I should like to write more, but I am going on board in an hour.

Please tell Kate not to break her heart. It's of no use.

Give my regard to that obliging brother of yours. I like him very much. Perhaps I may write to you from England if you will not be disagreeable, and will answer. I should like to hear the news from Canada and Danton Hall. Rapturously thine,

Rose Stanford.

[Grace Danton to Dr. Danton.]

Danton Hall, May 30.

Dear Frank:--"Man proposes--" You know the proverb, which holds good in the case of women too. I know my prolonged silence must have surprised you; but I have been so worried and anxious, of late, that writing has become an impossibility. Danton Hall has become a _maison de deuil_--a house of mourning indeed. I look back as people look back on some dim, delightful dream to the days that are gone, and wonder if indeed we were so merry and gay. The silence of the grave reigns here now. The laughter, the music--all the merry sounds of a happy household--have fled forever. A convent of ascetic nuns could not be stiller, nor the holy sisterhood more grave and sombre. Let me begin at the beginning, and relate events as they occurred, if I can.

The day after I wrote you last brought the first event, in the shape of a letter from Rose to myself. A more thoroughly selfish and heartless epistle could not have been penned. I always knew her to be selfish, and frivolous, vain, and silly to the backbone--yea, backbone and all; but still I had a sort of liking for her withal.

That letter effectually dispelled any lingering remains of that weakness. It spoke of her marriage with Reginald Stanford in the most shamelessly insolent and exultant tone. It alluded to her sister and to poor Jules La Touche in a way that brought the "bitter bad" blood of the old Dantons to my face. Oh, if I could have but laid my hands on Mistress Rose at that moment, quiet as I am, I think I would have made her ears tingle as they never tingled before.

I said nothing of the letter. My greatest anxiety now was lest Captain Danton and Mr. Stanford should meet. I was in a state of feverish anxiety all day, which even Kate noticed. You know she never liked me, and latterly her aversion has deepened, though Heaven knows, without any cause on my part, and she avoided me as much as she possibly could without discourtesy. She inquired, however, if anything had happened--if I had bad news from her father, and looked at me in a puzzled manner when I answered "No."

I could not look at her; I could hardly speak to her; somehow I felt about as guilty concealing the truth as if I had been in the vile plot that had destroyed her happiness.

Father Francis came up in the course of the day; and when he was leaving, I called him into the library, and told him the truth. I cannot tell you how shocked he was at Rose's perfidy, or how distressed for Kate's sake. He agreed with me that it was best to say nothing until Captain Danton's return.

He came that night. It was late--nearly eleven o'clock, and I and Thomas were the only ones up. Thomas admitted him; and I shall never forget how worn, and pale, and haggard he looked as he came in.

"It was too late, Grace," were his first words. "They have gone."

"Thank Heaven!" I exclaimed. "Thank Heaven you have not met them, and that there is no blood shed. Oh, believe me, it is better as it is."

"Does Kate know?" he asked.

"Not yet. No one knows but Father Francis. He thought as I did, that it was better to wait until you returned."

"My poor child! My poor Kate!" he said, in a broken voice, "who will tell you this?"

He was so distressed that I knelt down beside him, and tried to sooth and comfort him.

"Father Francis will," I said. "She venerates and esteems him more highly than any other living being, and his influence over her is greater. Let Father Francis tell her to-morrow."

Captain Danton agreed that that was the very best thing that could be done, and soon after retired.

I went to my room, too, but not to sleep. I was too miserably anxious about the morrow. The night was lovely--bright as day and warm as midsummer. I sat by the window looking out, and saw Kate walking up and down the tamarack avenue with that mysterious Mr.

Richards. They lingered there for over an hour, and then I heard them coming softly upstairs, and going to their respective rooms.

Next morning after breakfast, Captain Danton rode down to the village and had an interview with Father Francis. Two hours after, they returned to Danton Hall together, both looking pale and ill at ease. Kate and I were in the drawing-room--she practising a new song, I sewing. We both rose at their entrance--she gayly; I with my heart beating thick and fast.

