Kate Danton, or, Captain Danton's Daughters Part 6

Grace thought she looked lovelier in the morning sunshine than in the garish lamplight, with that flush on her cheeks, and the beautiful golden hair twisted in shining coils.

Grace was very silent during breakfast, listening to the rest. The Captain and his eldest daughter were both excellent talkers, and never let conversation flag. Miss Danton rarely addressed her, but the Captain's cordiality made amends for that.

"I must see that brother of yours to-day, Grace," he said, "and get him to come up here. The Cure, too, is a capital fellow--I beg his pardon--I must bring them both up to dinner. Are the Ponsonbys, and the Landry's, and the Le Favres in the old places yet?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll call on them, then--they don't know I'm here--and see if a little company won't enliven our long Canadian winter. You three, Grace, Rose and Eeny, have been living here like nonettes long enough. We must try and alter things a little for you."

The Captain's good-natured efforts to draw his taciturn housekeeper out did not succeed very well. She had that unsocial failing of reserved natures, silence habitually; and her reserve was always at its worst in the presence of the Captain's brilliant daughter. That youthful beauty fixed her blue eyes now and then on the dark, downcast face with an odd look--very like a look of aversion.

"What kind of person is this Miss Grace of yours, Eeny?" she asked her sister, after breakfast. "Very stupid, isn't she?"

"Stupid! Oh, dear, no! Grace is the dearest, best girl in the world, except you, Kate. I don't know how we should ever get on without her."

"I didn't know," said Kate, rather coldly; "she is so silent and impenetrable. Come! You promised to show me through the house."

They were alone in the dining-room. She walked over to the fire, and stood looking thoughtfully up at the two portraits hanging over the mantel--Captain Danton at twenty-seven, and his wife at twenty-four.

"Poor mamma!" Kate said, with a rare tenderness in her voice. "How pretty she was! Do you remember her, Eeny?"

"No," said Eeny. "You know I was such a little thing, Kate. All I know about her is what Margery tells me."

"Who is Margery?"

"My old nurse, and Harry's, and yours, and Rose's. She nursed us all, babies, and took care of mamma when she died. She was mama's maid when she got married, and lived with her all her life. She is here still."

"I must see Margery, then. I shall like her, I know; for I like all things old and storied, and venerable. I can remember mamma the last time she was in England; her tall, slender figure, her dark, wavy hair, and beautiful smile. She used to take me in her arms in the twilight and sing me to sleep."

"Dear Kate! But Grace has been a mother to me. Do you know, Margery says Rose is like her?"

"Whom? Mamma?"

"Yes; all except her temper. Oh!" cried Eeny, making a sudden grimace, "hasn't Rose got a temper!"

Kate smiled.

"A bad one?"

"A bad one! You ought to see her tearing up and down the room in a towering pa.s.sion, and scolding. Mon Dieu!" cried Eeny, holding her breath at the recollection.

"Do you ever quarrel?" asked Kate, laughing.

"About fifty times a day. Oh, what a blessing it was when she went to Ottawa! Grace and I have been in paradise ever since. She'll behave herself for a while when she comes home, I dare say, before you and papa; but it won't be for long."

Grace came in, and Kate drew Eeny away to show her over the house. It was quite a tour. Danton Hall was no joke to go over. Upstairs and down stairs; along halls and pa.s.sages; the drawing-room, where they had been last night; the winter drawing-room on the second floor, all gold and crimson; a summer morning-room, its four sides gla.s.s, straw matting on the floor, flower-pots everywhere, looking like a conservatory; the library, where, perpetuated in oils, many Dantons hung, and where book-shelves lined the walls; into what was once the nursery, where empty cribs stood as in olden times, and where, under a sunny window, a low rocker stood, Mrs. Danton's own chair; into Kate's fairy boudoir, all fluted satin and brocatelle; into her bed-chamber, where everything was white, and azure, and spotless as herself; into Eeny's room, pretty and tasteful, but not so superb; into Rose's, very disordered, and littered, and characteristic; into papa's, big, carpetless, fireless, dreadfully grim and unlike papa himself; into Grace's, the perfection of order and taste, and then Eeny stopped, out of breath.

