_ CHAPTER XXIV. COALS OF FIRE
One afternoon, about a fortnight after the receipt of that letter from France, Rose Stanford sat alone once more in the shabby little parlour of the London lodging-house. It was late in April, but a fire burned feebly in the little grate, and she sat cowering over it wrapped in a large shawl. She had changed terribly during these two weeks; she had grown old, and hollow-eyed, a haggard, worn, wretched woman.
It was her third day up, this April afternoon, for a low, miserable fever had confined her to her bed, and worn her to the pallid shadow she was now. She had just finished writing a letter, a long, sad letter, and it lay in her lap while she sat shivering over the fire. It was a letter to her father, a tardy prayer for forgiveness, and a confession of all her misdoings and wrongs--of Reginald Stanford's rather, for, of course, all the blame was thrown upon him, though, if Rose had told the truth, she would have found herself the more in fault of the two.
"I am sick, and poor, and broken-hearted," wrote Mrs. Stanford; "and I want to go home and die. I have been very wicked, papa, but I have suffered so much, that even those I have wronged most might forgive me. Write to me at once, and say I may go home; I only want to go and die in peace. I feel that I am dying now."
She folded the letter with a weary sigh and a hand that shook like an old woman's, and rising, rang the bell. The brisk young woman answered the summons at once with a smile on her face, and Mrs. Stanford's baby crowing in her arms. They had been very kind to the poor young mother and the fatherless babe during this time of trial; but Mrs. Stanford was too ill and broken down to think about it, or feel grateful.
"Here, Jane," said Mrs. Stanford, holding out the letter, "give me the baby, and post this letter."
Jane obeyed; and Rose, with the infant in her lap, sat staring gloomily at the red coals.
"Two weeks before it will reach them, two weeks more before an answer can arrive, and another two weeks before I can be with them. Oh, dear me! dear me! how shall I drag out life during these interminable weeks. If I could only die at once and end it all."
Tears of unutterable wretchedness and loneliness and misery coursed down her pale, thin cheeks. Surely no one ever paid more dearly for love's short madness than this unfortunate little Rose.
"Marry in haste and repent at leisure," she thought, with unspeakable bitterness. "Oh, how happy I might have been to-day if I had only done right last year. But I was mad and treacherous and false, and I dare-say it serves me right. How can I ever look them in the face when I go home?"
The weary weeks dragged on, how wearily and miserably only Rose knew. She never went out; she sat all day long in that shabby parlour, and stared blankly at the passers-by in the street, waiting, waiting.
The good-natured landlady and her daughter took charge of the baby during those wretched weeks of expectation, or Mrs. Reginald Stanford's only son would have been sadly neglected.
April was gone; May came in, bringing the anniversary of Rose's ill-starred marriage and finding her in that worst widowhood, a day of ceaseless tears and regrets to the unhappy, deserted wife. The bright May days went by, one after another, passing as wretched days and more wretched nights do pass somehow; and June had taken its place. In all this long, long time, no letter had come for Rose. How she watched and waited for it; how she had strained her eyes day after day to catch sight of the postman; how her heart leaped up and throbbed when she saw him approach, and sank down in her breast like lead as he went by, only those can know who have watched and waited like her. A sickening sense of despair stole over her at last. They had forgotten her; they hated and despised her, and left her to her fate. There was nothing for it but to go to the alms-house and die, like any other pauper.
She had been mad when she fancied they could forgive her. Her sins had been too great. All the world had deserted her, and the sooner she was dead and out of the way the better.
She sat in the misty June twilight thinking this, with a sad, hopeless kind of resignation. It was the fifth of June. Could she forget that this very day twelvemonth was to have been her wedding-day? Poor Jules--poor Kate! Oh, what a wretch she had been!
She covered her face with her hands, tears falling like rain through her thin fingers.
"I wonder if they will be sorry for me, and forgive me, when they hear I am dead?" she thought. "Oh, how I live, and live; when other women would have died long ago with half this trouble. Only nineteen, and with nothing left to wish for but death."
There was a tap at the door. Before she could speak it was opened, and Jane, the brisk, came rustling in.
"There's a gentleman down-stairs, Mrs. Stanford, asking to see you."
Rose sprang up, her lips apart, her eyes dilating.
"To see me! A gentleman! Jane, is it Mr. Stanford?"
Jane shook her head.
