HON. LIEUTENANT REGINALD STANFORD.
Rose Danton's slumbers were unusually disturbed that night. Mr.
Reinecourt haunted her awake, Mr. Reinecourt haunted her asleep. What
was the eventful morrow to reveal? Would he tell her he loved her? Would
he ask her to be his wife? Did he care for her, or did he mean nothing
after all?
No thought of Jules La Touche came to disturb her as she drifted off
into delicious memories of the past and ecstatic dreams of the future.
No thought of the promise she had given, no remorse at her own falsity,
troubled her easy conscience. What did she care for Jules La Touche?
What was he beside this splendid Mr. Reinecourt? She thought of
him--when she thought of him at all--with angry impatience, and she drew
his ring off her finger and flung it across the room.
"What a fool I was," she thought, "ever to dream of marrying that silly
boy! Thank heaven I never told any one but Grace."
Rose was feverish with impatience and anticipation when morning came.
She sat down to breakfast, tried to eat, and drink, and talk as usual,
and failed in all. As soon as the meal was over, unable to wait, she
dressed and ordered her horse. Doctor Frank was sauntering up the
avenue, smoking a cigar in the cold February sunshine, as she rode off.
"Away so early, Di Vernon, and unescorted? May I--"
"No," said Rose, brusquely, "you may not. Good morning!"
Doctor Frank glanced after her as she galloped out of sight.
"What is it?" he thought. "What has altered her of late? She is not the
same girl she was two weeks ago. Has she fallen in love, I wonder? Not
likely, I should think; and yet--"
He walked off, revolving the question, to the house, while Rose was
rapidly shortening the distance between herself and her beloved. Old
Jacques was leaning over the gate as she rode up, and took off his hat
with Canadian courtesy to the young lady.
"Is Mr. Reinecourt in, Mr. Jacques?" asked Rose, preparing to dismount.
Jacques lifted his eyebrows in polite surprise.
"Doesn't Mademoiselle know, then?"
"Know what?"
"That Monsieur has gone?"
"Gone?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle, half an hour ago. Gone for good."
"But he will come back?" said Rose, faintly, her heart seeming suddenly
to stop beating.
Old Jacques shook his head.
"No, Mam'selle. Monsieur has paid me like a king, shook hands with
Margot and me, and gone forever."
There was a dead pause. Rose clutched her bridle-rein, and felt the
earth spinning under her, her face growing-white and cold.
"Did he leave no message--no message for me?"
She could barely utter the words, the shock, the consternation were so
great. Something like a laugh shone in old Jacques' eyes.
"No, Mademoiselle, he never spoke of you. He only paid us, and said
good-bye, and went away."
Rose turned Regina slowly round in a stunned sort of way, and with the
reins loose on her neck, let her take her road homeward. A dull sense of
despair was all she was conscious of. She could not think, she could not
reason, her whole mind was lost in blank consternation. He was gone. She
could not get beyond that--he was gone.
The boy who came to lead away her horse stared at her changed face; the
servant who opened the door opened his eyes, also, at sight of her. She
never heeded them; a feeling that she wanted to be alone was all she
could realize, and she walked straight to a little alcove opening from
the lower end of the long entrance-hall. An archway and a curtain of
amber silk separated it from the drawing-room, of which it was a sort of
recess. A sofa, piled high with downy pillows, stood invitingly under a
window. Among these pillows poor Rose threw herself, to do battle with
her despair.
While she lay there in tearless rage, she heard the drawing-room door
open, and some one come in.
"Who shall I say, sir?" insinuated the servant.
"Just say a friend wishes to see Miss Danton," was the answer.
That voice! Rose bounded from the sofa, her eyes wild, her lips apart.
Her hand shook as she drew aside the curtain and looked out. A gentleman
was there, but he sat with his back to her, and his figure was only
partially revealed. Rose's heart beat in great plunges against her side,
but she restrained herself and waited. Ten minutes, and there was the
rustle of a dress; Kate entered the room. The gentleman arose, there was
a cry of "Reginald!" and then Kate was clasped in the stranger's arms.
