To m.u.f.fle her from head to foot in a blanket, s.n.a.t.c.h her up and fly out of the room, was but the work of a few seconds. The rushing smoke blinded and suffocated him, but he darted down the staircases as if his feet were winged. Huge cinders and burning flakes were falling in a fiery shower around him, but still he rushed blindly on. The lower hall was gained, a breeze of the blessed cold air blew on his face.

They were seen, they were saved, and a wild cheer arose from the breathless mult.i.tude. Just at that instant, with his foot on the threshold, an avalanche of fire seemed to fall on his head from the burning roof.

Another cry, this time a cry of wild horror arose from the crowd; he reeled, staggered like a drunken man; some one caught Eeny out of his arms as he fell to the ground.

CHAPTER XXII.

AFTER THE CROSS, THE CROWN.

The glare of a brilliant April sunset shone in the rainbow-hued western sky, and on the fresh, green earth, all arrayed in the budding promise of spring.

Grace Danton stood by the window of a long, low room, looking thoughtfully out at the orange and crimson dyes of the far-off sky.

The room in which she stood was not at all like the vast old-fashioned rooms of Danton Hall. It was long and narrow, and low-ceilinged, and very plainly furnished. There was the bed in the centre, a low, curtainless bed, and on it, pale, thin, and shadowy, lay Grace's brother, as he had lain for many weary weeks. He was asleep now, deeply, heavily, tossing no longer in the wild delirium of brain-fever, as he had tossed for so many interminable days and nights.

Grace dropped the curtain, and went back to her post by the bedside. As she did so, the door softly opened, and Kate, in a dark, unrustling dress and slippers of silence, came in. She had changed in those weeks; she looked paler and thinner, and the violet eyes had a more tender light, a sadder beauty than of old.

"Still asleep," she said, softly, looking at the bed. "Grace, I think your prayers have been heard."

"I trust so, dear. Is your father in?"

"No; he has ridden over to see how the builders get on. You must want tea, Grace. Go, I will take your place."

Grace arose and left the room, and Kate seated herself in the low chair, with eyes full of tender compa.s.sion. What a shadow he was of his former self--so pale, so thin, so wasted! The hand lying on the counterpane was almost transparent, and the forehead, streaked with damp brown hair, was like marble.

"Poor fellow!" Kate thought, pushing these stray locks softly back, and forgetting how dangerously akin pity is to love--"poor fellow!"

Yes, it has come to this. Sick--dying, perhaps--Kate Danton found how dear this once obnoxious young Doctor had grown to her heart. "How blessings brighten as they take their flight!" Now that she was on the verge of losing him forever, she discovered his value--discovered that her admiration was very like love. How could she help it? Women admire heroes so much! And was not this brave young Doctor a real hero? From first to last, had not his life in St. Croix been one list of good and generous deeds?

The very first time she had ever seen him, he had been her champion, to save her from the insults and rudeness of two drunken soldiers. He had been a sort of guardian angel to poor Agnes in her great trouble. He had saved her brother's life and honour. He had perilled his own life to save that of her sister. The poor of St. Croix spoke of him only to praise and bless him. Was not this house besieged every day with scores of anxious inquirers? He was so good, so great, so n.o.ble, so self-sacrificing, so generous--oh! how could she help loving him? Not with the love that had once been Reginald Stanford's, whose only basis was a fanciful girl's liking for a handsome face, but a love far deeper and truer and stronger. She looked back now at the first infatuation, and wondered at herself. The scales had fallen from her eyes, and she saw her sister's husband in his true light--false, shallow, selfish, dishonourable.

"Oh," she thought, with untold thanksgiving in her heart, "what would have become of me if I had married him?"

There was another sore subject in her heart, too--that short-lived betrothal to Sir Ronald Keith. How low she must have fallen when she could do that! How she despised herself now for ever entertaining the thought of that base marriage. She could thank Father Francis at last.

By the sick-bed of Doctor Frank she had learned a lesson that would last her a lifetime.

The radiance of the sunset was fading out of the sky, and the gray twilight was filling the room. She rose up, drew back the green curtains, and looked for a moment at the peaceful village street. When she returned to the bedside, the sleeper was awake, his eyes calm and clear for the first time. She restrained the exclamation of delight which arose to her lips, and tried to catch the one faint word he uttered:

"Water?"

She gently raised his head, her cheeks flushing, and held a gla.s.s of lemonade to his lips. A faint smile thanked her; and then his eyes closed, and he was asleep again. Kate sank down on her knees by the bedside, grateful tears falling from her eyes, to thank G.o.d for the life that would be spared.

From that evening the young man rallied fast.

The Doctor, who came from Montreal every day to see him, said it was all owing to his superb const.i.tution and wondrous vitality. But he was very, very weak. It was days and days before he was strong enough to think, or speak, or move. He slept, by fits and starts, nearly all day long, recognizing his sister, and Kate, and Eeny, and the Captain, by his bedside, without wondering how they came to be there, or what had ailed him.

But strength to speak and think was slowly returning; and one evening, in the pale twilight, opening his eyes, he saw Kate sitting beside him, reading. He lay and watched her, strong enough to think how beautiful that perfect face was in the tender light, and to feel a delicious thrill of pleasure, weak as he was, at having her for a nurse.

Presently Kate looked from the book to the bed, and blushed beautifully to find the earnest brown eyes watching her so intently.

"I did not know you were awake," she said, composedly. "Shall I go and call Grace?"

"On no account. I don't want Grace. How long have I been sick?"

"Oh, many weeks; but you are getting better rapidly now."

"I can't recall it," he said, contracting his brows. "I know there was a fire, and I was in the house; but it is all confused. How was it?"

"The Hall was burned down, you know--poor old house!--and you rushed in to save Eeny, and--"

"Oh, I remember, I remember. A beam or something fell, and after that all is oblivion. I have had a fever, I suppose?"

"Yes, you have been a dreadful nuisance--talking all day and all night about all manner of subjects, and frightening us out of our lives."

The young man smiled.

"What did I talk about? Anything very foolish?"

"I dare say it was foolish enough, if one could have understood it, but it was nearly all Greek to me. Sometimes you were in Germany, talking about all manner of outlandish things; sometimes you were in New York, playing Good Samaritan to Agnes Darling."

"Oh, poor Agnes! Where is she?"

"Taken to the high seas. She and Harry had to go, much against their inclination, while you were so ill."

"And Eeny--did Eeny suffer any harm that night?"

"No; Doctor Frank was the only sufferer. The poor old house was burned to the ground. I was so sorry."

"And everything was lost?"

"No, a great many things were saved. And they are building a new and much more handsome Danton Hall, but I shall never love it as I did the old place."

"Where are we now?"

"In the village. We have taken this cottage until the new house is finished. Now don't ask any more questions. Too much talking isn't good for you."

"How very peremptory you are!" said the invalid, smiling; "and you have taken care of me all this weary time. What a trouble I must have been!"

"Didn't I say so! A shocking trouble. And now that you are able to converse rationally, you are more trouble than ever, asking so many questions. Go to sleep."

"Won't you let me thank you first?"

"No, thanks never would repay me for all the annoyance you have been.

Show your grat.i.tude by obedience, sir--stop talking and go to sleep!"