_ CHAPTER XX. 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!" _