Kate Danton, or, Captain Danton's Daughters Part 49

"It is just like Rose!" exclaimed Eeny; "she is everything by starts, and nothing long. Flying off to Quebec for a week, just as she is going to be married, with half her dresses unmade. It's absurd."

The afternoon train for Montreal pa.s.sed through St. Croix at three o'clock. Kate and Reginald drove to the station with her, and saw her safely seated beside Doctor Frank. Her veil of drab gauze was down over her face, flushed and excited; and she kissed her sister good-bye without lifting it. Reginald Stanford shook hands with her--a long, warm, lingering clasp--and flashed a bright, electric glance that thrilled to her inmost heart. An instant later, and the train was in motion, and Rose was gone.

The morning of the third day after brought a note from Quebec. Rose had arrived safely, and the Leblanc family were delighted to see her. That was all.

That evening, Mr. Stanford made the announcement that he was to depart for Montreal next morning. It was to Kate, of course. She had strolled down to the gate to meet him, in the red light of the sunset, as he came home from a day's gunning. He had taken, of late, to being absent a great deal, fishing and shooting; and those last three days he had been away from breakfast until dinner.

"Going to Montreal?" repeated Kate. "What for?"

"To see a friend of mine--Major Forsyth. He has come over lately, with his wife, and I have just heard of it. Besides, I have a few purchases to make."

He was switching the tremulous spring flowers along the path with his cane, and not looking at her as he spoke.

"How long shall you be gone?"

He laughed.

"Montreal has no charms for me, you know," he replied; "I shall not remain there long, probably not over a week."

"The house will be lonely when you are gone--now that Rose is away."

She sighed a little, saying it. Somehow, a vague feeling of uneasiness had disturbed her of late--something wanting in Reginald--something she could not define, which used to be there and was gone. She did not like this readiness of his to leave her on all occasions. She loved him with such a devoted and entire love, that the shortest parting was to her acutest pain.

"Are you coming in?" he asked, seeing her linger under the trees.

"Not yet; the evening is too fine."

"Then I must leave you. It will hardly be the thing, I suppose, to go to dinner in this shooting-jacket."

He entered the house and ran up to his room. The dinner-bell was ringing before he finished dressing; but when he descended, Kate was still lingering out of doors. He stood by the window watching her, as she came slowly up the lawn. The yellow glory of the sunset made an aureole round her tinseled hair; her slender figure robed in shimmering silk; her motion floating and light. He remembered that picture long afterwards: that Canada landscape, that blue silvery mist filling the air, and the tall, graceful girl, coming slowly homeward, with the fading yellow light in her golden hair.

After dinner, when the moon rose--a crystal-white crescent--they all left the drawing-room for the small hall and portico. Kate, a white shawl on her shoulders, sat on the stone step, and sang, softly, "The Young May Moon;" Mr. Stanford leaned lightly against one of the stone pillars, smoking a cigar, and looking up at the blue, far-off sky, his handsome face pale and still.

"Sing 'When the Swallows Homeward Fly,' Kate," her father said.

She sang the song, softly and a little sadly, with some dim foreshadowing of trouble weighing at her heart. They lingered there until the clock struck ten--Kate's songs and the moonlight charming the hours away. When they went into the house, and took their night-lamps, Stanford bade them good-bye.

"I shall probably be off before any of you open your eyes on this mortal life to-morrow morning," he said, "and so had better say good-bye now."

"You leave by the eight A. M. train, then," said the Captain. "It seems to me everybody is running off just when they ought to stay at home."

Stanford laughed, and shook hands with Grace and Kate--with one as warmly as with the other--and was gone. Kate's face looked pale and sad, as she went slowly upstairs with that dim foreshadowing still at her heart.

Breakfast was awaiting the traveller next morning at half-past seven, when he ran down stairs, ready for his journey. More than breakfast was waiting. Kate stood by the window, looking out drearily at the matinal sunlight.

"Up so early, Kate?" her lover said, with an expression of rapture. "Why did you take the trouble?"

"It was no trouble," Kate said, slowly, feeling cold and strange.

He sat down to table, but only drank a cup of coffee. As he arose, Captain Danton and Grace came in.

"We got up betimes to see you off," said the Captain. "A delightful morning for your journey. There is Sam with the gig now. Look sharp, Reginald; only fifteen minutes left."

Reginald s.n.a.t.c.hed up his overcoat.

"Good-bye," he said, hurriedly shaking hands with the Captain, then with Grace. Kate, standing by the window, never turned round. He went up to her, very, very pale, as they all remembered afterward, holding out his hand.

