dull flow of monotonous life, following the departure of the Scotch baronet, told severely on Kate. The feverish excitement of that brief second engagement had sustained her, and kindled a brighter fire in her blue eyes, and a hot glow on her pale cheeks. But in the stagnant quiet that succeeded, the light grew dim, the roses faded, and the old lassitude and weariness returned. She had not even the absorbing task of playing amateur Sister of Charity, for the fever was almost gone, and there was no more left for her to do.

There was no scandal or éclat this time about the broken-off marriage, for it had been kept very secret—only in the kitchen-cabinet there were endless surmisings and wonderings.

The wedding garments made for the second time for Miss Danton were for the second time put quietly away.

Father Francis, in all his visits to Danton Hall, never made the slightest allusion to the event that had taken place. Only, he laid his hand on Kate's drooping head, with a "Heaven bless you, my child!" so fervently uttered that she felt repaid for all the humiliation she had undergone.

So very quietly at Danton Hall December wore away, and Christmas-eve dawned, Grace Danton's wedding-day. About ten in the morning the large, roomy, old-fashioned family sleigh drove up before the front door, and the bridal party entered, and were whirled to the church. A very select party indeed; the bride and bridegroom, the bride's brother, and the bridegroom's two daughters.

Grace's brown velvet bonnet, brown silk dress, and seal jacket were not exactly the prescribed attire for a bride; but with the hazel hair, smooth and shining, and the hazel eyes full of happy light, Grace looked very sweet and fair.

Eeny, in pale silk and a pretty hat with a long white plume, looked fair as a lily and happy as a queen, and very proud of her post of bride-maid.

And Kate, who was carrying her cross bravely now, very simply attired, sat beside Doctor Frank and tried to listen and be interested in what he was saying, and all the time feeling like one in some unnatural dream. She saw the dull, gray, sunless sky, speaking of coming storm, the desolate snow-covered fields, the quiet village, and the little church, with its tall spire and glittering cross. She saw it all in a vague, lost sort of way, and was in the church and seated in a pew, and listening and looking on, like a person walking in her sleep. Her father going to be married! How strange and unnatural it seemed. She had never grown familiarized with the idea, perhaps because she would never indulge it, and now he was kneeling on the altar steps, with Frank Danton beside him, and Eeny at Grace's left hand, and the Curé and Father Francis were there in stole and surplice, and the ceremony was going on. She saw the ring put on Grace's finger, she heard the Curé's French accented voice, "Henry Danton, wilt thou have Grace Danton to be thy wedded wife?" and that firm, clear "I will," in reply.

Then it was all over; they were married. Her pale face drooped on the front rail of the pew, and wet it with a rain of hot tears.

The wedding quartet were going into the sacristy to register their names. She could linger no longer, although she felt as if she would like to stay there and die, so she arose and went wearily after. Her father looked at her with anxious, imploring eyes; she went up and kissed him, with a smile on her colourless face.

"I hope you will be very happy, papa," she whispered.

And then she turned to Grace, and touched her cold lips to the bride's flushed cheek.

"I wish you very much happiness, Mrs. Danton," she said.

Yes, she could never be mother—she was only Mrs. Danton, her father's wife; but Father Francis gave her a kindly, approving glance, even for this. She turned away from him with a weary sigh. Oh, what trouble and mockery everything was? What a dreary, wretched piece of business life was altogether! The sense of loneliness and desolation weighed on her heart, this dull December morning, like lead.

There was to be a wedding-breakfast, but the Curé, and Father Francis, and Doctor Frank were the only guests.

Kate sat at her father's side—Grace presided now, Grace was mistress of the Hall—and listened in the same dazed and dreary way to the confusion of tongues, the fire of toasts, the clatter of china and silver, and the laughter of the guests. She sat very still, eating and drinking, because she must eat and drink to avoid notice, and never thinking how beautiful she looked in her blue silk dress, her neck and arms gleaming like ivory against azure. What would it ever matter again how she looked?

Captain and Mrs. Danton were going on a brief bridal-tour to Toronto—not to be absent over a fortnight. They were to depart by the two o'clock train; so, breakfast over, Grace hurried away to change her dress. Dr. Frank was going to drive Eeny to the station, in the cutter, to see them off, but Kate declined to accompany them. She shook hands with them at the door; and then turned and went back into the empty, silent house.

A wedding, when the wedded pair, ashamed of themselves, go scampering over the country in search of distraction and amusement, leaves any household almost as forlorn as a funeral. Dead silence succeeds tumult and bustle; those left behind sit down blankly, feeling a gap in their circle, a loss never to be repaired. It was worse than usual at Danton Hall. The wintry weather, precluding all possibility of seeking forgetfulness and recreation out of doors, the absence of visitors—for the Curé, Father Francis, Doctor Danton, and the Reverend Mr. Clare comprised Kate's whole visiting list now—all tended to make dismalness more dismal. She could remember this time last year, when Reginald and Rose, and Sir Ronald, and all were with them—so many then, so few now; only herself and Eeny left.

