_ CHAPTER XIV. TRYING TO BE TRUE
Late that evening, the sleighing party returned in high good spirits--all exhilaration after their long drive through the frosty air. Crescent moon and silver stars spangled the deep Canadian sky, glittering coldly bright in the hard white snow, as they jingled merrily up to the door.
"Oh, what a night!" Kate cried. "It is profanation to go indoors."
"It is frostbitten noses to stay out," answered Reginald. "Moonlight is very well in its place; but I want my dinner."
The sleighing party had had one dinner that day, but were quite ready for another. They had stopped at noon at a country inn, and fared sumptuously on fried ham and eggs and sour Canadian bread, and then had gone off rambling up the hills and into the woods.
How it happened, no one but Reginald Stanford ever knew; but it did happen that Kate was walking beside Jules La Touche up a steep, snowy hill, and Reginald was by Rose's side in a dim, gloomy forest-path. Rose had no objection. She walked beside him, looking very pretty, in a black hat with long white plume and little white veil. They had walked on without speaking until her foolish heart was fluttering, and she could stand it no longer. She stopped short in the woodland aisle, through which the pale March sunshine sifted, and looked up at him for the first time.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"For a walk," replied Mr. Stanford, "and a talk. You are not afraid, I hope?"
"Afraid?" said Rose, the colour flushing her face. "Of what should I be afraid?"
"Of me!"
"And why should I be afraid of you?"
"Perhaps because I may make love to you? Are you?"
"No."
"Come on, then."
He offered his arm, and Rose put her gloved fingers gingerly in his coat-sleeve, her heart fluttering more than ever.
"You are going to be married," he said, "and I have had no opportunity of offering my congratulations. Permit me to do it now."
"Thank you."
"Your M. La Touche is a pleasant little fellow, Rose. You and he have my best wishes for your future happiness."
"The 'pleasant little fellow' and myself are exceedingly obliged to you!" her eyes flashing; "and now, Mr. Stanford, if you have said all you have to say, suppose we go back?"
"But I have not said all I have to say, nor half. I want to know why you are going to marry him?"
"And I want to know," retorted Rose, "what business it is of yours?"
"Be civil Rose! I told you once before, if you recollect, that I was very fond of you. Being fond of you, it is natural I should take an interest in your welfare. What are you going to marry him for?"
"For love!" said Rose, spitefully.
"I don't believe it! Excuse me for contradicting you, my dear Rose; but I don't believe it. He is a good-looking lamb-like little fellow, and he is worth forty thousand pounds; but I don't believe it!"
"Don't believe it, then. What you believe, or what you disbelieve, is a matter of perfect indifference to me," said Rose, looking straight before her with compressed lips.
"I don't believe that, either. What is the use of saying such things to me?"
"Mr. Stanford, do you mean to insult me?" demanded Rose furiously. "Let me go this instant. Fetch me back to the rest. Oh, if papa were here, you wouldn't dare to talk to me like that. Reginald Stanford, let me go. I hate you!"
For Mr. Stanford had put his arm around her waist, and was looking down at her with those darkly daring eyes. What could Rose do?--silly, love-sick Rose. She didn't hate him, and she broke out into a perfect passion of sobs.
"Sit down, Rose," he said, very gently, leading her to a mossy knoll under a tree; "and, my darling, don't cry. You will redden your eyes, and swell your nose, and won't look pretty. Don't cry any more!"
If Mr. Stanford had been trying for a week, he could have used no more convincing argument.
Rose wiped her eyes gracefully; but wouldn't look at him.
"That's a good girl!" said Stanford. "I will agree to everything rather than offend you. You love M. La Touche, and you hate me. Will that do?"
"Let us go back," said Rose, stiffly, getting up. "I don't see what you mean by such talk. I know it is wrong and insulting."
"Do you feel insulted?" he asked, smiling down at her.
"Let me alone!" cried Rose, the passionate tears starting to her eyes again. "Let me alone, I tell you! You have no business to torment me like this!"
He caught her suddenly in his arms, and kissed her again and again.
"Rose! Rose! my darling! you love me, don't you? My dear little Rose, I can't let you marry Jules La Touche, or any one else."
He released her just in time.
"Rose! Rose!" Kate's clear voice was calling somewhere near.
"Here we are," returned Stanford, in answer, for Rose was speechless; and two minutes later they were face to face with Miss Danton and M. La Touche.
Mr. Stanford's face was clear as the blue March sky, but Rose looked as flushed and guilty as she felt. She shrank from looking at her sister or lover, and clung involuntarily to Reginald's arm.
"Have you been plotting to murder any one?" asked Kate. "You look like it."
"We have been flirting," said Mr. Stanford, with the most perfect composure. "You don't mind, do you? M. La Touche, I resign in your favour. Come, Kate."
Rose and Reginald did not exchange another word all day. Rose was very subdued, very still. She hardly opened her lips all the afternoon to the unlucky Jules. She hardly opened them at dinner, except to admit the edibles, and she was unnaturally quiet all the evening. She retired into a corner with some crochet-work, and declined conversation and coffee alike, until bedtime. She went slowly and decorously upstairs, with that indescribable subdued face, and bade everybody good-night without looking at them.
