ROSE'S ADVENTURE.
December wore out in wild snow-storms and wintry winds. Christmas came,
solemn and shrouded in white; and Kate Danton's fair hands decorated the
little village church with evergreens and white roses for Father
Francis; and Kate Danton's sweet voice sang the dear old "Adeste
Fideles" on Christmas morning. Kate Danton, too, with the princely
spirit that nature and habit had given her, made glad the cottages of
the poor with gifts of big turkeys, and woolly blankets, and barrels of
flour. They half adored, these poor people, the stately young lady, with
the noble and lovely face, so unlike anything St. Croix had ever seen
before. Proud as she was, she was never proud with them--God's poor
ones; she was never proud when she knelt in their midst, in that lowly
little church, and cried "Mea culpa" as humbly as the lowliest sinner
there.
New-Year came with its festivities, bringing many callers from Montreal,
and passed; and Danton Hall fell into its customary tranquillity once
more. Sir Ronald Keith was still their guest; Doctor Frank was still an
inmate of the St. Croix Hotel, and a regular visitor at the Hall. More
letters had come for Kate from England; Lieutenant Stanford's regiment
had gone to Ireland, and he said nothing of leave of absence or a visit
to Canada. Rose got weekly epistles from Ottawa; her darling Jules
poured out floods of undying love in the very best French, and Rose
smiled over them complacently, and went down and made eyes at Doctor
Frank all the evening. And old Margery was not recovered yet from the
ghost-seeing fright, and would not remain an instant alone by night or
day for untold gold.
The sunset of a bright January day was turning the western windows of
Danton Hall to sheets of beaten gold. The long, red lances of light
pierced through the black trees, tinged the piled up snow-drifts, and
made the low evening sky one blaze of crimson splendour. Eeny stood
looking thoughtfully out at the gorgeous hues of the wintry sunset and
the still landscape, where no living thing moved. She was in a cozy
little room called the housekeeper's room, but which Grace never used,
except when she made up her accounts, or when her favourite apartment,
the dining-room, was occupied. A bright fire burned in the grate, and
the curtained windows and carpeted floor were the picture of comfort. It
had been used latterly as a sewing-room, and Agnes Darling sat at the
other window embroidering a handkerchief for Rose. There had been a long
silence--the seamstress never talked much; and Eeny was off in a
daydream. Presently, a big dog came bounding tumultuously up the avenue,
and a tall man in an overcoat followed leisurely.
"There!" exclaimed Eeny, "there's Tiger and Tiger's master. You haven't
seen Grace's brother yet, have you Agnes?"
"No," said the seamstress, looking out, "is that he?"
He was too far off to be seen distinctly; but a moment or two later he
was near. A sudden exclamation from the seamstress made Eeny look at her
in surprise. She had sprang up and sat down again, white, and startled,
and trembling.
"What's the matter?" said Eeny. "Do you know Doctor Danton?"
"Doctor Danton?" repeated Agnes. "Yes. Oh, what am I saying! No, I don't
know him."
She sat down again, all pale and trembling, and scared. Doctor Frank was
ringing the bell, and was out of sight. Eeny gazed at her exceedingly
astonished.
"What is the matter with you?" she reiterated. "What are you afraid of?
Do you know Doctor Danton?"
"Don't ask me; please don't ask me!" cried the little seamstress,
piteously. "I have seen him before; but, oh, please don't say anything
about it!"
She was in such a violent tremor--her voice was so agitated, that Eeny
good-naturedly said no more. She turned away, and looked again at the
paling glory of the sunset, not seeing it this time, but thinking of
Agnes Darling's unaccountable agitation at sight of Grace's brother.
"Perhaps he has been a lover of hers," thought romantic Eeny, "and
false! She is very pretty, or would be, if she wasn't as pale as a
corpse. And yet I don't think Doctor Frank would be false to any one
either. I don't want to think so--I like him too well."
Eeny left the sewing-room and went upstairs. She found Doctor Danton in
the dining-room with his sister and Rose, and Rose was singing a French
song for him. Eeny took her station by the window; she knew the
seamstress was in the daily habit of taking a little twilight walk in
her favourite circle, round and round the fish-pond, and she could see
from where she stood when she went out.
"I'll show her to him," thought Eeny, "and see if it flurries him as it
did her. There is something between them, if one could get to the bottom
of it."
Rose's song ended. The sunset faded out in a pale blank of dull
gray--twilight fell over the frozen ground. A little black figure,
wearing a shawl over its head, fluttered out into the mysterious
half-light, and began pacing slowly round the frozen fish-pond.