The memory of the past time came back with a dulled sense of pain and misery. She had suffered so much that the sense of suffering was blunted—there was only a desolate aching of the heart when she thought of it now.

December and the old year died out, in a great winding-sheet of snow. January came, and its first week dragged away, and the master and mistress of the house were daily expected home.

Late in the afternoon of a January day, Kate sat at the drawing-room window, her chin resting on her hand, her eyes fixed on the white darkness. The wind made such a racket and uproar within and without, that she did not hear a modest tap at the door, or the turning of the handle. It was only when a familiar voice sounded close to her elbow that she started from her reverie.

"If you please, Miss Kate."

"Oh, is it you, Ogden? I did not hear you. What is the matter?"

Mr. Ogden drew nearer and lowered his voice.

"Miss Kate, have you been upstairs to-day?"

Kate knew what he meant by this rather guarded question—had she been to see Mr. Richards?

"No," she said in alarm; "is there anything the matter?"

"I am afraid there is, Miss Kate. I am afraid he is not very well."

"Not very well!" repeated Miss Danton. "Do you mean to say he is ill, Ogden?"

"Yes, Miss Kate, I am afraid he is. He wasn't very well last night, and this morning he is worse. He complains dreadful of headache, and he ain't got no appetite whatsomever. He's been lying down pretty much all day."

"Why did you not tell me sooner?" Kate cried, with a pang of remorse at her own neglect. "I will go to him at once."

She hastened upstairs, and into her brother's rooms. The young man was in the bedroom, lying on the bed, dressed, and in a sort of stupor. As Kate bent over him, and spoke, he opened his eyes, dull and heavy.

"Harry, dear," Kate said, kissing him, "what is the matter? Are you ill?"

Harry Danton made an effort to raise, but fell back on the pillow.

"My head aches as if it would split open, and I feel as if I had a ton-weight bearing down every limb. I think I am going to have the fever."

Kate turned pale.

"Oh, Harry, for Heaven's sake don't think that! The fever has left the village; why should you have it now?"

He did not reply. The heavy stupor that deadened every sense bore him down, and took away the power of speech. His eyes closed, and in another moment he had dropped off into a deep, lethargic sleep.

Kate arose and went out into the corridor, where she found Ogden waiting.

"He has fallen asleep," she said. "I want you to undress him, and get him into bed properly, while I go and prepare a saline draught. I am afraid he is going to be very ill."

She passed on, and ran down stairs to her father's study, where the medicine-chest stood. It took her some time to prepare the saline draught; and when she returned to the bed-chamber, Ogden had finished his task, and the sick man was safely in bed. He still slept—heavily, deep—but his breathing was laboured and his lips parched.

"I will give him this when he awakes," Kate said; "and I will sit up with him all night. You can remain in the next room, Ogden, so as to be within call, if wanted."

Kate remained by her sick brother through the long hours of that wintry night. She sat by the bedside, bathing the hot face and fevered hands, and holding cooling drinks to the dry lips. The shaded lamp lit the room dimly, too dimly to see to read; so she sat patiently, listening to the snow-storm, and watching her sick brother's face. In the next room Mr. Ogden slept the sleep of the just, in an arm-chair, his profound snoring making a sort of accompaniment to the howling of the wind.

The slow, slow hours dragged away, and morning came. It found the patient worse, weak, prostrated, and deadly sick, but not delirious.

"I know I have the fever, Kate," he said, in a weak whisper; "I am glad of it. I only hope it will be merciful, and take me off."

Kate went down to breakfast, which she could not eat, and then returned to the sick-room. Her experience among the sick of the village had made her skilful in the disease; but, despite all she could do, Harry grew weaker and worse. She dared not summon help, she dared not call in the Doctor, until her father's return.

"He ought to be here to-day," she thought. "Heaven grant it! If he does not and Harry keeps growing worse, I will go and speak to Father Francis this evening."

Fortunately this unpleasant duty was not necessary. The late afternoon train brought the newly-wedded pair home. Kate and Eeny met them in the hall, the latter kissing both with effusion, and Kate only shaking hands, with a pale and anxious countenance.

Mrs. Grace went upstairs with Eeny, to change her travelling costume, and Captain Danton was left standing in the hall with his eldest daughter.

"What is it, my dear?" he asked; "what has gone wrong?"

"Something very serious, I am afraid, papa. Harry is ill."

"Ill! How?—when?—what is the matter with him?"