Eeny, who shared Grace's room, sat on a stool before the bedroom fire a long time that night, looking dreamily into the glowing coals.
Grace, sitting beside her, combing out her own long hair, watched her in silence.
Presently Eeny looked up.
"How odd it seems to think of her being married."
"Who?"
"Rose. It seems queer, somehow. I don't mind Kate. I heard before ever she came here that she was going to be married; but Rose--I can't realize it."
"I have known it this long time," said Grace. "She told me the day she returned from Ottawa. I am glad she is going to do so well."
"I like him very much," said Eeny; "but he seems too quiet for Rose. Don't he?"
"People like to marry their own opposite," answered Grace. "Not that but Rose is getting remarkably quiet herself. She hadn't a word to say all the evening."
"It will be very lonely when June comes, won't it, Grace?" said Eeny, with a little sigh. "Kate will go to England, Rose to Ottawa, your brother is going to Montreal, and perhaps papa will take his ship again, and there will be no one but you and I, Grace."
Grace stooped down and kissed the delicate, thoughtful young face.
"My dear little Eeny, papa is not going away."
"Isn't he? How do you know?"
"That is a secret," laughing and colouring. "If you won't mention it, I will tell you."
"I won't. What is it?"
Grace stooped and whispered, her falling hair hiding her face.
Eeny sprang up and clasped her hands.
"Oh, Grace!"
"Are you sorry, Eeny?"
Eeny's arms were around her neck. Eeny's lips were kissing her delightedly.
"I am so glad! Oh, Grace, you will never go away any more!"
"Never, my pet. And now, don't let us talk any longer; it is time to go to bed."
Rather to Eeny's surprise, there was no revelation made next morning of the new state of affairs. When she gave her father his good-morning kiss, she only whispered in his ear:
"I am so glad, papa."
And the Captain had smiled, and patted her pale cheek, and sat down to breakfast, talking genially right and left.
After breakfast, Doctor Frank, Mr. Stanford, and M. La Touche, with the big dog Tiger at their heels, and guns over their shoulders, departed for a morning's shooting. Captain Danton went to spend an hour with Mr. Richards. Rose secluded herself with a book in her room, and Kate was left alone. She tried to play, but she was restless that morning, and gave it up. She tried to read. The book failed to interest her. She walked to the window, and looked out at the sunshine glittering on the melting snow.
"I will go for a walk," she thought, "and visit some of my poor people in the village."
She ran up stairs for her hat and shawl, and sallied forth. Her poor people in the village were always glad to see the beautiful girl who emptied her purse so bountifully for them, and spoke to them so sweetly. She visited half-a-dozen of her pensioners, leaving pleasant words and silver shillings behind her, and then walked on to the Church of St. Croix. The presbytery stood beside it, surrounded by a trim garden with gravelled paths. Kate opened the garden gate, and walked up to where Father Francis stood in the open doorway.
"I have come to see you," she said, "since you won't come to see us. Have you forgotten your friends at Danton Hall? You have not been up for a week."
"Too busy," said Father Francis; "the Curé is in Montreal, and all devolves upon me. Come in."
She followed him into the little parlour, and sat down by the open window.
"And what's the news from Danton Hall?"
"Nothing! Oh!" said Kate, blushing and smiling, "except another wedding!"
"Another! Two more weddings, you mean?"
"No!" said Kate, surprised: "only one. Rose, you know, father, to M. La. Touche!"
Father Francis looked at her a moment smilingly. "They haven't told you, then?"
"What?"
"That your father is going to be married!"
Her heart stood still; the room seemed to swim around in the suddenness of the shock.
"Father Francis!"
"You have not been told? Are you surprised? I have been expecting as much as this for some time."
"You are jesting, Father Francis," she said, finding voice, which for a moment had failed her; "it cannot be true!"
"It is quite true. I saw your father yesterday, and he told me himself."
"And to whom--?"
She tried to finish the sentence, but her rebellious tongue would not.
"To Grace! I am surprised that your father has not told you. If I had dreamed it was in the slightest degree a secret, I certainly would not have spoken." She did not answer.
He glanced at her, and saw that her cheeks and lips had turned ashen white, as she gazed steadfastly out of the window.
"My child," said the priest, "you do not speak. You are not disappointed--you are not grieved?"
She arose to go, still pale with the great and sudden surprise.
"You have given me a great shock in telling me this. I never dreamed of another taking my dear dead mother's place. I am very selfish and unreasonable, I dare say; but I thought papa would have been satisfied to make my home his. I have loved my father very much, and I cannot get used to the idea all in a moment of another taking my place."
She walked to the door. Father Francis followed her.
"One word," he said. "It is in your power, and in your power alone, to make your father seriously unhappy. You have no right to do that; he has been the most indulgent of parents to you. Remember that now--remember how he has never grieved you, and do not grieve him. Can I trust you to do this?"
"You can trust me," said Kate, a little softened. "Good morning."
She walked straight home, her heart all in a rebellious tumult. From the first she had never taken very kindly to Grace; but just now she felt as if she positively hated her.
"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."
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