"Doctor Frank," said Eeny, "come here and see the moon rise."
"How romantic!" laughed Rose. But the Doctor went and stood by her side.
The wintry crescent-moon was sailing slowly up, with the luminous
evening star resplendent beside her, glittering on the whitened earth.
"Pretty," said the Doctor; "very. Solemn, and still, and white! What
dark fairy is that gliding round the fish-pond?"
"That," said Eeny, "is Agnes Darling."
"Who?" questioned Doctor Danton, suddenly and sharply.
"Agnes Darling, our seamstress. Dear me, Doctor Danton, one would think
you knew her!"
There had been a momentary change in his face, and Eeny's suspicious
eyes were full upon him--only momentary, though; it was gone directly,
and his unreadable countenance was as calm as a summer's sky. Doctor
Frank might have been born a duke, so radically and unaffectedly
nonchalant was he.
"The name has a familiar sound; but I don't think I know your
seamstress. Go and play me a waltz, Eeny."
There was no getting anything out of Doctor Danton which he did not
choose to tell. Eeny knew that, and went over to the piano, a little
provoked at the mystery they made of it.
But destiny that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will, had made
up its mind for further revelations, and against destiny even Doctor
Frank was powerless. Destiny lost no time either--the revelation came
the very next evening. Kate and Eeny had been to St. Croix, visiting
some of Kate's poor pensioners, and evening was closing in when they
reached the Hall. A lovely evening--calm, windless, still; the moon's
silver disk brilliant in an unclouded sky, and the holy hush of eventide
over all. The solemn beauty of the falling night tempted Kate to linger,
while Eeny went on to the house. There was a group of tall pines, with a
rustic bench, near the entrance-gates. Kate sat down under the
evergreens, leaning against the trees, her dark form scarcely
distinguishable in their shadow. While she sat, a man and a woman
passed. Full in the moonlight she saw that it was Doctor Danton and
Agnes Darling. Distinct in the still keen air she heard his low, earnest
words.
"Don't betray yourself--don't let them see you know me. Be on your
guard, especially with Eeny, who suspects. It will avoid disagreeable
explanations. It is best to let them think we have never met."
They were gone. Kate sat petrified. What understanding was this between
Doctor Danton and their pale little seamstress? They knew each other,
and there were reasons why that acquaintance should be a secret. "It
would involve disagreeable explanations!" What could Doctor Frank mean?
The solution of the riddle that had puzzled Eeny came to her. Had they
been lovers at some past time?--was Doctor Frank a villain after all?
The moon sailed up in the zenith, the blue sky was all sown with stars,
and the loud ringing of the dinner-bell reached her even where she sat.
She got up hastily, and hurried to the house, ran to her room, threw off
her bonnet and shawl, smoothed her hair, and descended to the
dining-room in her plain black silk dress. She was late; they were all
there--her father, Grace, Rose, Eeny, Sir Ronald, the Reverend Augustus
Clare, and Doctor Danton.
"Runaway," said her father, "we had given you up. Where have you been?"
"Star-gazing, papa. Down under the pines, near the gates, until five
minutes ago."
Doctor Frank looked up quickly, and met the violet eyes fixed full upon
him.
"I heard you, sir," that bright glance said. "Your secret is a secret no
longer."
Doctor Danton looked down at his plate with just a tinge of colour in
his brown face. He understood her as well as if she had spoken; but,
except that faint and transient flush, it never moved him. He told them
stories throughout dinner of his adventures as a medical student in
Germany, and every one laughed except Kate. She could not laugh; the
laughter of the others irritated her. His words going up the avenue rang
in her ears; the pale, troubled face of the seamstress was before her
eyes. Something in the girl's sad, joyless face had interested her from
the first. Had Doctor Danton anything to do with that look of hopeless
trouble?
With this new interest in her mind, Kate sent for the seamstress to her
room next morning. Some lace was to be sewn on a new dress. Eunice
generally did such little tasks for her mistress, but on this occasion
it was to be Agnes. The girl sat down with the rich robe by the window,
and bent assiduously over her work. Miss Danton, in a loose négligée,
lying half buried in the depths of a great carved and cushioned chair,
watched her askance while pretending to read. What a slender, diminutive
creature she was--how fixedly pale, paler still in contrast with her
black hair and great, melancholy dark eyes. She never looked up--she
went on, stitch, stitch, like any machine, until Kate spoke, suddenly:
"Agnes!"
The dark eyes lifted inquiringly.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-two."