Rose could see his face now; no need to look twice to recognize Mr.
Reinecourt.
The curtain dropped from Rose's hand, she stood still, breath coming and
going in gasps. She saw it all as by an electric light--Mr. Reinecourt
was Kate's betrothed husband, Reginald Stanford. He had known her from
the first; from the first he had coolly and systematically deceived her.
He knew that she loved him--he must know it--and had gone on fooling her
to the top of his bent. Perhaps he and Kate would laugh over it together
before the day was done. Rose clenched her hands, and her eyes flashed
at the thought. Back came the colour to her cheeks, back the light to
her eyes; anger for the moment quenched every spark of love. Some of the
old Danton pluck was in her, after all. No despair now, no lying on sofa
cushions any more in helpless woe.
"How dared he do it--how dared he?" she thought "knowing me to be Kate's
sister. I hate him! oh, I hate him!"
And here Rose broke down, and finding the hysterics would come, fled
away to her room, and cried vindictively for two hours.
She got up at last, sullen and composed. Her mind was made up. She would
show Mr. Reinecourt (Mr. Reinecourt indeed)! how much she cared for him.
He should see the freezing indifference with which she could treat him;
he should see she was not to be fooled with impunity.
Rose bathed her flushed and tear-stained face until every trace of the
hysterics was gone, called Agnes Darling to curl her hair and dress her
in a new blue glacé, in which she looked lovely. Then, with a glow like
fever on her cheeks, a fire like fever in her eyes, she went down
stairs. In the hall she met Eeny.
"Oh, Rose! I was just going up to your room. Kate wants you."
"Does she? What for?"
"Mr. Stanford has come. He is with her in the drawing-room; and, Rose,
he is the handsomest man I ever saw."
Rose shook back her curls disdainfully, and descended to the
drawing-room. _A la princesse_ she sailed in, and saw the late M.
Reinecourt seated by the window, Kate beside him, with, oh, such a happy
face! She arose at her sister's entrance, a smile of infinite content on
her face.
"Reginald, my sister Rose. Rose, Mr. Stanford."
Rose made the most graceful bow that ever was seen, not the faintest
sign of recognition in her face. She hardly glanced at Mr. Stanford--she
was afraid to trust herself too far--she was afraid to meet those
magnetic dark eyes. If he looked aback at her _sang-froid_, she did not
see it. She swept by as majestically as Kate herself, and took a distant
seat.
Kate's face showed her surprise. Rose had been a puzzle to her of late;
she was more a puzzle now than ever. Rose was standing on her dignity,
that was evident; and Rose did not often stand on that pedestal. She
would not talk, or only in monosyllables. Her replies to Mr. Stanford
were pointedly cold and brief. She sat, looking very pretty in her blue
glacé and bright curls, her fingers toying idly with her châtelaine and
trinkets, and as unapproachable as a grand duchess.
Mr. Stanford made no attempt to approach her. He sat and talked to his
betrothed of the old times and the old friends and places, and seemed to
forget there was any one else in the world. Rose listened, with a heart
swelling with angry bitterness--silent, except when discreetly addressed
by Kate, and longing vindictively to spring up and tell the handsome,
treacherous Englishman what she thought of him there and then.
As luncheon hour drew near, her father, who had been absent, returned
with Sir Ronald Keith and Doctor Danton. They were all going upstairs;
but Kate, with a happy flush on her face, looked out of the drawing-room
door.
"Come in papa," she said; "come in, Sir Ronald; there is an old friend
here."
She smiled a bright invitation to the young Doctor, who went in also.
Reginald Stanford stood up. Captain Danton, with a delighted "Hallo!"
grasped both his hands.
"Reginald, my dear boy, I am delighted, more than delighted, to see you.
Welcome to Canada, Sir Ronald; this is more than we bargained for."
"I was surprised to find you here, Sir Ronald," said the young officer,
shaking the baronet's hand cordially; "very happy to meet you again."
