Kate Danton, or, Captain Danton's Daughters Part 58

"Is he alone?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Take this letter to him, then; and, Eunice, tell Miss Grace I will not be down to dinner. You can fetch me a cup of tea here. I do not feel very well."

Eunice departed on her errand. Kate drew a long, long breath of relief when she closed the door after her. She drew her favourite chair up before the fire, took a book off the table, and seated herself resolutely to read. She was determined to put off thought--to let events take their course, and cease tormenting herself, for to-night at least.

Eunice brought up the tea and a little trayful of dainties, drew the curtain, and lit the lamp. Kate laid down her book and looked up.

"Did you deliver the note, Eunice?"

"Yes, Miss."

"And my message to Miss Grace?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Very well, then--you may go."

The girl went away, and Kate sat sipping her tea and reading. She sat for upward of half an hour, and then she arose and took the way to the apartments of Mr. Richards. It was after ten before she returned and entered her sitting-room. She found Eunice waiting for her, and she resigned herself into her hands at once.

"I shall go to bed early to-night," she said. "My head aches. I must try and sleep."

Sleep mercifully came to her almost as soon as she laid her head on her pillow. She slept as she had not done for many a night before, and awoke next morning refreshed and strengthened for the new trials of the new day. She dreaded the meeting with her discarded suitor, with a nervous dread quite indescribable; but the meeting must be, and she braced herself for the encounter with a short, fervent prayer, and went down stairs.

There was no one in the dining-room, but the table was laid. She walked to the window, and stood looking out at the black, bare trees, writhing and groaning in the morning wind, and the yellow sunshine glittering on the frozen snow. While she stood, a quick, heavy tread crossed the hall--a tread she knew well. Her heart throbbed; her breath came quick.

A moment later, and Sir Ronald entered, the open note she had sent him in his hand.

"What is the meaning of this folly, Kate?" he demanded, angrily, striding towards her. "Here, take it back. You did not mean it."

"I do mean it," Kate said, shrinking. "I have behaved very badly; I am very sorry, but I mean it."

His black brows contracted stormily over his gloomy eyes.

"Do you mean to say you have jilted me? Have you been playing the capricious coquette from first to last?"

"I am very sorry! I am very sorry!" poor Kate faltered. "I have done wrong! Oh, forgive me! And please don't be angry."

He broke into a harsh laugh.

"You are sorry! and you have done wrong! Upon my soul, Miss Danton, you have a mild way of putting it. Here, take back this nonsensical letter.

I can't and won't free you from your engagement."

He held the letter out, but she would not take it. The strong and proud spirit was beginning to rise; but the recollection that she had drawn this on herself held her in check.

"I cannot take back one word in that letter. I made a great mistake in thinking I could marry you; I see it now more than ever. I have owned my fault. I have told you I am sorry. I can do no more. As a gentleman you are bound to release me."

"Of course," he said, with a bitter sneer. "As a gentleman, I am bound to let you play fast and loose with me to your heart's content. You have behaved very honourably to me, Miss Danton, and very much like a gentlewoman. Is it because you have been jilted yourself, that you want the pleasure of jilting another? It is hardly the thing to revenge Reginald Stanford's doings on me."

Up leaped the indignant blood to Kate's face; bright flashed the angry fire from her eyes.

"Go!" she cried, in a ringing tone of command. "Leave my father's house, Sir Ronald Keith! I thought I was talking to a gentleman. I have found my mistake. Go! If you were monarch of the world, I would not marry you now."

He ground his teeth with a savage oath of fury and rage. The letter she had sent him was still in his hand. He tore it fiercely into fragments, and flung them in a white shower at her feet.

"I will go," he said; "but I shall remember this day, and so shall you.

I shall take good care to let the world know how you behave to an honourable man when a dishonourable one deserts you."

With the last unmanly taunt he was gone, banging the house door after him until the old mansion shook. And Kate fled back to her room, and fell down on her knees before her little white bed, and prayed with a pa.s.sionate outburst of tears for strength to bear her bitter, bitter cross.

