"We shall meet as often as you wish," answered Reginald. "You have my deepest sympathy. Good night."

The white, despairing face haunted Reginald Stanford's dreams all night, as if he had indeed been a ghost. He was glad when morning came, and he could escape the spectres of dream-land in the business of everyday life. He stopped in the hall on his way down stairs, to look out at the morning, wet, and cold, and dark, and miserable. As he stood, some one pa.s.sed him, going up to the upper bedroom regions of the servants--a small, pallid little creature, looking like a stray spirit in its black dress--Agnes Darling.

"Another ghost?" thought Mr. Stanford, running down stairs. "They are not far wrong who call Danton Hall a haunted house."

CHAPTER XIII.

LOVE-MAKING.

A dismal March afternoon, an earth hard as iron, with black frost, a wild wind troubling the gaunt trees, and howling mournfully around the old house. A desolate, wintry afternoon, threatening storm; but despite its ominous aspect, the young people at Danton Hall had gone off for a long sleigh-ride. Reginald and Kate had the little sh.e.l.l-shaped cutter, Rose, Eeny, Mr. Howard, Junior, Miss Howard, and Doctor Frank, in the big three-seated family sleigh. Amid the jingling of silvery bells, peals of girlish laughter, and a chorus of good-byes to the Captain and Grace, standing on the stone stoop, they had departed.

Captain Danton and his housekeeper spent the bleak March afternoon very comfortably together. The fire burned brightly, the parlour was like waxwork in its perfect order; Grace, with her sewing, sat by her favourite window. Captain Danton, with the Montreal _True Witness_, sat opposite, reading her the news. Grace was not very profoundly interested in the political questions then disturbing Canada, or in the doings and sayings of the Canadian Legislature; but she listened with a look of pleased attention to all. Presently the Captain laid down the newspaper and looked out.

"The girls and boys will be caught in the storm, as I told them they would. You and I were wisest, Grace, to stay at home."

Grace smiled and folded up her work.

"Where are you going?" asked the Captain.

"To get the remainder of this embroidery from Agnes Darling. Do you know what it is?"

"How should I?"

"Well, then, it is a part of Miss Kate's bridal outfit. June will soon be here, although to-day does not look much like it."

She went out and descended to the sewing-room. All alone, and sitting by the window, her needle flying rapidly, was the pale seamstress.

"Have you finished those bands, Miss Darling? Ah, I see you have and very nicely. I am ready for them, and will take them upstairs. Are these the sleeves you are working on?"

Miss Darling replied in the affirmative, and Grace turned to depart. On the threshold she paused.

"You don't look very well, Miss Darling," she said, kindly; "don't work too late. There is no hurry with the things."

She returned to the parlour, where Captain Danton, who had become very fond of his housekeeper's society of late, still sat. And Agnes Darling, alone in the cosy little sewing-room, worked busily while the light lasted. When it grew too dark for the fine embroidery, she dropped it in her lap, and looked out at the wintry prospect.

The storm that had been threatening all day was rising fast. The wind had increased to a gale, and shook the windows and doors, and worried the trees, and went shrieking off over the bleak marshes, to a wild gulf and rushing river. Great snowflakes fluttered through the leaden air, faster and faster, and faster, until presently all was lost in a dizzy cloud of falling whiteness. A wild and desolate evening, making the pleasant little room, with its rosy fire, and carpet, and pretty furniture, tenfold pleasanter by contrast. A bleak and terrible evening for all wayfarers--bitterly cold, and darkening fast.

The seamstress sat while the dismal daylight faded drearily out, her hands lying idly in her lap, her great, melancholy dark eyes fixed on the fast-falling snow. The tokens of sickness and sorrow lingered more marked than ever in that wasted form and colourless face, and the ruddy glow of the fire-light flickered on her mourning dress. Weary and lonely, she looked as the dying day.

Presently, above the shrieking of the stormy wind, came another sound--the loud jingling of sleigh-bells. Dimly through the fluttering whiteness of the snow-storm she saw the sleighs whirl up to the door, and their occupants, in a tumult of laughter, hurrying rapidly into the house. She could hear those merry laughs, those feminine tones, and the pattering of gaitered feet up the stairs. She could hear the deeper voices of the gentlemen, as they stamped and shook the snow off their hats and great-coats in the hall. She listened and looked out again at the wintry twilight.

"Oh!" she thought, with weary sadness, "what happy people there are in the world! Women who love and are beloved, who have everything their hearts desire--home, and friends, and youth, and hope, and happiness.

Women who scarcely know, even by hearsay, of such wretched castaways as I."

She walked from the window to the fire, and, leaning against the mantel, fixed her eyes on the flickering flame.

"My birthday," she said to herself, "this long, lonesome, desolate day.

Desolate as my lost life, as my dead heart. Only two-and twenty, and all that makes life worth having, gone already."

Again she walked to the window. Far away, and pale and dim through the drifting snow, she could see the low-lying sky.

"Not all!" was the better thought that came to her in her bitterness--"not all, but oh! how far away the land of rest looks!"

She leaned against the window, as she had leaned against the mantel, and took from her bosom the locket she always wore.

"This day twelvemonth he gave me this--his birthday gift. Oh, my darling! My husband! where in all the wide world are you this stormy night?"

There was a rap at the door. She thrust the locket again in her bosom, choked back the hysterical pa.s.sion of tears rising in her heart, crossed the room, and opened the door. Her visitor was Doctor Danton.

"I thought I should find you here," he said, entering.

"How are you to-day, Miss Darling? Not very well, as your face plainly testifies; give me your hand--cold as ice! My dear child, what is the trouble now?"

At the kindness of his tone she broke down suddenly. She had been alone so long brooding in solitude over her troubles, that she had grown hysterical. It wanted but that kindly voice and look to open the closed flood-gates of her heart. She covered her face with her hands, and broke out into a pa.s.sionate fit of crying.

Doctor Frank led her gently to a seat, and stood leaning against the chimney, looking into the dying fire, and not speaking. The hysterics would pa.s.s, he knew, if she were let alone; and when the sobbing grew less violent, he spoke.

"You sit alone too much," he said quietly; "it is not good for you. You must give it up, or you will break down altogether."

"Forgive me," said Agnes, trying to choke back the sobs. "I am weak and miserable, and cannot help it. I did not mean to cry now."

"You are alone too much," repeated the Doctor; "it won't do. You think too much of the past, and despond too much in the present. That won't do either. You must give it up."

His calm, authoritative tone soothed her somehow. The tears fell less hotly, and she lifted her poor, pale face.

"I am very foolish, but it is my birthday, and I could not help--"

She broke down again.

"It all comes of being so much alone," repeated Doctor Frank. "It won't do. Agnes, how often must I tell you so? Do you know what they say of you in the house?"

"No," looking up in quick alarm.

"They accuse you of having something on your mind. The servants look at you with suspicion, and it all comes of your love of solitude, your silence and sadness. Give it up, Agnes, give it up."

"Doctor Danton," she cried, piteously, "what can I do? I am the most unhappy woman in all the world. What can I do?"

"There is no need of you being the most unhappy woman in the world; there is no need of your being unhappy at all."

She looked up at him in white, voiceless appeal, her lips and hands trembling.

"Don't excite yourself--don't be agitated. I have no news for you but I think I may bid you hope with safety. I don't think it was a ghost you saw that night."

She gave a little cry, and then sat white and still, waiting.