"The fever," Kate said, in a whisper. "No one in the house knows it yet but Ogden. He was taken ill night before last, but I knew nothing of it till yesterday. I sat up with him last night, and did what I could, but I fear he is getting worse. I wanted to call in the Doctor, but I dared not until your return. What shall we do?"

"Send for Doctor Frank immediately," replied her father, promptly; "I have no fear of trusting him. He is the soul of honour, and poor Harry's secret is as safe with him as with ourselves. Grace has heard the story. I told her in Montreal. Of course, I could have no secrets from my wife. I will go to the village myself, and at once; that is, as soon as I have seen the poor boy. Let us go up now, my dear."

Kate followed her father upstairs, and into the sick man's room. With the approach of night he had grown worse, and was slightly delirious. He did not know his father when he bent over and spoke to him. He was tossing restlessly on his pillow, and muttering incoherently as he tossed.

"My poor boy! My poor Harry!" his father said, with tears in his-eyes. "Misfortune seems to have marked him for its own. Remain with him, Kate; I will go at once for Doctor Danton."

Five minutes later the Captain was galloping towards the village hotel, through the gray, gathering dusk. The young Doctor was in, seated in his own room, reading a ponderous-looking volume. He arose to greet his visitor, but stopped short at sight of his grave and anxious face.

"There is nothing wrong, I hope?" he inquired; "nothing has happened at the Hall?"

The Captain looked around the little chamber with the same anxious glance.

"We are quite alone?" he said.

"Quite," replied his brother-in-law, very much surprised.

"I have a story to tell you—a secret to confide to you. Your services are required at the Hall; but before I can avail myself of these services, I have a sacred trust to confide to you—a trust I am certain you will never betray."

"I shall never betray any trust you may repose in me, Captain Danton," the young man answered gravely.

Some dim inkling of the truth was in his mind as he spoke. Captain Danton drew his chair closer, and in a low, hurried voice began his story. The story he had once before told Reginald Stanford, the story of his unfortunate son.

Doctor Frank listened with a face of changeless calm. No surprise was expressed in his grave, earnest, listening countenance. When the Captain had finished his narrative, with an account of the fever that rendered his presence at once necessary, a faint flush dyed his forehead.

"I shall be certain now," he thought. "I only saw Agnes Darling's husband once, and then for a moment; but I shall know him again if I ever see him."

"I shall be with you directly," he said, rising; "as soon as they saddle my horse."

He rang the bell and gave the order. By the time his cap and coat were on, and a few other preparations made, the hostler had the horse at the door.

It was quite dark now; but the road was white with snow and the two men rode rapidly to the Hall with the strong January wind blowing in their faces. They went upstairs at once, and Doctor Frank, with an odd sensation, followed the master of Danton Hall across the threshold of that mysterious Mr. Richards' room.

The Captain's son lay in a feverish sleep, tossing wildly and raving incoherently. Kate, sitting by his bedside, he mistook for some one else, calling her "Agnes," and talking in disjointed sentences of days and things long since past.

"He thinks she is his wife," the Captain said, very sadly; "poor boy!"

The Doctor turned up the lamp, and looked long and earnestly into the fever-flushed face. His own seemed to have caught the reflection of that red glow, when at last he looked up.

"It is the fever," he said, "and a very serious case. You sat up last night, your father tells me, Miss Kate?"

"Yes," Kate answered.

She was very white and thoroughly worn out.

"You are not strong enough to do anything of the kind. You look half-dead now. I will remain here all night, and do you at once go and lie down."

"Thank you very much," Kate said, gratefully. "I can sleep when I know you are with him. Do you think there is any danger?"

"I trust not. You and I have seen far more serious cases down there in St. Croix, and we have brought them round. It is a very sad story, his—I am very sorry for your brother." Kate stooped and kissed the hot face, her tears falling on it.

"Poor, poor Harry! The crime of that dreadful murder should not lie at his door, but at that of the base wretch he made his wife!"

"Are you quite sure, Miss Danton," said the young Doctor, seriously, "that there may not have been some terrible mistake? From what your father tells me, your brother had very little proof of his wife's criminality beyond the words of his friend Furniss, who may have been actuated by some base motive of his own."

"He had the proof of his own senses," Kate said, indignantly; "he saw the man Crosby with his wife, and heard his words. The guilt of Harry's rash deed should rest far more on her than on him."

She turned from the room, leaving her father and the young Doctor to watch by the sick man all night. The Captain sought his wife, and explained the cause of her brother's sudden summons; and Kate, in her own room, quite worn out, lay down dressed as she was, and fell into a profound, refreshing sleep, from which she did not wake until late next morning.

When she returned to her brother's chamber, she found the Doctor and the Captain gone, and Grace keeping watch. Mrs. Danton explained that Frank had been summoned away about an hour previously to attend a patient in the village; and the Captain, at her entreaty, had gone to take some rest. The patient was much the same, and was now asleep.