Sir Ronald, with a dark flush on his face, bowed stiffly, in silence,
and moved away.
Doctor Frank was introduced, made his bow, and retreated to Rose's sofa.
Capricious womanhood! Rose, that morning, had decidedly snubbed him;
Rose, at noon, welcomed him with her most radiant smile. Never, perhaps,
in all his experience had any young lady listened to him with such
flattering attention, with such absorbed interest. Never had bright eyes
and rosy lips given him such glances and smiles. She hung on his words;
she had eyes and ears for no one else, least of all for the supremely
handsome gentleman who was her sister's betrothed, and who talked to her
father; while Sir Ronald glowered over a book.
The ringing of the luncheon-bell brought Grace and Eeny, and all were
soon seated around the Captain's hospitable board.
Lieutenant Reginald Stanford laid himself out to be fascinating, and was
fascinating. There was a subtle charm in his handsome face, in his
brilliant smile and glance, in his pleasant voice, in his wittily-told
stories, and inexhaustible fund of anecdote and mimicry. Now he was in
Ireland, now in France, now in Scotland, now in Yorkshire; and the bad
English and the _patois_ and accent of all were imitated to the life.
With that face, that voice, that talent for imitation, Lieutenant
Stanford, in another walk of life, might have made his fortune on the
stage. His power of fascination was irresistible. Grace felt it, Eeny
felt it, all felt it, except Sir Ronald Keith. He sat like the Marble
Guest, not fascinated, not charmed, black and unsmiling.
Rose, too--what was the matter with Rose? She, so acutely alive to
well-told stories, to handsome faces, so rigidly cold, and stately, and
uninterested now. She shrugged her dimpled shoulders when the table was
in a roar; she opened her rather small hazel eyes and stared, as if she
wondered, what they could see to laugh at. She did not even deign to
glance at him, the hero of the feast; and, in fact, so greatly overdid
her part as to excite the suspicions of that astute young man, Doctor
Danton. There is no effect without a cause. What was the cause of Rose's
icy indifference? He looked at her, then at Stanford, then back at her,
and set himself to watch.
"She has met him before," thought the shrewd Doctor; "but where, if he
has just come from England? I'll ask him, I think."
It was some time before there was a pause in the conversation. In the
first, Dr. Frank struck in.
"How did you come, Mr. Stanford?" he asked.
"On the Hysperia, from Southampton to New York."
"How long ago?" inquired Kate, indirectly helping him; "a week?"
"No," said Lieutenant Stanford, coolly carving his cold ham; "nearly
five."
Every one stared. Kate looked blankly amazed.
"Impossible!" she exclaimed; "five weeks since you landed in New York?
Surely not."
"Quite true, I assure you. The way was this--"
He paused and looked at Rose, who had spilled a glass of wine, trying to
lift it, in a hand that shook strangely. Her eyes were downcast, her
cheeks scarlet, her whole manner palpably and inexplicably embarrassed.
"Four, weeks ago, I reached Canada. I did not write you, Kate, that I
was coming. I wished to give you a surprise. I stopped at
Belleplain--you know the town of Belleplain, thirty miles from here--to
see a brother officer I had known at Windsor. Travelling from Belleplain
in a confounded stage, I stopped half frozen at an old farm-house six
miles off. Next morning, pursuing my journey on foot, I met with a
little mishap."
He paused provokingly to fill at his leisure a glass of sherry; and
Doctor Danton watching Rose under his eyelashes, saw the colour coming
and going in her traitor face.
"I slipped on a sheet of ice," continued Mr. Stanford. "I am not used to
your horrible Canadian roads, remember, and strained my ankle badly. I
had to be conveyed back to the farm-house on a sled--medical attendance
procured, and for three weeks I have been a prisoner there. I could have
sent you word, no doubt, and put you to no end of trouble bringing me
here, but I did not like that; I did not care to turn Danton Hall into a
hospital, and go limping through life; so I made the best of a bad
bargain and stayed where I was."