"You don't look it. Are your parents living?"
"No; dead these many years."
"Have you brothers or sisters?"
"No, I never had."
"But you have other relatives--uncles, aunts, cousins?"
"No, Miss Danton--none that I have ever seen."
"What an isolated little thing you are! Have you lived in Montreal all
your life?"
"Oh, no! I have only been in Montreal a few months. I was born and
brought up in New York."
"In New York!" repeated Kate, surprised. And then there was a pause.
When had Doctor Danton been in New York? For the last four years he had
been in Germany; from Germany he had come direct to Canada, so Grace had
told her; where, then, had he known this New York girl?
"Why did you come to Montreal?" asked Kate.
There was a nervous contraction around the girl's mouth, and something
seemed to fade out of her face--not color, for she had none--but it
darkened with something like sudden anguish.
"I had a friend," she said hastily, "a friend I lost; I heard I might
find that--that friend in Montreal, and so--"
Her voice died away, and she put up one trembling hand to shade her
face. Kate came over and touched the hand lying on her black dress,
caressingly. She forgot her pride, as she often forgot it in her womanly
pity.
"My poor little Agnes! Did you find that friend?"
"No."
"No?" repeated Kate.
She thought the reply would be "yes"--she had thought the friend was
Doctor Frank. Agnes dropped her hand from before her face.
"No," she said sadly, "I have not found him. I shall never find him
again in this world, I am afraid."
Him! That little tell-tale pronoun! Kate knew by instinct the friend was
"him," men being at the bottom of all womanly distress in this lower
world.
"Then it was not Doctor Danton?"
Agnes looked up with a suddenly frightened face, her great eyes
dilating, her pale lips parting.
"I saw you by accident coming up the avenue with him last evening," Kate
hastened to explain. "I chanced to hear a remark of his in passing; I
could not help it."
Agnes clasped her hands together in frightened supplication.
"You won't say anything about it?" she said, piteously. "Oh, please
don't say anything about it! I am so sorry you overheard. Oh, Miss
Danton, you won't tell?"
"Certainly not," answered Kate, startled by her emotion. "I merely
thought he might be the friend you came in search of."
"Oh, no, no! Doctor Danton has been my friend; I owe him more than I can
ever repay. He is the best, and noblest, and most generous of men. He
was my friend when I had no friend in the world--when, but for him, I
might have died. But he is not the one I came to seek."
"I beg your pardon," said Kate, going back to her chair. "I have asked
too many questions."
"No, no! You have a right to ask me, but I cannot tell. I am not very
old, but my heart is nearly broken."
She dropped her work, covered her face with her slender hands, and broke
out into a fit of passionate crying. Kate was beside her in a moment,
soothing her, caressing her, as if she had been her sister.
"I am sorry, I am sorry," she said; "it is all my fault. Don't cry,
Agnes; I will go now; you will feel better alone."
She stooped and kissed her. Agnes looked up in grateful surprise, but
Miss Danton was gone. She ran down stairs and stood looking out of the
drawing-room window, at the sunlit, wintry landscape.
So Doctor Frank was a hero after all, and not a villain. He had nothing
to do with this pale little girl's trouble. He was only her best friend
and wanted to hide it.
"People generally like their good deeds to be known," mused Miss Danton.
"They want their right hand to see all that their left hand gives. Is
Doctor Frank a little better than the rest of mankind? I know he attends
the sick poor of St. Croix for nothing, and I know he is very pleasant,
and a gentleman. Is he that modern wonder, a good man, besides?"
Her meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Rose, looking very
charming in a tight jacket and long black riding-skirt, a "jockey hat
and feather" on her curly head, and flourishing her riding-whip in her
gauntleted hand.
"I thought you were out, Kate, with your little Scotchman," she said,
slapping her gaiter. "I saw him mount and ride off nearly an hour ago."
"I have been in my room."
"I wish Doctor Frank would come," said Rose. "I like some one to make
love to me when I ride."
"Doctor Frank does not make love to you."
"Does he not? How do you know?"
"My prophetic soul tells me, and what is more, never will. All the
better for Doctor Frank, since you would not accept him or his love if
he offered them."
"And how do you know that? I must own I thought him a prig at first, and
if I begin to find him delightful now, I suppose it is merely by force
of contrast with your black-browed, deadly-dull baronet. Will you come?
No? Well, then, adieu, and _au revoir_."
Kate watched her mount and gallop down the avenue, kissing her hand as
she disappeared.