"But you should not have come here, Mrs. Danton," Kate expostulated. "You know this fever is infectious."

Mrs. Danton smiled.

"My life is of no more value than yours or my husband's. I am not afraid—I should be very unhappy if I were not permitted to do what little good I can."

For the second time there flashed into Kate's mind the thought that she had never done this woman justice. Here she was, generous and self-sacrificing, risking her own safety by the sick-bed of her husband's own son. Could it be that after all she had married her father because she loved him, and not because he was Captain Danton of Danton Hall?

"Father Francis ought to know," she mused; "and Father Francis sings her praises on every occasion. I know Eeny loves her dearly, and the servants like and respect her in a manner I never saw surpassed. Can it be that I have been blind, and unjust, and prejudiced from first to last, and that my father's wife is a thousand times better than I am?"

The two women sat together in the sick-room all the forenoon. Kate talked to her step-mother far more socially and kindly than she had ever talked to her before, and was surprised to find Grace had a ready knowledge of every subject she started. She smiled at herself by and by in a little pause in the conversation.

"She is really very pleasant," she thought. "I shall begin to like her presently, I am afraid."

Early in the afternoon, Doctor Frank returned. There was little change in his patient, and no occasion for his remaining. He stayed half an hour, and then took his hat to leave. He had more pressing cases in the village to attend, and departed promising to call again before nightfall.

The news of Mr. Richards' illness had spread by this time through the house. The young Doctor knew this, and wondered if Agnes Darling had heard it, and why she did not try to see him. He was thinking about it as he walked briskly down the avenue, and resolving he must try and see her that evening, when a little black figure stepped out from the shadow of the trees and confronted him.

"'Angels and ministers of grace defend us,'" ejaculated the Doctor; "I thought it was a ghost, and I find it is only Agnes Darling. You look about as pale as a ghost, though. What is the matter with you?"

She clasped her hands and looked at him piteously.

"He is sick. You have seen him? Oh, Doctor Danton! is it Harry?"

"My dear Mrs. Danton, I am happy to tell you it is. Don't faint now, or I shall tell you nothing more."

She leaned against a tree, white and trembling; her hands clasped over her beating heart.

"And he is ill, and I may not see him. Oh, tell me what is the matter."

"Fever. Don't alarm yourself unnecessarily. I do not think his life is in any danger."

"Thank God! Oh, thank God for that!"

She covered her face with her slender hands, and he could see the fast-falling tears.

"My dear Agnes," he said, kindly. "I don't like to see you distress yourself in this manner. Besides, there is no occasion. I think your darkest days are over. I don't see why you may not go and nurse your husband."

Her hands dropped from before her face, her great dark eyes fixed themselves on his face, dilated and wildly.

"You would like it, wouldn't you? Well, I really don't think there is anything to hinder. He is calling for you perpetually, if it will make you happy to know it. Tell Miss Danton your story at once; tell her who you are, and if she doubts your veracity, refer her to me. I have a letter from Mr. Crosby, testifying in the most solemn manner your innocence. I wrote to him, Agnes, as I could not find time to visit him. Tell Miss Kate to-day, if you choose, and you may watch by your husband's bedside to night. Good afternoon. Old Renaud is shouting out with rheumatism; I must go and see after him."

He strode away, leaving Agnes clinging to the tree, trembling and white. The time had come, then. Her husband lived, and might be returned to her yet. At the thought she fell down on her knees on the snowy ground, with the most fervent prayer of thanksgiving in her heart she had ever uttered.

Some two hours later, and just as the dusk of the short winter day was falling, Kate came out of her brother's sick-room. She looked jaded and worn, as she lingered for a moment at the hall-window to watch the grayish-yellow light fade out of the sky. She had spent the best part of the day in the close chamber, and the bright outer air seemed unspeakably refreshing. She went to her room, threw a large cloth mantle round her shoulders, drew the fur-trimmed hood over her head, and went out.

The frozen fish-pond glittered like a sheet of ivory in the fading light; and walking slowly around it, she saw a little familiar figure, robed like a nun, in black. She had hardly seen the pale seamstress for weeks, she had been too much absorbed in other things; but now, glad of companionship, she crossed over to the fish-pond and joined her. As she drew closer, and could see the girl's face in the cold, pale twilight, she was struck with its pallor and indescribably mournful expression.

"You poor, pale child!" Miss Danton said; "you look like some stray spirit wandering ghostily around this place. What is the matter now, that you look so wretchedly forlorn?"

Agnes looked up in the beautiful, pitying face, with her heart in her eyes.

"Nothing," she said, tremulously, "but the old trouble, that never leaves me. I think sometimes I am the most unhappy creature in the whole wide world."

"Every heart knoweth its own bitterness," Miss Danton said, steadily. "Trouble seems to be the lot of all. But yours—you have never told me what it is, and I think I would like to know."