There was a general murmur of sympathy from all but Sir Ronald and Rose.
Sir Ronald sat like a grim statue in granite; and Rose, still fluttering
and tremulous, did not dare to lift her eyes.
"You must have found it very lonely," said Doctor Danton.
"No. I regretted not getting here, of course; but otherwise it was not
unpleasant. They took such capital care of me, you see, and I had a
select little library at my command; so, on the whole, I have been in
much more disagreeable quarters in my lifetime."
Doctor Frank said no more. He had gained his point, and he was
satisfied.
"It is quite clear," he thought. "By some hocus-pocus, Miss Rose has
made his acquaintance during those three weeks, and helped the slow time
to pass. He did not tell her he was her sister's lover, hence the
present frigidity. The long morning rides are accounted for now. I
wonder"--he looked at pretty Rose--"I wonder if the matter will end
here?"
It seemed as if it would. Doctor Danton, coming every day to the Hall,
and closely observant always, saw no symptoms of thawing out on Rose's
part, and no effort to please on the side of Mr. Stanford. He treated
her as he treated Eeny and Grace, courteously, genially, but nothing
more. He was all devotion to his beautiful betrothed, and Kate--what
words can paint the infinite happiness of her face! All that was wanting
to make her beauty perfect was found. She had grown so gentle, so sweet,
so patient with all; she was so supremely blessed herself, she could
afford to stoop to the weaknesses of less fortunate mortals. That
indescribable change, the radiance of her eyes, the buoyancy of her
step, the lovely colour that deepened and died, the smiles that came so
rapidly now--all told how much she loved Reginald Stanford.
Was it returned, that absorbing devotion? He was very devoted; he was
beside her when she sang; he sought her always when he entered the room,
he was her escort on all occasions; but--was it returned? It seemed to
Doctor Frank, watching quietly, that there was something
wanting--something too vague to be described, but lacking. Kate did not
miss it herself, and it might be only a fancy. Perhaps it was that she
was above and beyond him, with thoughts and feelings in that earnest
heart of hers he could never understand. He was very handsome, very
brilliant; but underlying the beauty and the brilliancy of the surface
there was shallowness, and selfishness, and falsity.
He was walking up and down the tamarack walk, thinking of this and
smoking a cigar, one evening, about a week after the arrival of
Stanford. The February twilight fell tenderly over snowy ground, dark,
stripped trees, and grim old mansion. A mild evening, windless and
spring-like, with the full moon rising round and red. His walk commanded
a view of the great frozen fish-pond where a lively scene was going on.
Kate, Rose, and Eeny, strapped in skates, were floating round and round,
attended by the Captain and Lieutenant Stanford.
Rose was the best skater on the pond, and looked charming in her
tucked-up dress, crimson petticoat, dainty boots, and coquettish hat and
plume. She flitted in a dizzying circle ahead of all the rest,
disdaining to join them. Stanford skated very well for an Englishman,
and assisted Kate, who was not very proficient in the art. Captain
Danton had Eeny by the hand, and the gay laughter of the party made the
still air ring. Grace stood on the edge of the pond watching them, and
resisting the Captain's entreaties to come on the ice and let him teach
her to skate. Her brother joined her, coming up suddenly, with Tiger at
his side.
"Not half a bad tableau," the Doctor said, removing his inevitable
cigar; "lovely women, brave men, moonlight, and balmy breezes. You don't
go in for this sort of thing, _ma soeur_? No, I suppose not. Our
good-looking Englishman skates well, by the way. What do you think of
him, Grace?"
"I think with you, that he is a good-looking young Englishman."
"Nothing more?"
"That the eldest Miss Danton is hopelessly and helplessly in love with
him, and that it is rather a pity. Rose would suit him better."
"Ah! sagacious as usual, Grace. Who knows but the Hon. Reginald thinks
so too. Where is our dark Scotchman to-night?"
"Sir Ronald? Gone to Montreal."