"Good-bye, Kate."

The hand she gave him was icy cold, her face perfectly colourless. The cold fingers lingered around his for a moment; the deep, clear, violet eyes were fixed wistfully on his face. That was her only good-bye--she did not speak. In another moment he was out of the house; in another he was riding rapidly down the avenue; in another he was gone--and forever.

CHAPTER XVI.

EPISTOLARY.

[From Madame Leblanc to Captain Danton.]

Quebec, May 17, 18--.

Dear Sir:--I write to you in the utmost distress and confusion of mind. I hardly know how to break to you the news it is my painful duty to reveal, lest some blame should attach itself to me or mine, where I a.s.sure you none is deserved. Your daughter Rose has left us--run away; in fact, I believe, eloped. I have reason to think she was married yesterday; but to whom I have not yet discovered. I beg to a.s.sure you, Captain Danton, that neither I nor any one in my house had the remotest idea of her intention; and we are all in the greatest consternation since the discovery has been made. I would not for worlds such a thing had happened under my roof, and I earnestly trust you will not hold me to blame.

Six days ago, on the afternoon of the 11th, your daughter arrived here. We were all delighted to see her, Virginie in particular; for, hearing of her approaching marriage with M. La Touche, we were afraid she might not come. We all noticed a change in her--her manner different from what it used to be--a languor, an apathy to all things--a general listlessness that nothing could arouse her from. She, who used to be so full of life and spirits, was now the quietest in the house, and seemed to like nothing so well as being by herself and dreaming the hours away. On the evening of the third day this la.s.situde left her. She grew restless and nervous--almost feverishly so. Next morning this feverish restlessness grew worse.

She refused to leave the house in the afternoon to accompany my daughter on a shopping expedition. Her plea was toothache, and Virginie went alone. The early afternoon post brought her what I believe she was waiting for--a letter. She ran up with it to her own room, which she did not leave until dusk. I was standing in the entrance-hall when she came down, dressed for a walk, and wearing a veil over her face. I asked her where she was going. She answered for a walk, it might help her toothache. An hour afterward Virginie returned. Her first question was for Rose. I informed her she was gone out.

"Then," exclaimed Virginie, "it must have been Rose that I met in the next street, walking with a gentleman. I thought the dress and figure were hers, but I could not see her face for a thick veil.

The gentleman was tall and dark, and very handsome."

Half an hour later, Rose came back. We teased her a little about the gentleman; but she put it off quite indifferently, saying he was an acquaintance she had encountered in the street, and that she had promised to go with him next morning to call on a lady-friend of hers, a Mrs. Major Forsyth. We thought no more about it; and next morning, when the gentleman called in a carriage, Rose was quite ready, and went away with him. It was then about eleven o'clock, and she did not return until five in the afternoon. Her face was flushed, her manner excited, and she broke away from Virginie and ran up to her room. All the evening her manner was most unaccountably altered, her spirits extravagantly high, and colour like fever in her face. She and Virginie shared the same room, and when they went upstairs for the night, she would not go to bed.

"You can go," she said to Virginie; "I have a long letter to write, and you must not talk to me, dear."

Virginie went to bed. She is a very sound sleeper, and rarely wakes, when she lies down, until morning. She fell asleep, and never awoke all night. It was morning when she opened her eyes. She was alone. Rose was neither in the bed nor in the room.

Virginie thought nothing of it. She got up, dressed, came down to breakfast, expecting to find Rose before her. Rose was not before her--she was not in the house. We waited breakfast until ten, anxiously looking for her; but she never came. None of the servants had seen her, but that she had gone out very early was evident; for the house-door was unlocked and unbolted, when the kitchen-girl came down at six in the morning. We waited all the forenoon, but she never came. Our anxiety trebly increased when we made the discovery that she had taken her trunk with her. How she had got it out of the house was the profoundest mystery. We questioned the servants; but they all denied stoutly. Whether to believe them or not I cannot tell, but I doubt the housemaid.

The early afternoon post brought Virginie a note. I inclose it. It tells you all I can tell. I write immediately, distressed by what has occurred, more than I can say. I earnestly trust the poor child has not thrown herself away. I hope with all my heart it may not be so bad as at first sight if seems. Believe me my dear sir, truly sorry for what has occurred, and I trust you will acquit me of blame.

With the deepest sympathy, I remain,

Yours, sincerely, Mathilde Leblanc.

[Miss Rose Danton to Mlle. Virginie Leblanc. Inclosed in the preceding.]

Wednesday Night.