They were walking together round the frozen pond, and the face of the seamstress was turned away from the dying light. Kate could not see it, but she could hear the agitation in her voice when she spoke.

"I am almost afraid to tell you. I am afraid, for oh, Miss Danton! I have deceived you."

"Deceived me, Agnes?"

"Yes; I came here in a false character. Oh, don't be angry, please; but I am not Miss Darling—I am a married woman."

"Married! You?"

She looked down in speechless astonishment at the tiny figure and childlike face of the little creature beside her.

"You married!" she repeated. "You small, childish-looking thing! And where in the wide world is your husband?"

Agnes Darling covered her face with her hands, and broke out into a hysterical passion of tears.

"Don't cry, you poor little unfortunate. Tell me if this faithless husband is the friend I once heard you say you were in search of?"

"Yes, yes," Agnes answered, through her sobs. "Oh, Miss Danton! Please, please, don't be angry with me, for, indeed, I am very miserable."

"Angry with you, my poor child," Kate said, tenderly; "no, indeed! But tell me all about it. How did this cruel husband come to desert you? Did he not love you?"

"Oh, yes, yes, yes."

"And you—did you love him?"

"With my whole heart."

The memory of her own dead love stung Kate to the very soul.

"Oh!" she said, bitterly, "it is only a very old story, after all. We are all alike; we give up our whole heart for a man's smile, and, verily, we get our reward. This husband of yours took a fancy, I suppose, to some new and fresher face, and threw you over for her sake?"

Agnes Darling looked up with wide black eyes.

"Oh, no, no! He loved me faithfully. He never was false, as you think. It was not that; he thought I was false, and base, and wicked. Oh!" she cried, covering her lace with her hands again; "I can't tell you how base he thought me."

"I think I understand," Kate said, slowly. "But how was it? It was not true, of course."

Agnes lifted her face, raised her solemn, dark eyes mournfully to the gaze of the earnest blue ones.

"It was not true," she replied simply; "I loved him with all my heart, and him only. He was all the world to me, for I was alone, an orphan, sisterless and brotherless. I had only one relative in the wide world—a distant cousin, a young man, who boarded in the same house with me. I was only a poor working-girl of New York, and my husband was far above me—I thought so then, know it since. I knew very little of him. He boarded in the same house, and I only saw him at the table. How he ever came to love me—a little pale, quiet thing like me—I don't know; but he did love me—he did—it is very sweet to remember that now. He loved me, and he married me, but under an assumed name, under the name of Darling, which I know now was not his real one."

She paused a little, and Kate looked at her with sudden breathless interest. How like this story was to another, terribly familiar.

"We were married," Agnes went on, softly and sadly, "and I was happy. Oh, Miss Danton, I can never tell you how unspeakably happy I was for a time. But it was not for long. Troubles began to gather thick and fast before many months. My husband was a gambler"—she paused a second or two at Miss Danton's violent start—"and got into his old habits of staying out very late at night, and often, when he had lost money, coming home moody and miserable. I had no influence over him to stop him. He had a friend, another gambler, and a very bad man, who drew him on. It was very dreary sitting alone night after night until twelve or one o'clock, and my only visitor was my cousin, the young man I told you of. He was in love, and clandestinely engaged to a young lady, whose family were wealthy and would not for a moment hear of the match. I was his only confidante, and he liked to come in evenings and talk to me of Helen. Sometimes, seeing me so lonely and low-spirited, he would stay with me within half an hour of Harry's return; but Heaven knows neither he nor I ever dreamed it could be wrong. No harm might ever have come of it, for my husband knew and liked him, but for that gambling companion, whose name was Furniss."

She paused again, trembling and agitated, for Miss Danton had uttered a sharp, involuntary exclamation.

"Go on! Go on!" she said breathlessly.

"This Furniss hated my cousin, for he was his successful rival with Helen Hamilton, and took his revenge in the cruelest and basest manner. He discovered that my cousin was in the habit of visiting me occasionally in the evening, and he poisoned my husband's mind with the foulest insinuations.

"He told him that William Crosby, my cousin, was an old lover, and that—oh, I cannot tell you what he said! He drove my husband, who was violent and passionate, half mad, and sent him home one night early, when he knew Will was sure to be with me. I remember that dreadful night so well—I have terrible reason to remember it. Will sat with me, talking of Helen, telling me he could wait no longer; that she had consented, and they were going to elope the very next night. While he was speaking the door was burst open, and Harry stood before us, livid with fury, a pistol in his hand. A second later, and there was a report—William Crosby sprang from his seat and fell forward, with a scream I shall never forget. I think I was screaming too; I can hardly recollect what I did, but the room was full in a moment, and my husband was gone—how, I don't know. That was two years ago, and I have never seen him since; but I think—"

She stopped short, for Kate Danton had caught her suddenly and violently by the arm, her eyes dilating.

