Kate Danton, or, Captain Danton's Daughters Part 56

"As long as you like, my dearest. I don't ask you for love now; that will come by-and-by. Only give me hope, and I can wait--wait as long as Jacob for Rachel, if necessary."

He lifted her hand to his lips, but let it fall quickly again, for it felt like ice. She was looking straight before her, at the pale, yellow sunset, her dark eyes filled with a dusky fire, but her face as colourless as the snowy ground.

"Are you ill, Kate?" he said, in alarm; "have I distressed you? have I agitated you by my sudden coming?"

"You have agitated me," she replied. "My head is reeling. Don't talk to me any more. I want to be alone and to think."

They walked side by side the rest of the way in total silence. When they reached the house, Kate ran up to her own room at once, while Captain Danton came out into the hall to greet his old friend. The two men lounged out in the grounds, smoking before-dinner cigars, and Sir Ronald briefly stated the object of his return, and his late proposal to his daughter. Captain Danton listened silently and a little anxiously. He had known the Scottish baronet a long time; knew how wealthy he was, and how pa.s.sionately he loved his daughter; but for all that he had an instinctive feeling that Kate would not be happy with him.

"She has given you no reply, then?" he said, when Sir Ronald had finished.

"None, as yet; but she will shortly. Should that reply be favourable, Captain Danton, yours, I trust, will be favourable also?"

He spoke rather haughtily, and a flush deepened the florid hue of the Captain's face.

"My daughter shall please herself. If she thinks she can be happy as your wife, I have nothing to say. You spoke of Reginald Stanford a moment ago; do you know anything of his doings since he left Canada?"

"Very little. He has sold his commission, and quitted the army--some say, quitted England. His family, you know, have cast him off for his dishonourable conduct."

"I know--I received a letter from Stanford Royals some months ago, in which his father expressed his strong regret, and his disapproval of his son's conduct."

"That is all you know about him?"

"That is all. I made no inquiry--I thought the false hound beneath notice."

Captain Danton sighed. He had loved his pretty, bright-eyed, auburn-haired Rose very dearly, and he could not quite forget her, in spite of her misdoing. They sauntered up and down in the grey, cold, wintry twilight, until the ringing of the dinner-bell summoned them indoors. Kate was there, very beautiful, Sir Ronald thought, in that dark, rich silk, and flashing ornaments in her golden hair.

Long that night, after the rest of the household were sleeping, Kate sat musing over the past, the present, and the future. She had dismissed Eunice, and sat before the fire in a loose, white dressing-gown, her lovely hair falling around her, her deep, earnest eyes fixed on the red blaze. What should she do? Accept Sir Ronald Keith's offer, and achieve a brilliant place in the world, or sink into insignificance in this remote corner of the earth? It was all true what he had said: in a few days her father would be married. Another would be mistress where she had reigned--another, who might look upon her as an inc.u.mbrance and a burden. She had been content to remain here while she held the first place in her father's heart; but another held that place now, and would hold it forever. What should she do in the long days, and months, and years, that were to come? How should she drag through a useless and monotonous existence in this dull place? Even now, earnestly as she sought to do good in her mission of mercy, there were hours and hours of wretched, unspeakable dreariness and desolation. When her work was ended, when the fever was over, what would become of her then? That dim vision of the cloister and veil was dim as ever in the far distance. No ardent glow, no holy longing filled her heart at the thought, to tell her she had found a vocation. Her life was unspeakable empty and desolate, and must remain so forever, if she stayed here. Other thoughts were at work, too, tempting her on. The recollection of Sir Ronald's words about her recreant lover--the thought of his insolent and cowardly boast stung her to the soul. Here was the way to revenge--the way to give him the lie direct. As Sir Ronald Keith's wife, a life of splendour and power awaited her. She thought of Glen Keith as she had seen it once, old and storied, and gray and grand, with ivy and roses cl.u.s.tering round its gray walls, and its waving trees casting inviting shadows.

Then, too, did he not deserve some return for this long, faithful, devoted love? Other girls made marriages _de raison_ every day, and were well content with their lot--why should she not? She could not forever remain indifferent to his fidelity and devotion. She might learn to love him by-and-by.

The fire waned and burned low, the hours of the bleak winter night wore on, and three o'clock of a new day struck before the solitary watcher went to bed.

The Scotch baronet was not kept long in suspense. Next morning, as Miss Danton came down the stone steps, with something in a paper parcel for her poor, sick pensioners, Sir Ronald Keith joined her.

"I have pa.s.sed a sleepless night," he said. "I shall never rest until I have your answer. When am I to have it, Kate?"

Her face turned a shade paler, otherwise there was no change, and her voice was quite firm.

"Now, if you wish."

"And it is yes," he cried, eagerly. "For Heaven's sake, Kate, say it is yes!"

"It is yes; if you can take me for what I am. I don't love you; I don't know that I shall ever love you, but I will try. If I marry you, I will be your true and faithful wife, and your honour will be as sacred as my salvation. If you can take me, knowing this, I am yours."

He caught her in his arms, and broke out into a torrent of pa.s.sionate delight and thankfulness. She disengaged herself, cold and very pale.

"Leave me now," she said. "I must go to the village alone. Don't ask too much from me, Sir Ronald, or you may be disappointed."