"My pretty Rose," she thought, smiling, "she is only a spoiled child;
one cannot be angry, let her say what she will."
Out beyond the gates, Rose's canter changed to a rapid gallop. She
managed her horse well, and speedily left the village behind, and was
flying along a broad, well-beaten country road, interspersed at remote
intervals with quaint French farm-houses.
All at once, Regina slipped--there was a sheet of ice across the
road--struggled to regain her footing, fell, and would have thrown her
rider had not a man, walking leisurely along, sprung forward and caught
her in his arms.
Rose was unhurt, and extricating herself from the stranger's
coat-sleeves, rose also. The hero of the moment made an attempt to
follow her example, uttered a groan, made a wry face, and came to a
halt.
"Are you hurt?" Rose asked.
"I have twisted an ankle on that confounded ice--sprained it, I am
afraid, in the struggle with the horse. If I can walk--but no, my
locomotive powers, I find, are at a standstill for the present. Now,
then, Mademoiselle, what are we to do?"
He seated himself with great deliberation on a fallen tree and looked up
at her coolly, as he asked the question.
Rose looked down into one of the handsomest faces she had ever seen,
albeit pallid just now with sharp pain.
"I am so sorry," she said, in real concern. "You cannot walk, and you
must not stay here. What shall we--oh! what shall we do?"
"I tell you," said the young man. "Do you see that old yellow farm-house
that looks like a church in Chinese mourning."
"Yes."
"Well--but it will be a great deal of trouble."
"Trouble!" cried Rose. "Don't talk about trouble. Do you want me to go
to that farm-house!"
"If you will be so kind. I stopped there last night. Tell old
Jacques--that's the proprietor--to send some kind of a trap down here
for me--a sled, if nothing else."
"I'll be back in ten minutes," exclaimed Rose, mounting Regina with
wonderful celerity, and flying off.
Old Jacques--a wizen little habitant--was distressed at the news, and
ran off instantly to harness up his old mare, and sled. Madame Jacques
placed a mattress on the sled and the vehicle started.
"Who is the gentleman?" Rose asked carelessly, as they rode along.
Old Jacques didn't know. He had stopped there last night, and paid them,
but hadn't told them his name or his business.
A few minutes brought them to the scene of the tragedy. The stranger
lifted those dark eyes of his, and looked so unspeakably handsome, that
Rose was melted to deeper compassion than ever.
"I am afraid you are nearly frozen to death," she said, springing
lightly to the ground. "Let us try if we cannot help you on to the
sled."
"You are very kind," replied the stranger, laughing and accepting. "It
is worth while having a sprained ankle, after all."
Rose and old Jacques got him on the sled between them though his lips
were white with suppressed pain in the effort.
"I sent Jean Baptiste for Dr. Pillule," said old Jacques as he started
the mare. "Monsieur will be--what you call it--all right, when Dr.
Pillule comes."
"Might I ask--but, perhaps it would be asking too much?" the stranger
said, looking at Rose.
"What is it?"
"Will you not return with us, and hear whether Dr. Pillule thinks my
life in danger?"
Rose laughed.
"I never heard of any one dying from a sprained ankle. _Malgré cela_, I
will return if you wish it, since you got it in my behalf."
Rose's steed trotted peaceably beside the sled to the farm-house door.
All the way, the wounded hero lay looking up at the graceful girl, with
the rose-red cheeks and auburn curls, and thinking, perhaps, if he were
any judge of pictures, what a pretty picture she made.
Rose assisted in helping him into the drawing room of the
establishment--which was a very wretched drawing-room indeed. There was
a leather lounge wheeled up before a large fire, and thereon the injured
gentleman was laid.
Doctor Pillule had not yet arrived, and old Jacques stood waiting
further orders.
"Jacques, fetch a chair. That is right; put it up here, near me. Now you
can go. Mademoiselle, do me the favour to be seated."
Rose sat down, very near--dangerously near--the owner of the eyes.
"May I ask the name of the young lady whom I have been fortunate enough
to assist."
"My name is Rosina--Rose Danton."
"Danton," repeated the young man slowly. "Danton; I know that name.
There is a place called Danton Hall over here--a fine old place, they
tell me--owned by one Captain Danton."
"I am Captain Danton's second daughter."
"Then, Miss Danton, I am very happy to make your acquaintance."
He held out his hand, gravely. Rose shook hands, laughing and blushing.
"I am much pleased to make yours, Mr. ----" laughing still, and looking
at him.
"Reinecourt," said the gentleman.