"Agnes!" she exclaimed, passionately; "what is it you have been telling me? Who are you?"

Agnes Darling held up her clasped hands.

"Oh, Miss Danton," she cried, "for our dear Lord's sake, have pity on me! I am your brother's wretched wife!"

DOCTOR DANTON'S GOOD WORKS.

The two women stood in the bleak twilight looking at each other—Agnes with piteous, imploring eyes, Kate dazed and hopelessly bewildered.

"My brother's wife!" she repeated. "You! Agnes Darling!"

"Oh, dear Miss Danton, have pity on me! Let me see him. Let me tell him I am innocent, and that I love him with my whole heart. Don't cast me off! Don't despise me! Indeed, I am not the guilty creature he thinks me!"

"Agnes, wait," Kate said, holding out her hand. "I am so confounded by this revelation that I hardly know what to do or say. Tell me how you found out my brother was here? Did you know it when you came?"

"Oh, no. I came as seamstress, with a lady from New York to Canada, and when I left her I lived in the Petite Rue de St. Jacques. There you found me; and I came here, never dreaming that I was to live in the same house with my lost husband."

"And how did you make the discovery? Did you see him?"

"Yes, Miss Danton; the night you were all away at the party, you remember. I saw him on the stairs, returning to his room. I thought then it was a spirit, and I fainted, as you know, and Doctor Danton was sent for, and he told me it was no spirit, but Harry himself."

"Doctor Danton!" exclaimed Kate, in unbounded astonishment. "How did Doctor Danton come to know anything about it?"

"Why, it was he—oh, I haven't told you. I must go back to that dreadful night when my cousin was shot. As I told you, the room was filled with people, and among them there was a young man—a Doctor, he told us—who made them lift poor Will on the bed, and proceeded to examine his wound. It was not fatal."

She stopped, for Kate had uttered a cry and grasped her arm.

"Not fatal!" she gasped. "Oh, Agnes! Agnes! Tell me he did not die!"

"He did not, thank Heaven. He lived, and lives still—thanks to the skill and care of Doctor Danton."

Kate clasped her hands with a fervent prayer of thanksgiving.

"Oh, my poor Harry!" she cried, "immured so long in those dismal rooms, when you were free to walk the world. But perhaps the punishment was merited. Go on, Agnes; tell me all."

"The wound was not fatal, but his state was very critical. Doctor Danton extracted the bullet, and remained with him all night. I was totally helpless. I don't remember anything about it, or anything that occurred for nearly a fortnight. Then I was in a neighbour's room; and she told me I had been very ill, and, but for the kindness and care of the young Doctor, must have died. She told me William lived, and was slowly getting better; but the good Doctor had hired a nurse to attend him, and came to the house every day. I saw him that very afternoon, and had a long talk with him. He told me his name was Doctor Danton, that he had come from Germany on business, and must return in a very few days now. He said he had friends in Canada, whom he had intended to visit, but this unfortunate affair had prevented him. He had not the heart to leave us in our forlorn and dangerous state. He would not tell his friends of his visit to America at all, so they would have no chance to feel offended. Oh, Miss Danton, I cannot tell you how good, how noble, how generous he was. He left New York the following week; but before he went he forced me to take money enough to keep me six months. I never felt wholly desolate until I saw him go, and then I thought my heart would break. Heaven bless him! He is the noblest man I ever knew."

Kate's heart thrilled with a sudden response. And this was the man she had slighted, and perhaps despised—this hero, this great, generous, good man!

"You are right," she said; "he is noble. And after that, Agnes, what did you do?"

"I dismissed the hired nurse, and took care of poor Will until he fully recovered. Then he resumed his business; and I went back, sick and sorrowful, to my old life. I can never tell you how miserable I was. The husband I loved was lost to me forever. He had gone, believing me guilty of the worst of crimes, and I should never see him again to tell him I was innocent. The thought nearly broke my heart; but I lived and lived, when, I only prayed, wickedly, I know, to die. I came to Canada—I came here; and here I met my best friend once more. I saw Harry, or an apparition, as I took it to be, until Doctor Danton assured me to the contrary. He did not know, but he suspected the truth—he is so clever; and now that he has seen him, and knows for certain, he told me to tell you who I was. Miss Danton, I have told you the simple truth, as Heaven hears me. I have been true and faithful in thought and word to the husband I loved. Don't send me away; don't disbelieve and despise me."

She lifted her streaming eyes and clasped hands in piteous supplication. There were tears, too, in the blue eyes of Kate as she took the little supplicant in her arms.