Later in the day a man from the village hotel came to Danton Hall for the baronet's luggage. Captain Danton, mystified and bewildered, sought his daughter for an explanation of these strange goings on. Kate related the rather humiliating story, leaving out Sir Ronald's cruel taunts, in dread of a quarrel between him and her father.

"Don't say anything about it, papa," Kate said, imploringly. "I have behaved very badly, and I feel more wretched and sorry for it all than I can tell you. Don't try to see Sir Ronald. He is justly very angry, and might say things in his anger that would provoke a quarrel. I am miserable enough now without that."

Captain Danton promised, and quietly dispatched the Scotchman's belongings. That evening Sir Ronald departed for Quebec, to take pa.s.sage for Liverpool.

CHAPTER XX.

BEARING THE CROSS.

The dead blank that comes after excitement of any kind is very trying to bear. The dull flow of monotonous life, following the departure of the Scotch baronet, told severely on Kate. The feverish excitement of that brief second engagement had sustained her, and kindled a brighter fire in her blue eyes, and a hot glow on her pale cheeks. But in the stagnant quiet that succeeded, the light grew dim, the roses faded, and the old la.s.situde and weariness returned. She had not even the absorbing task of playing amateur Sister of Charity, for the fever was almost gone, and there was no more left for her to do.

There was no scandal or _eclat_ this time about the broken-off marriage, for it had been kept very secret--only in the kitchen-cabinet there were endless surmisings and wonderings.

The wedding garments made for the second time for Miss Danton were for the second time put quietly away.

Father Francis, in all his visits to Danton Hall, never made the slightest allusion to the event that had taken place. Only, he laid his hand on Kate's drooping head, with a "Heaven bless you, my child!" so fervently uttered that she felt repaid for all the humiliation she had undergone.

So very quietly at Danton Hall December wore away, and Christmas-eve dawned, Grace Danton's wedding-day. About ten in the morning the large, roomy, old-fashioned family sleigh drove up before the front door, and the bridal party entered, and were whirled to the church. A very select party indeed; the bride and bridegroom, the bride's brother, and the bridegroom's two daughters.

Grace's brown velvet bonnet, brown silk dress, and seal jacket were not exactly the prescribed attire for a bride; but with the hazel hair, smooth and shining, and the hazel eyes full of happy light, Grace looked very sweet and fair.

Eeny, in pale silk and a pretty hat with a long white plume, looked fair as a lily and happy as a queen, and very proud of her post of bride-maid.

And Kate, who was carrying her cross bravely now, very simply attired, sat beside Doctor Frank and tried to listen and be interested in what he was saying, and all the time feeling like one in some unnatural dream.

She saw the dull, gray, sunless sky, speaking of coming storm, the desolate snow-covered fields, the quiet village, and the little church, with its tall spire and glittering cross. She saw it all in a vague, lost sort of way, and was in the church and seated in a pew, and listening and looking on, like a person walking in her sleep. Her father going to be married! How strange and unnatural it seemed. She had never grown familiarized with the idea, perhaps because she would never indulge it, and now he was kneeling on the altar steps, with Frank Danton beside him, and Eeny at Grace's left hand, and the Cure and Father Francis were there in stole and surplice, and the ceremony was going on. She saw the ring put on Grace's finger, she heard the Cure's French accented voice, "Henry Danton, wilt thou have Grace Danton to be thy wedded wife?" and that firm, clear "I will," in reply.

Then it was all over; they were married. Her pale face drooped on the front rail of the pew, and wet it with a rain of hot tears.

The wedding quartet were going into the sacristy to register their names. She could linger no longer, although she felt as if she would like to stay there and die, so she arose and went wearily after. Her father looked at her with anxious, imploring eyes; she went up and kissed him, with a smile on her colourless face.

"I hope you will be very happy, papa," she whispered.

And then she turned to Grace, and touched her cold lips to the bride's flushed cheek.