"Mr. Reinecourt; only I wish you had not sprained your ankle doing it."
"I don't regret it. But you are under an obligation to me, are you not?"
"Certainly."
"Then I mean to have a return for what you owe me. I want you to come
and see me every day until I get well."
Rose blushed vividly.
"Oh, I don't know. You exact too much!"
"Not a whit. I'll never fly to the rescue of another damsel in distress
as long as I live, if you don't."
"But every day! Once a week will be enough."
"If you insult me by coming once a week, I'll issue orders not to admit
you. Promise, Miss Danton; here comes Doctor Pillule."
"I promise, then. There, I never gave you permission to kiss my hand."
She arose precipitately, and stood looking out of the window, while the
Doctor attended to the sprain.
Nearly half an hour passed. The ankle was duly bathed and bandaged, then
old Jacques and the Doctor went away, and she came over and looked
laughingly down at the invalid, a world of coquettish daring in her
dancing eyes.
"Well, M. Reinecourt, when does M. le Médecin say you are going to die?"
"When you think of leaving me, Mademoiselle."
"Then summon your friends at once, for I not only think of it, but am
about to do it."
"Oh, not so soon."
"It is half-past two, Monsieur," pulling out her watch; "they will think
I am lost at home. I must go!"
"Well, shake hands before you go."
"It seems to me you are very fond of shaking hands, Mr. Reinecourt,"
said Rose, giving him hers willingly enough, though.
"And you really must leave me?"
"I really must."
"But you will come to-morrow?" still holding her hand.
"Perhaps so--if I have nothing better to do."
"You cannot do anything better than visit the sick, and oh, yes! do me
another favour. Fetch me some books to read--to pass the dismal hours of
your absence."
"Very well; now let me go."
He released her plump little hand, and Rose drew on her gloves.
"Adieu, Mr. Reinecourt," moving to the door.
"_Au revoir_, Miss Danton, until to-morrow morning."
Rose rode home in delight. In one instant the world had changed. St.
Croix had become a paradise, and the keen air sweet as "Ceylon's spicy
breezes." As Alice Carey says, "What to her was our world with its
storms and rough weather," with that pallid face, those eyes of darkest
splendour, that magnetic voice, haunting her all the way. It was love at
sight with Miss Danton the second. What was the girlish fancy she had
felt for Jules La Touche--for Dr. Frank--for a dozen others, compared
with this.
Joe, the stable-boy, led away Regina, and Rose entered the house.
Crossing the hall, she met Eeny going upstairs.
"Well!" said Eeny, "and where have you been all day, pray?"
"Out riding."
"Where?"
"Oh, everywhere! Don't bother!"
"Do you know we have had luncheon?"
"I don't care--I don't want luncheon."
She ran past her sister, and shut herself up in her room. Eeny stared.
In all her experience of her sister she had never known her to be
indifferent to eating and drinking. For the first time in Rose's life,
love had taken away her appetite.
All that afternoon she stayed shut up in her chamber, dreaming as only
eighteen, badly in love, does dream. When darkness fell, and the lamps
were lit, and the dinner-bell rang, she descended to the dining-room
indifferent for the first time whether she was dressed well or ill.
"What does it matter?" she thought, looking in the glass; "he is not
here to see me."
Doctor Frank and the Reverend Augustus Clare dropped in after dinner,
but Rose hardly deigned to look at them. She reclined gracefully on a
sofa, with half shut eyes, listening to Kate playing one of Beethoven's
"Songs without Words," and seeing--not the long, lamp-lit drawing-room
with all its elegant luxuries, or the friends around her, but the bare
best room of the old yellow farm-house, and the man lying lonely and ill
before the blazing fire. Doctor Danton sat down beside her and talked to
her; but Rose answered at random, and was so absorbed, and silent, and
preoccupied, as to puzzle every one. Her father asked her to sing. Rose
begged to be excused--she could not sing to-night. Kate looked at her in
wonder.
"What is the matter with you, Rose?" she inquired; "are you ill? What is
it?"
"Nothing," Rose answered, "only I don't feel like talking."
And not feeling like it, nobody could make her talk. She retired
early--to live over again in dreams the events of that day, and to think
of the blissful morrow.
An hour after breakfast next morning, Eeny met her going out, dressed
for her ride, and with a little velvet reticule stuffed full, slung over
her arm.
"What have you got in that bag?" asked Eeny, "your dinner? Are you going
to a picnic?"
Rose laughed at the idea of a January picnic, and ran off without
answering. An hour's brisk gallop brought her to the farm house, and old
Jacques came out, bowing and grinning, to take charge of her horse.
