_ 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. _