"Despise you, my poor Agnes! What a wretch you must take me to be! No, I believe you, I love you, you poor little broken-down child. I shall not send you away. I know Harry loves you yet; he calls for you continually in his delirium. I shall speak to papa; you shall see him to-night. Oh! to think how much unnecessary misery there is in the world."

She put her arm round her slender waist, and was drawing her towards the house. Before they reached it, a big dog came bounding and barking up the avenue and overtook them.

"Be quiet, Tiger," said Kate, halting. "Let us wait for Tiger's master, Agnes."

Tiger's master appeared a moment later. One glance sufficed to show him how matters stood.

He lifted his hat with a quiet smile.

"Good evening, Miss Danton; good evening, Mrs. Danton. I see you have come to an understanding at last."

"My brother—we all owe you a debt we can never repay," Kate said gravely; "and Agnes here pronounces you an uncanonized saint."

"So I am. The world will do justice to my stupendous merits by-and-by. You have been very much surprised by Agnes' story, Miss Danton?"

"Very much. We are going in to tell papa. You will come with us, Doctor?"

"If Mrs. Agnes does not make me blush by her laudations. Draw it mild, Agnes, won't you. You have no idea how modest I am."

He opened the front door and entered the hall as he spoke, followed by the two girls. The drawing-room door was ajar, but Eeny and her teacher were the only occupants of that palatial chamber.

"Try the dining-room," suggested Kate; "it is near dinner-hour; we will find some one there."

Doctor Frank ran down-stairs, three steps at a time, followed more decorously by his companions. Grace seated near the table, reading by the light of a tall lamp, was the only occupant. She lifted her eyes in astonishment at her brother's boisterous entrance.

"Where is papa?" Kate asked.

"Upstairs in the sick-room."

"Then wait here, Doctor; wait here, Agnes! I will go for him."

She ran lightly upstairs, and entered the sick man's bedroom. The shaded lamp lit it dimly, and showed her her father sitting by the bedside talking to his son. The invalid was better this evening—very, very weak, but no longer delirious.

"You are better, Harry dear, are you not?" his sister asked, stooping to kiss him; "and you can spare papa for half an hour? Can't you, Harry?"

A faint smile was his answer. He was too feeble to speak. Miss Danton summoned Ogden from one of the outer rooms, left him in charge, and bore her father off.

"What has happened, my dear?" the Captain asked. "There is a whole volume of news in your face."

Kate clasped her hands around his arm, and looked up in his face with her great earnest eyes.

"The most wonderful thing, papa! Just like a play or a novel! Who do you think is here?"

"Who? Not Rose come back, surely?"

"Rose? Oh, no!" Kate answered, with wonderful quietness. "You never could guess. Harry's wife!"

"What!"

"Papa! Poor Harry was dreadfully mistaken. She was innocent all the time. Doctor Frank knows all about it, and saved the life of the man Harry shot. It is Agnes Darling, papa. Isn't it the strangest thing you ever heard of?"

They were at the dining-room door by this time—Captain Danton in a state of the densest bewilderment, looking alternately at one and another of the group before him.

"What, in the name of all that's incomprehensible, does this mean? Kate, in Heaven's name, what have you been talking about?"

Miss Danton actually laughed at her father's mystified face.

"Sit down, papa, and I'll tell you all about it. Here!"

She wheeled up his chair and made him be seated, then leaning over the back, in her clear, sweet voice, she lucidly repeated the tale Agnes Darling had told her. The Captain and his wife sat utterly astounded; and Agnes, with her face hidden, was sobbing in her chair.

"Heaven bless me!" ejaculated the astonished master of Danton Hall. "Can I believe my ears? Agnes Darling, Harry's wife!"

"Yes, Captain," Doctor Frank said, "she is your son's wife—his innocent and deeply-injured wife. The man Crosby, in what he believed to be his dying hour, solemnly testified, in the presence of a clergyman, to her unimpeachable purity and fidelity. It was the evil work of that villain Furniss, from first to last. I have the written testimony of William Crosby in my pocket at this moment. He is alive and well, and married to the lady of whom he was speaking when your son shot him. I earnestly hope you will receive this poor child, and unite her to her husband, for I am as firmly convinced of her innocence as I am of my own existence at this moment."

"Receive her!" Captain Danton cried, with the water in his eyes. "That I will, with all my heart. Poor little girl—poor child," he said, going over and taking the weeping wife into his arms. "What a trial you have undergone! But it is over now, I trust. Thank Heaven my son is no murderer, and under Heaven, thanks to you, Doctor Danton. Don't cry, Agnes—don't cry. I am heartily rejoiced to find I have another daughter."

"Oh, take me to Harry!" Agnes pleaded. "Let me tell him I am innocent! Let me hear him say he forgives me!"

"Upon my word, I think the forgiveness should come from the other side," said the Captain. "He was always a hot-headed, foolish boy, but he has received a lesson, I think, he will never forget. How say you, Doctor, may this foolish little girl go to that foolish boy?"