"I am glad the beauty of the day tempted you out, Father Francis,"

she said. "I wish our wanderers would come back. Danton Hall has been as gloomy as an old bastille lately."

I don't know what Father Francis said. I know he looked as though the errand he had come to fulfil were unspeakably distasteful to him.

"Reginald ought to be home to-day," Kate said, walking to the window, "and Rose next week. It seems like a century since they went away."

I could wait for no more--I hurried out of the room--crying, I am afraid. Before I could go upstairs, Captain Danton joined me in the hall.

"Don't go," he said, hoa.r.s.ely; "wait here. You may be wanted."

My heart seemed to stand still in vague apprehension of--I hardly know what. We stood there together waiting, as the few friends who loved the ill-fated Scottish Queen so well, may have stood when she laid her head on the block. I looked at that closed door with a mute terror of what was pa.s.sing within--every nerve strained to hear the poor tortured girl's cry of anguish. No such cry ever came. We waited ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, half an hour, an hour, before that closed door opened. We shrank away, but it was only Father Francis, very pale and sad. Our eyes asked the question our tongues would not utter.

"She knows all," he said, in a tremulous voice; "she has taken it very quietly--too quietly. She has alarmed me--that unnatural calm is more distressing than the wildest outburst of weeping."

"Shall we go to her?" asked her father.

"I think not--I think she is better alone. Don't disturb her to-day. I will come up again this evening."

"What did she say?" I asked.

"Very little. She seemed stunned, as people are stunned by a sudden blow. Don't linger here; she will probably be going up to her room, and may not like to think you are watching her."

Father Francis went away. Captain Danton retired to his study. I remained in the recess, which you know is opposite the drawing-room, with the door ajar. I wished to prevent Eeny or any of the servants from disturbing her by suddenly entering. About an hour after, the door opened, and she came out and went slowly upstairs. I caught a glimpse of her face as she pa.s.sed, and it had turned to the pallor of death. I heard her enter the room and lock the door, and I believe I sat and cried all the morning.

She did not come down all day. I called in Eeny, and told her what had happened, and shocked the poor child as she was never shocked before. At dinner-time I sent her upstairs, to see if Kate would not take some refreshment. Her knocking and calling remained unanswered. She left in despair, and Kate never came down.

Another sleepless night--another anxious morning. About eight o'clock I heard Kate's bell ring, and Eunice go upstairs. Presently the girl ran down and entered the room where I was.

"If you please, Miss Grace, Miss Kate wants you," said Eunice, with a scared face; "and oh, Miss, I think she's ill, she do look so bad!"

Wanted me! I dropped the silver I was holding, in sheer affright.

What could she want of me? I went upstairs, my heart almost choking me with its rapid throbbing, and rapped at the door.

She opened it herself. Well might Eunice think her ill. One night had wrought such change as I never thought a night could work before. She had evidently never lain down. She wore the dress of yesterday, and I could see the bed in the inner room undisturbed.

Her face was so awfully corpse-like, her eyes so haggard and sunken, her beauty so mysteriously gone, that I shrank before her as if it had been the spectre of the bright, beautiful, radiant Kate Danton. She leaned against the low mantelpiece, and motioned me forward with a cold, fixed look.

"You are aware," she said, in a hard, icy voice--oh so unlike the sweet tones of only yesterday--"what Father Francis came here yesterday to say. You and my father might have told me sooner; but I blame n.o.body. What I want to say is this: From this hour I never wish to hear from anyone the slightest allusion to the past; I never want to hear the names of those who are gone. I desire you to tell this to my father and sister. Your influence over them is greater than mine."

I bowed a.s.sent without looking up; I could feel the icy stare with which she was regarding me, without lifting my eyes.

"Father Francis mentioned a letter that R----"; she hesitated for a moment, and finally said--"that she sent you. Will you let me see it?"

That cruel, heartless, insulting letter! I looked up imploringly, with clasped hands.

"Pray don't," I said. "Oh, pray don't ask me! It is unworthy of notice--it will only hurt you more deeply still."

She held out her hand steadily.

"Will you let me see it?"

What could I do? I took the letter from my pocket, bitterly regretting that I had not destroyed it, and handed it to her.

"Thank you."