"Only one thing more, my darling. Your father is to be married on the twenty-fourth. I am sure you will have no wish to linger in this house after that. Will you not dispense with the usual formalities and preparations, and be married on the same day?"

"Yes, yes," she said, impatiently; "let it be as you wish! What does it matter? Good-morning."

She walked away rapidly over the frozen snow, leaving the successful wooer to return to the house and relate his good luck.

CHAPTER XIX.

VIA CRUCIS.

So once more Miss Danton was "engaged;" once more preparations for a double wedding went on; once more her wedding day was named.

There was very little noise made about the matter this time. Father Francis and Doctor Danton were almost the only two outside the household who knew anything about it, and somehow these were the very two Kate herself wished most to keep it from.

She was ashamed of her mercenary marriage; in spite of herself she despised herself for it, and she felt they must despise her for it too.

She shrank away guiltily under the clear steadfast, searching gaze of Father Francis, feeling how low she must have fallen in his estimation.

She respected and esteemed the priest and the Doctor so much, that it was humiliating to lose their respect by her own voluntary act. But it was too late to draw back, even if she wished it; her fetters were forged--she was bound beyond recall.

Sir Ronald Keith had got the desire of his heart--Kate Danton was his promised wife, and yet he was not quite happy. Are we ever quite happy, I wonder, when we attain the end for which we have sighed and longed, perhaps for years? Our imagination is so very apt to paint that desire of our heart in rainbow-hues, and we are so very apt to find it, when it comes, only dull gray, after all.

Sir Ronald loved his beautiful and queenly affianced with a changeless devotion nothing could alter. He had thought her promise to marry him would satisfy him perfectly; but he had that promise, and he was not satisfied. He wanted something more--he wanted love in return, although he knew she did not love him; and he was dissatisfied. It is not exactly pleasant, perhaps, to find the woman you love and are about to marry as cold as an iceberg--to see her shrink at your approach, and avoid you on all possible occasions. It is rather hard, no doubt, to put up with the loose touch of cold fingers for your warmest caress, and heavy sighs in answer to your most loving speeches.

Sir Ronald had promised to be content without love; but he was not, and was huffish and offended, and savagely jealous of Reginald Stanford and all the hated past.

So the baronet's wooing was on the whole rather gloomy, and depressing to the spirits, even of the lookers-on; and Kate was failing away once more to a pale, listless shadow, and Sir Ronald was in a state of perpetual sulkiness.

But the bridal-cakes and bridal-dresses were making, and the December days were slipping by, one by one, bringing the fated time near. Miss Danton still zealously and unweariedly continued her mission of love. No weather kept her indoors, no pleadings of her future husband were strong enough to make her give up one visit for his pleasure or accommodation.

"Let me alone, Sir Ronald Keith," she would answer, wearily, and a little impatiently; "it will not be for long. Let me alone!"

The fever that had swept off so many was slowly dying out. The sick ones were not so bad or so many now, but that Miss Danton, with a safe conscience, might have given them up; but she would not. She never wanted to be alone--she who had been so fond of solitude such a short time ago. She was afraid of herself--afraid to think--afraid of that dim future that was drawing so very near. Every feeling of heart and soul revolted at the thought of that loveless marriage--the profanation of herself seemed more than she could bear.

"I shall turn desperate at the very altar!" she thought, with something like despair. "I can't marry him--I can't! It sets me wild to think of it. What a wretch I am! What a weak, miserable, cowardly wretch, not to be able to face the fate I have chosen for myself! I don't know what to do, and I have no one to consult--no one but Father Francis, and I am afraid to speak to him. I don't love him; I loathe the thought of marrying him; but it is too late to draw back. If one could only die, and end it all!"

Her arm lay across the window-sill; her head drooped and fell on it now, with a heavy sigh. She was unspeakably miserable, and lonely, and desolate; she was going to seal her misery for life by a loveless marriage, which her soul abhorred, and she had no power to draw back.

She was like a rudderless ship, drifting without helm or compa.s.s among shoals and quicksands--drifting helplessly to ruin.

"If I dared only ask Father Francis, he would tell me what to do," she thought, despondingly; "he is so wise and good, and knows what is best for every one. He would tell me how to do what is right, and I want to do what is right if I can. But I have neglected, and avoided, and prevaricated with him so long that I have no right to trouble him now.

And I know he would tell me I am doing wrong; I have read it in his face; and how can I do right?"

She sat thinking drearily, her face lying on her arm. It was the afternoon of the 14th--ten days more, and it would indeed, be too late.

The nearer the marriage approached, the more abhorrent it grew. The waving trees of Glen-Keith cast inviting shadows no longer. It was all darkness and desolation. Sir Ronald's moody, angry face frightened and distressed her--it was natural, she supposed. She did not behave well, but he knew she did not care for him; she had told him so, honestly and plainly; and if he looked like that before marriage, how would he look after? She was unutterably wretched, poor child; and a remorseful conscience that would give her no rest did not add to her comfort.

She sat there for a long time, her face hidden on her arm, quite still.

The short, wintry afternoon was wearing away; the cold, yellow sun hung low in the pale western sky, and the evening wind was sighing mournfully amid the trees when she rose up. She looked pale, but resolved; and she dressed herself for a walk, with a veil over her face, and slowly descended the stairs.