"Monsieur was in the parlour--would Mademoiselle walk right into the
parlour? Dr. Pillule had been there and seen to Monsieur's ankle.
Monsieur was doing very well, only not able to stand up yet."
Rose found Monsieur half asleep before the fire, and looking as handsome
as ever in his slumber. He started up at her entrance, holding out both
hands.
"_Mon ange!_ I thought you were never coming. I was falling into
despair."
"Falling into despair means falling asleep, I presume. Don't let me
disturb your dreams."
"I am in a more blissful dream now than any I could dream asleep. Here
is a seat. Oh, don't sit so far off. Are those the books? How can I ever
thank you?"
"You never can--so don't try. Here is Tennyson--of course you like
Tennyson; here is Shelley--here are two new and charming novels. Do you
read novels?"
"I will read everything you fetch me. By-the-by, it is very fatiguing to
read lying down; won't you read to me?"
"I can't read. I mean I can't read aloud."
"Let me be the judge of that. Let me see--read 'Maud.'"
Rose began and did her best, and read until she was tired. Mr.
Reinecourt watched her all the while as she sat beside him.
And presently they drifted off into delicious talk of poetry and
romance; and Rose, pulling out her watch, was horrified to find that it
was two o'clock.
"I must go!" she cried, springing up; "what will they think has become
of me?"
"But you will come again to-morrow?" pleaded Mr. Reinecourt.
"I don't know--you don't deserve it, keeping me here until this hour.
Perhaps I may, though--good-bye."
Rose, saying this, knew in her heart she could not stay away if she
tried. Next morning she was there, and the next, and the next, and the
next. Then came a week of wild, snowy weather, when the roads were
heaped high, going out was an impossibility, and she had to stay at
home. Rose chafed desperately under the restraint, and grew so irritable
that it was quite a risk to speak to her. All her old high spirits were
gone. Her ceaseless flow of talk suddenly checked. She wandered about
the house aimlessly, purposelessly, listlessly, sighing wearily, and
watching the flying snow and hopeless sky. A week of this weather, and
January was at its close before a change for the better came. Rose was
falling a prey to green and yellow melancholy, and perplexing the whole
household by the unaccountable alteration in her. With the first gleam
of fine weather she was off. Her long morning rides were recommenced;
smiles and roses returned to her face, and Rose was herself again.
It took that sprained ankle a very long time to get well. Three weeks
had passed since that January day when Regina had slipped on the ice,
and still Mr. Reinecourt was disabled; at least he was when Rose was
there. He had dropped the Miss Danton and taken to calling her Rose, of
late; but when she was gone, it was really surprising how well he could
walk, and without the aid of a stick. Old Jacques grinned knowingly. The
poetry reading and the long, long talks went on every day, and Rose's
heart was hopelessly and forever gone. She knew nothing more of Mr.
Reinecourt than that he was Mr. Reinecourt; still, she hardly cared to
know. She was in love, and an idiot; to-day sufficed for her--to-morrow
might take care of itself.
"Rose, _chérie_," Mr. Reinecourt said to her one day, "you vindicate
your sex; you are free from the vice of curiosity. You ask no questions,
and, except my name, you know nothing of me."
"Well, Mr. Reinecourt, whose fault is that?"
"Do you want to know?"
Rose looked at him, then away. Somehow of late she had grown strangely
shy.
"If you like to tell me."
"My humble little Rose! Yes, I will tell you. I must leave here soon; a
sprained ankle won't last forever, do our best."
She looked at him in sudden alarm, her bright bloom fading out. He had
taken one of her little hands, and her fingers closed involuntarily over
his.
"Going away!" she repeated. "Going away!"
He smiled slightly. His masculine vanity was gratified by the
irrepressible confession of her love for him.
"Not from you, my dear little Rose. To-morrow you will know all--where I
am going, and who I am."
"Who you are! Are you not Mr. Reinecourt?"
"Certainly!" half laughing. "But that is rather barren information, is
it not? Can you wait until to-morrow?"
His smile, the clasp in which he held her hand, reassured her.
"Oh, yes," she said, drawing a long breath, "I can wait!"
That day--Rose remembered it afterward--he stood holding her hands a
long time at parting.
"You will go! What a hurry you are always in," he said.
"A hurry!" echoed Rose. "I have been here three hours. I should have
gone long ago. Don't detain me; good-bye!"
"Good-bye, my Rose, my dear little nurse! Good-bye until we meet again."