"Not a bit like Mr. Stanford, ma'am; not near so 'andsome, though a very fine-looking gentleman. He said, to tell you as 'ow a friend wanted to see you."
A friend! Oh, who could it be? She made a motion to Jane to show him up--she was too agitated to speak. She stood with her hands clasped over her beating heart, breathless, waiting.
A man's quick step flew up the stairs; a tall figure stood in the doorway, hat in hand.
Rose uttered a faint cry. She had thought of her father, of Jules La Touche, never once of him who stood before her.
"Doctor Frank!" she gasped; and then she was holding to a chair for support, feeling the walls swimming around her.
Doctor Frank took her in his arms, and kissed her pale cheek as tenderly and pityingly as her father might have done.
"My poor child! My poor little Rose! What a shadow you are! Don't cry so--pray don't!"
She bowed her weary head against his shoulder, and broke out into hysterical sobbing. It was so good to see that friendly familiar face once more--she clung to him with a sense of unspeakable trust and relief, and cried in the fullness of her heart.
He let her tears flow for awhile, sitting beside her, and stroking the faded, disordered hair away from the wan, pale face.
"There! there!" he said, at last, "we have had tears enough now. Look up and let me talk to you. What did you think when you received no answer to your letter?"
"I thought you all very cruel. I thought I was forgotten."
"Of course you did; but you are not forgotten, and it is my fault that you have had no letter. I wanted to surprise you; and I have brought a letter from your father breathing nothing but love and forgiveness."
"Give it to me!" cried Rose, breathlessly; "give it to me!"
"Can't, unfortunately, yet awhile. I left it at my hotel. Don't look so disappointed. I am going to take you there in half an hour. Hallo! Is that the baby?"
Reginald Stanford, Junior, asleep in his crib, set up a sudden squall at this moment.
Doctor Frank crossed the floor, and hoisted him up in a twinkling.
"Why, he's a splendid little fellow, Rose, and the very image of--What do you call him?"
"Reginald," Rose said, in a very subdued tone.
"Well, Master Reginald, you and I are going to be good friends, aren't we, and you're not going to cry?"
He hoisted him high in the air, and baby answered with a loud crow.
"That's right. Babies always take to me, Rose. You don't know how many dozens I have nursed in my time. But you don't ask me any questions about home. Aren't you curious to know how they all get on?"
"Papa is married, I suppose?" Rose said.
"Of course--last January. And Danton Hall was burnt down; and they have built up another twice as big and three times as handsome. And Mr. Richards--you remember the mysterious invalid, Rose?"
"Yes."
"Well, Mr. Richards turned out to be your brother Harry, who lived shut up there, because he thought he had committed a murder, some time before, in New York. And Agnes Darling--you have not forgotten Agnes Darling?"
"Oh, no."
"Agnes Darling turns out to be his wife. Quite a romance, isn't it? I will tell you all the particulars another time. Just now, I want you to put on your bonnet and come with me to my hotel. Don't ask me why--I won't tell you. We will fetch the baby too. Go, get ready."
Doctor Frank was imperative, and Rose yielded at once. It was so indescribably delightful, after all these weeks of suspense and despair, to see Frank Danton's friendly face, and to listen to his friendly voice, commanding as one who had the right. Rose had her hat and shawl on directly, and, with baby in her arms, followed him down stairs. A hansom stood waiting. He helped her in, gave the cabman his orders, took his place beside her, and they rattled off.
"When am I going home?" Rose asked, suddenly. "Have you come to fetch me?"
"Not precisely. You are to return with me, however."
"And when are we going?"
"That is not quite decided yet. It is an after-consideration, and there is no hurry. Are you particularly anxious to be back to Canada?"
"I am tired of being lonely and homeless," poor Rose replied, the tears starting. "I want to be at rest, and among the dear familiar faces. Doctor Frank," she said, looking at him appealingly, "have they forgiven me, do you think?"
"Whom do you mean by they, Mrs. Stanford?"
"Papa and--and Kate."
"I have reason to think so. Of course, it must have been rather disagreeable to Kate at first, to have her lover run away and leave her, but I really think she has got over it. We must be resigned to the inevitable, you know, my dear Rose, in this changeable world."
Rose sighed, and looked out of the window. A moment later, and the cab drew up before a stately hotel.
"This is the place," said the Doctor. "Come!"