"I think not yet," the Doctor replied. "In his present weak state the shock would be too much for him. He must be prepared first. How is he this evening?"

"Much better, not at all delirious."

"I will go and have a look at him," said Doctor Frank, rising. "Don't look so imploringly, Agnes; you shall see him before long. Miss Danton, have the goodness to accompany me. If we find him much better, I will let you break the news to him and then fetch Agnes. But mind, madame," raising a warning finger to the sobbing little woman, "no hysterics! I can't have my patient agitated. You promise to be very quiet, don't you!"

"Oh, yes! I'll try."

"Very good. Now, Miss Danton."

He ran up the stairs, followed by Kate. The sick man lay, as he had left him, quietly looking at the shaded lamp, very feeble—very, very feeble and wasted. The Doctor sat down beside him, felt his pulse, and asked him a few questions, to which the faint replies were lucid and intelligible.

"No fever to-night. No delirium. You're fifty per cent. better. We will have you all right now, in no time. Kate has brought an infallible remedy."

The sick man looked at his sister wonderingly.

"Can you bear the shock of some very good news, Harry darling?" Kate said stooping over him.

"Good news!" he repeated feebly, and with an incredulous look. "Good news for me!"

"Yes, indeed, thou man of little faith! The best news you ever heard. You won't agitate yourself, will you, if I tell you?"

Doctor Frank arose before he could reply.

"I leave you to tell him by yourself. I hear the dinner-bell; so adieu."

He descended to the dining-room and took his place at the table. Captain Danton's new-found daughter he compelled to take poor Rose's vacant place; but Agnes did not even make a pretence of eating anything. She sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes fixed steadily on the door, trying with all her might to be calm and wait.

The appetite of the whole family was considerably impaired by the revelation just made, and all waited anxiously the return of Kate. In half an hour the dining-room door opened, and that young lady appeared, very pale, and with traces of tears on her face, but smiling withal.

Agnes sprang up breathlessly.

"Come," Kate said, holding out her hand; "he is waiting for you!"

With a cry of joy Agnes hurried out of the room and upstairs.

At the green baize door Kate restrained her a moment.

"You must be very quiet, Agnes—very calm, and not excite or agitate him."

"Oh, yes! yes! Oh, let me go!"

Miss Danton opened the door and let her in. In a moment she was kneeling by the bedside, her arms around his weak head, showering kisses and tears on his pale, thin face.

"Forgive me!" she said. "Forgive me, my own, my dear, my lost husband. Oh, never think I was false. I never, never was, in thought or act, for one moment. Say you forgive me, my darling, and love me still."

Of course, Kate did not linger. When she again entered the dining-room, she found one of those she had left, gone.

"Where is Doctor Frank?" she asked.

"Gone," Grace said. "A messenger came for him—some one sick in the village. Do take your dinner. I am sure you must want it."

"How good he is," Kate thought. "How energetic and self-sacrificing. If I were a man, I should like to be such a man as he."

After this night of good news, Harry Danton's recovery was almost miraculously rapid. The despair that had deadened every energy, every hope, was gone. He was a new man; he had something to live for; a place in the world, and a lost character to retrieve. A week after that eventful night, he was able to sit up; a fortnight, and he was rapidly gaining vigour and strength, and health for his new life.

Agnes, that most devoted little wife, had hardly left these three mysterious rooms since she had first entered them. She was the best, the most untiring, the most tender of nurses, and won her way to the hearts of all. She was so gentle, so patient, so humble, it was impossible not to love her; and Captain Danton sometimes wondered if he had ever loved his lost, frivolous Rose as he loved his new daughter.

It had been agreed upon that, to avoid gossip and inquiry, Harry was not to show himself in the house, to the servants, but as soon as he was fully recovered, to leave for Quebec, with his wife, and take command of a vessel there.

His father had written to the ship-owners—old friends of his—and had cheerfully received their promise.

The vessel was to sail for Plymouth early in March, and it was now late in February.

Of course, Agnes was to go with him. Nothing could have separated these reunited married lovers now.

The days went by, the preparations for the journey progressed, the eve of departure came. The Danton family, with the Doctor and Father Francis, were assembled in the drawing-room, spending that last evening together. It was the first time, since his return to the Hall, Harry had been there. How little any of them dreamed it was to be the last!

They were not very merry, as they sat listening to Kate's music. Down in that dim recess where the piano stood, she sat, singing for the first time the old songs that Reginald Stanford had loved. She was almost surprised at herself to find how easily she could sing them, how little emotion the memories they brought awoke. Was the old love forever dead, then? And this new content at her heart—what did it mean? She hardly cared to ask. She could not have answered; she only knew she was happy, and that the past had lost power to give her pain.