She walked to the window, and with her back to me read it through--read it more than once, I should judge, by the length of time it took her. When she faced me again, there was no sign of change in her face.

"Is this letter of any use to you? Do you want it?"

"No! I only wish I had destroyed it long ago!"

"Then, with your permission, I will keep it."

"You!" I cried in consternation. "What can you want with that?"

A strange sort of look pa.s.sed across her face, darkening it, and she held it tightly in her grasp.

"I want to keep it for a very good reason," she said, between her teeth; "if I ever forget the good turn Rose Danton has done me, this letter will serve to remind me of it."

I was so frightened by her look, and tone, and words, that I could not speak. She saw it, and grew composed again instantly.

"I need not detain you any longer," she said, looking at her watch.

"I have no more to say. You can tell my father and sister what I have told you. I will go down to breakfast, and I am much obliged to you."

She turned from me and went back to the window. I left the room deeply distressed, and sought the dining-room, where I found the Captain and Eeny. I related the whole interview, and impressed upon them the necessity of obeying her. The breakfast-bell rang while we were talking, and she came in.

Both Eeny and her father were as much shocked as I had been by the haggard change in her; but neither spoke of it to her. We tried to be at our ease during breakfast, and to talk naturally; but the effort was a miserable failure. She never spoke, except when directly addressed, and ate nothing. She sat down to the piano, as usual, after breakfast, and practised steadily for two hours. Then she took her hat and a book, and went out to the garden to read. At luncheon-time she returned, with no better appet.i.te, and after that went up to Mr. Richards' room. She stayed with him two or three hours, and then sat down to her embroidery-frame, still cold, and impa.s.sionate, and silent. Father Francis came up in the evening; but she was cold and unsocial with him as with the rest of us. So that first day ended, and so every day has gone on since. What she suffers, she suffers in solitude and silence; only her worn face, haggard cheeks, and hollow eyes tell. She goes through the usual routine of life with treadmill regularity, and is growing as thin as a shadow. She neither eats, nor sleeps, nor complains; and she is killing herself by inches. We are worried to-death about her; and yet we are afraid to say one word in her hearing. Come to us, Frank; you are a physician, and though you cannot "minister to a mind diseased," you can at least tell us what will help her failing body. Your presence will do Captain Danton good, too; for I never saw him so miserable! We are all most unhappy, and any addition to our family circle will be for the better. We do not go out; we have few visitors; and the place is as lonely as a tomb. The gossip and scandal have spread like wildfire; the story is in everybody's mouth; even in the newspapers. Heaven forbid it should come to Kate's ears! This stony calm of hers is not to be trusted. It frightens me far more than any hysterical burst of sorrow. She has evidently some deep purpose in her mind--I am afraid to think it may be of revenge. Come to us, brother, and try if you can help us in our trouble.

Your affectionate sister, Grace.

CHAPTER XVII.

"SHE TOOK UP THE BURDEN OF LIFE AGAIN."

The second train from Montreal pa.s.sing through St. Croix on its way to--somewhere else, was late in the afternoon of the fifth of June.

Instead of shrieking into the village depot at four P.M., it was six when it arrived, and halted about a minute and a half to let the pa.s.sengers out and take pa.s.sengers in. Few got in and fewer got out--a sunburnt old Frenchman, a wizen little Frenchwoman, and their pretty, dark-skinned, black-eyed daughter; and a young man, who was tall and fair, and good-looking and gentlemanly, and not a Frenchman, judging by his looks. But, although he did not look like one, he could talk like one, and had kept up an animated discussion with pretty dark eyes in capital Canadian French for the last hour. He lifted his hat politely now, with "_Bon jour, Mademoiselle_," and walked away through the main street of the village.

It was a glorious summer evening. "The western sky was all aflame" with the gorgeous hues of the sunset; the air was like amber mist, and the shrill-voiced Canadian birds, with their gaudy plumage, sang their vesper laudates high in the green gloom of the feathery tamaracks.

A lovely evening with the soft hum of village life, the distant tinkling cow-bells, the songs of boys and girls driving them home, far and faint, and now and then the rumbling of cart-wheels on the dusty road. The fields on either hand stretching as far as the eye could reach, green as velvet; the giant trees rustling softly in the faint, sweet breeze; the flowers bright all along the hedges, and over all the golden glory of the summer sunset.

The young man walked very leisurely along, swinging his light rattan.

Wild roses and sweetbrier sent up their evening incense to the radiant sky. The young man lit a cigar, and sent up its incense too.

He left the village behind him presently, and turned off by the pleasant road leading to Danton Hall. Ten minutes brought him to it, changed since he had seen it last. The pines, the cedars, the tamaracks were all out in their summer-dress of living green; the flower-gardens were aflame with flowers, the orchard was white with blossoms, and the red light of the sunset was reflected with mimic glory in the still, broad fish-pond. Climbing roses and honeysuckles trailed their fragrant branches round the grim stone pillars of the portico. Windows and doors stood wide to admit the cool, rising breeze; and a big dog, that had gambolled up all the way, set up a ba.s.s bark of recognition. No living thing was to be seen in or around the house; but, at the sound of the bark, a face looked out from a window, about waist-high from the lawn.

The window was open, and the sweetbrier and the rose-vines made a very pretty frame for the delicate young face. A pale and pensive face, lit with luminous dark eyes, and shaded by soft, dark hair.

The young man walked up, and rested his arm on the low sill.

"Good-evening, Agnes."

Agnes Darling held out her hand, with a look of bright pleasure.

"I am glad to see you again, Doctor Danton; and Tiger, too."

"Thanks. I thought I should find you sewing here. Have you ever left off, night or day, since I left?"

She smiled, and resumed her work.

"I like to be busy; it keeps me from thinking. Not that I have been very busy of late."

"Of course not; the wedding-garments weren't wanted, were they? and all the trousseaux vanity and vexation of spirit. You see others in the world came to grief besides yourself, Miss Darling. Am I expected?"

"Yes; a week ago."

"Who's in the house?"

"I don't know exactly. Miss Danton is in the orchard, I think, with a book; Eeny is away for the day at Miss Howard's and the Captain went up the village an hour ago. I dare say they will all be back for dinner."

Doctor Frank took another position on the window-sill, and leaned forward, saying with a lowered voice:

"And how does the ghost get on, Agnes? Has it made its appearance since?"

Agnes Darling dropped her work, and looked up at him, with clasped hands.

"Doctor Danton, I have seen him!"

"Whom? The ghost?"

"No ghost; but my husband. It was Harry as plainly as ever I saw him."

She spoke in a voice of intense agitation; but the young Doctor listened with perfect coolness.

"How was it, Agnes? Where did you see him?"

"Walking in the tamarack avenue, one moonlight night, about a week ago, with Miss Danton."

"And you are positive it was your husband?"

"Do you think I could make a mistake in such a matter? It was Harry--I saw him clearly in the moonlight."

"It's surprising you did not run out, and fall down in hysterics at his feet."

She sighed wearily.

"No. I dared not. But, oh, Doctor Danton, when shall I see him? When will you tell him I am innocent?"

"Not just yet; it won't do to hurry matters in this case. You have waited long and patiently; wait yet a little longer until the right time comes. The happiness of knowing he is alive and well, and dwelling under the same roof with you should reconcile you to that."

"It does," she said, her tears falling softly. "Thank Heaven! he still lives. I can hope now; but, oh, Doctor, do you really think him Captain Danton's son?"