"There's lots more," she said; "papa's study, but he is writing there now, and the green-room, and Mr. Richards' rooms, and----"

"Never mind," said Kate, hastily, "we will not disturb papa or Mr.

Richards. Let us go and see old Margery."

They found the old woman in a little room appropriated to her, knitting busily, and looking bright, and hale, and hearty. She rose up and dropped the young lady a stiff curtsey.

"I'm very glad to see you, Miss," said Margery. "I nursed you often when you was a little blue-eyed, curly-haired, rosy cheeked baby. You are very tall and very pretty, Miss; but you don't look like your mother.

She don't look like her mother. You're Dantons, both of you; but Miss Rose, she looks like her, and Master Harry--ah, poor, dear Master Harry!

He is killed; isn't he, Miss Kate?"

Kate did not speak. She walked away from the old woman to a window, and Eeny saw she had grown very pale.

"Don't talk about Harry, Margery!" whispered Eeny, giving her a poke.

"Kate doesn't like it."

"I beg your pardon, Miss," said Margery. "I didn't mean to offend; but I nursed you all, and I knew your mamma when she was a little girl. I was a young woman then, and I remember that sweet young face of hers so well. Like Miss Rose, when she is not cross."

Kate smiled at the winding up and went away.

"Where now?" she asked, gayly. "I am not half tired of sight-seeing.

Shall we explore the outside for a change? Yes? Then come and let us get our hats. Your Canadian Novembers are of Arctic temperature."

"Wait until our Decembers tweak the top of your imperial nose off," said Eeny, shivering in antic.i.p.ation. "Won't you wish you were back in England!"

The yellow November sunshine glorified garden, lawn and meadow as Eeny led her sister through the grounds. They explored the long orchard, strolled down the tamarack walk, and wandered round the fish pond. But garden and orchard were all black with the November frost, the trees rattled skeleton arms, and the dead leaves drifted in the melancholy wind. They strayed down the winding drive to the gate, and Kate could see the village of St. Croix along the quarter of a mile of road leading to it, with the sparkling river beyond.

"I should like to see the village," she said, "but perhaps you are tired."

"Not so tired as that. Let us go."

"If I fatigue you to death, tell me so," said Kate. "I am a great pedestrian. I used to walk miles and miles daily at home."

Miss Danton found St. Croix quite a large place, with dozens of straggling streets, narrow wooden sidewalks, queer-looking, Frenchified houses, shops where nothing seemed selling, hotels all still and forlorn, and a church with a tall cross and its doors open. Sabbath stillness lay over all--the streets were deserted, the children seemed too indolent to play, the dogs too lazy to bark. The long, sluggish ca.n.a.l, running like a sleeping serpent round the village, seemed to have more of life than it had.

"What a dull place!" said Kate. "Has everybody gone to sleep? Is it always like this?"

"Mostly," said Eeny. "You should hear Rose abuse it. It is only fit for a lot of Rip Van Winkles, or the Seven Sleepers, she says. All the life there is, is around the station when the train comes and goes."

The sisters wandered along the ca.n.a.l until the village was left behind, and they were in some desolate fields, sodden from the recent rains. A black marsh spread beyond, and a great gloomy building reared itself against the blue Canadian sky on the other side.

"What old bastille is that?" asked Kate.

"The St. Croix barracks," said Eeny uneasily. "Come away Kate. I am afraid of the soldiers--they may see us."

She turned round and uttered a scream. Two brawny redcoats were striding across the wet field to where they stood. They reeled as they walked, and set up a sort of Indian war-whoop on finding they were discovered.

"Don't you run away, my little dears," said one, "we're coming as fast as we can."

"Oh, Kate!" cried Eeny, in terror, "what shall we do?"

"Let us go at once," said Kate, "those men are intoxicated."