He helped her out, gave his arm, and led her up a long flight of broad stairs. It was quite a little journey through carpeted corridors to the gentleman's apartments; but he reached the door at last. It opened into a long vista of splendour, as it seemed to Rose, accustomed so long to the shabby Strand lodgings. She had expected to find the Doctor's rooms empty; but, to her surprise, within an inner apartment, whose door stood wide, she saw a lady. The lady, robed in bright silk, tall and stately, with golden hair twisted coronet wise round the shapely head, stood with her back to them, looking out of the window. Something in that straight and stately form struck with a nameless thrill to Rose Stanford's heart; and she stood in the doorway, spell-bound. At the noise of their entrance, the lady turned round, uttered an exclamation of pleasure, and advanced towards them. Doctor Frank stood with a smile on his face, enjoying Mrs. Stanford's consternation. Another second and she was clasped in the lady's arms.
"Rose! Rose! My dear little sister!"
"Kate!" Rose murmured, faintly, all white and trembling.
Kate looked up at the smiling face of the Doctor, a new light dawning on her.
"Oh, he has never told you! For shame, Frank, to shock her so! My darling, did you not know I was here?"
"No; he never told me," Rose said, sinking into a chair, and looking hopelessly at her sister. "What does it mean, Kate? Is papa here?"
"I leave the onerous duty of explaining everything to you, Kate," said the Doctor, before Kate could reply. "I am going down stairs to smoke."
"That provoking fellow!" Kate said, smilingly, looking after him; "it is just like him."
"Is papa here?" Rose repeated, wonderingly.
"No, my dear; papa is at Danton Hall, with his wife. It was impossible for him to come."
"Then how do you happen to be here, and with Doctor Frank?"
Kate laughed--such a sweet, clear, happy laugh--as she kissed Rose's wondering face.
"For the very best reason in the world, Mrs. Stanford! Because I happen to be Doctor Frank's wife!"
Rose sat, confounded, speechless--literally struck dumb--staring helplessly.
"His wife!" she repeated. "His wife!" and then sat lost in overwhelming amaze.
"Yes, my dear; his happy wife. I do not wonder you are astonished, knowing the past; but it is a long story to tell. I am ashamed to think how wicked and disagreeable, and perverse, I used to be; but it is all over now. I think there is no one in all the wide world like Frank!"
Her eyes filled as she said it, and she laid her face for a moment on her sister's shoulder.
"I was blind in those past days, Rose, and too prejudiced to do justice to a noble man's worth. I love my husband with my whole heart--with an affection that can never change."
"And you forgive me?"
"I forgave you long ago. Is this the baby? How pretty! Give him to me."
She took Master Reginald in her arms, and kissed his chubby face.
"To think that you should ever nurse Reginald Stanford's child! How odd!" said Rose, languidly.
The colour rushed into Mrs. Frank Danton's face for a second or two, as she stooped over the baby.
"Strange things happen in this world. I shall be very fond of the baby, I know."
"And Grace, whom you disliked so much, is your mother and sister both together. How very queer!"
Kate laughed.
"It is odd, but quite true. Come, take your things off; you are not to leave us again. We will send to your lodgings for your luggage."
"How long have you been married?" asked Rose, as she obeyed.
"Three weeks; and this is our bridal tour. We depart for Paris in two days. You know Frank has had a fortune."
"I don't know anything. Do tell me all about it--your marriage and everything. I am dying of curiosity."
Mrs. Doctor Danton seated herself in a low chair, with Reginald Stanford's first-born in her lap, and began recapitulating as much of the past as was necessary to enlighten Mrs. Stanford.
"So he saved Eeny's life; and you nursed him, and fell in love with him, and married him, and his old uncle dies and leaves him a fortune in the nick of time. It sounds like a fairy tale; you ought to finish with--'and they lived happy forever after!'"
"Please Heaven, we will! Such real-life romance happens every day, sister mine. Oh, by-the-by, guess who was at our wedding?"
"Who?"
"A very old friend of yours, my dear--Monsieur Jules La Touche."
"No! Was he, though? How did you come to invite him?"
"He chanced to be in the neighbourhood at the time. Do you know, Rose, I should not be surprised if he accomplished his destiny yet, and became papa's son-in-law."
Rose looked up, breathlessly, thinking only of herself.
"Impossible, Kate!--What do you mean?"
"Not at all impossible, I assure you. Eeny was my bride-maid, and you have no idea how pretty she looked; and so Monsieur La Touche seemed to think, by the very marked attention he paid her. It would be an excellent thing for her; he is in a fair way of becoming a millionaire."
A pang of the bitterest envy and mortification she had ever felt, pierced Rose Stanford's heart. Oh! what a miserable--what an unfortunate creature she had been! She turned away, that her sister might not see her face, and Kate carelessly went on.
"Eeny always liked him, I know. She likes him better than ever now. I shall not be at all surprised if we find her engaged when we go home."
"Indeed!" Rose said, trying to speak naturally, and failing signally. "And when are we going home?"
"Early in November, I believe. Frank and I are to make Montreal our home, for he will not give up his profession, of course; and you shall come and live with us if you like the city better than St. Croix."
Rose's slumbers that night were sadly disturbed. It was not the contrast between her handsome bedroom and downy pillows, and the comfortless little chamber she had slept in so long; it was not thought of her sister's goodness and generosity: it was the image of Eeny, in silk and jewels, the bride of Jules La Touche, the millionaire.
Somehow, unacknowledged in her heart of hearts, there had lingered a hope of vengeance on her husband, triumph for herself as the wife of her deserted lover! There would be a divorce, and then she might legally marry. She had no conscientious scruples about that sort of marriages, and she took it for granted Monsieur La Touche could have none either. But now these hopes were nipped in the bud. Eeny--younger, fresher, fairer, perhaps--was to have him and the splendid position his wife must attain; and she was to be a miserable, poor, deserted wife all her days.
I am afraid Mrs. Stanford was not properly thankful for her blessings that night. She had thought, only one day before, that to find her friends and be forgiven by them would be the sum total of earthly happiness; but now she had found them, and was forgiven, she was as wretched as ever.
The contrast between what she was and what she might have been was rather striking, certainly; and the bitterest pang of all was the thought she had no one to blame, from first to last, but herself.
Oh, if she had only been true! This was what came of marrying for love, and trampling under foot prudence, and honour, and truth. A month or two of joy, and life-long regret and repentance!
Doctor Danton, his wife, and sister, took a hurried scamper over London, and departed for Paris.
The weather in that gay capital was very warm, indeed, but delightful to Rose, who had never crossed the Channel before. Paris was comparatively familiar ground to the young Doctor; he took the two ladies sight-seeing perpetually; and Mrs. Stanford almost forgot her troubles in the delights of the brilliant French city.
A nurse had been engaged for baby, so that troublesome young gentleman no longer came between his mamma and life's enjoyment. Her diminished wardrobe had been replenished too; and, well-fed and well-dressed, Rose began to look almost like the sparkling, piquant Rose of other days.
The Dantons had been three weeks in Paris, and were to leave in a day or two en route for Switzerland. The Doctor had taken them for a last drive through the Bois de Boulogne the sunny afternoon that was to be their last for some time in the French capital. Kate and Rose, looking very handsome, and beautifully dressed, lay back among the cushions, attracting more than one glance of admiration from those who passed by.
Mrs. Danton was chatting gayly with her husband, and Rose, poising a dainty azure parasol, looked at the well-dressed Parisians around her.
Suddenly, the hand so daintily holding the parasol grasped it tight, the hot blood surged in a torrent to her face, and her eyes fixed and dilated on two equestrians slowly approaching. A lady and gentleman--the lady a Frenchwoman evidently, dark, rather good-looking, and not very young; the gentleman, tall, eminently handsome, and much more youthful than his fair companion, Rose Stanford and her false husband were face to face!
He had seen them, and grown more livid than death; his eyes fixed on Doctor Danton and his beautiful wife, talking and laughing with such infinitely happy faces.
One glance told him how matters stood--told him the girl he had forsaken was the happy wife of a better man. Then his glance met that of his wife, pretty, and blooming and bright as when he had first fallen in love with her; but those hazel eyes were flashing fire, and the pretty face was fierce with rage and scorn.
Then they were past; and Reginald Stanford and his wife had seen each other for the last time on earth.
* * * * *
The summer flew by. They visited Switzerland, Germany, Italy, and were back in Paris in October. About the middle of that month they sailed from Havre to New York, and reached that city after a delightful passage. It being Rose's first sight of the Empire City, they lingered a week to show her the lions, and early in November were on the first stage of their journey to Danton Hall. _