"Is he coming back?"
"I don't know. Very likely. If it were to murder Mr. Stanford he would
come back with pleasure."
"He is a little jealous, then?"
"Just a little. There is the Captain calling you. Go."
They went over. Captain Danton whirled round and came to a halt at sight
of them.
"Here, Frank," he said; "I'm getting tired of this. Take my skates, and
let us see what you are capable of on ice."
Doctor Frank put on the skates, and struck off.
Rose, flashing past, gave him a bright backward glance.
"Catch me, Doctor Danton!" she cried. "Catch me if you can!"
"A fair field and no favour!" exclaimed Stanford, wheeling round. "Come
on Danton; I am going to try, too."
Eeny and Kate stood still to watch.
The group on the bank were absorbed in the chase. Doctor Danton was the
better skater of the two; but fleet-footed Rose outstripped both.
"Ten to one on the Doctor!" cried the Captain, excited. "Reginald is
nowhere!"
"I don't bet," said Grace; "but neither will catch Rose if Rose likes."
Round and round the fish-pond the trio flew--Rose still ahead, the
Doctor outstripping the Lieutenant. The chase was getting exciting.
There was no chance of gaining on Rose by following her. Danton tried
strategy. As she wheeled airily around, he abruptly turned, headed her
off, and caught her with a rebound in his arms.
"By Jove!" cried the Captain, delighted, "he has her. Reginald, my boy,
you are beaten."
"I told you you stood no chance, Stanford," said the Doctor.
"What am I to have for my pains, Miss Rose?"
"Stoop down and you'll see."
He bent his head. A stinging box on the ear rewarded him, and Rose was
off, flying over the glittering ice and out of reach.
"Beaten, Reginald," said Kate, as he drew near. "For shame, sir."
"Beaten, but not defeated," answered her lover; "a Stanford never
yields. Rose shall be my prize yet."
Rose had whirled round the pond, and was passing. He looked at her as he
spoke; but her answer was a flash of the eye and a curl of the lip as
she flew on. Kate saw it, and looked after her, puzzled and thoughtful.
"Reginald," she said, when, the skating over, they were all sauntering
back to the house, "what have you done to Rose?"
Reginald Stanford raised his dark eyebrows.
"Done to her! What do you imagine I have done to her?"
"Nothing; but why, then, does she dislike you so?"
"Am I so unfortunate as to have incurred your pretty sister's dislike?"
"Don't you see it? She avoids you. She will not talk to you, or sing for
you, or take your arm, or join us when we go out. I never saw her treat
any gentleman with such pointed coldness before."
"Extraordinary," said Mr. Stanford, with profoundest gravity; "I am the
most unlucky fellow in the world. What shall I do to overcome your fair
sister's aversion?"
"Perhaps you do not pay her attention enough. Rose knows she is very
pretty, and is jealously exacting in her demands for admiration and
devotion. Sir Ronald gave her mortal offence the first evening he came,
by his insensibility. She has never forgiven him, and never will. Devote
yourself more to her and less to me, and perhaps Rose will consent to
let you bask in the light of her smile."
He looked at her with an odd glance. She was smiling, but in earnest
too. She loved her sister and her lover so well, that she felt
uncomfortable until they were friends; and her heart was too great and
faithful for the faintest spark of jealousy. He had lifted the hand that
wore his ring to his lips.
"Your wishes are my law. I shall do my best to please Rose from
to-night."
That evening, for the first time, Stanford took a seat beside Rose, and
did his best to be agreeable. Kate smiled approval from her place at the
piano, and Doctor Danton, on the other side of Rose, heard and saw all,
and did not quite understand. But Rose was still offended, and declined
to relent. It was hard to resist that persuasive voice, but she did. She
hardened herself resolutely at the thought of how he had deceived
her--he who was soon to be her sister's husband. Rose got up abruptly,
excused herself, and left the room.
When the family were dispersing to their chambers that night, Reginald
lingered to speak to Kate.
"I have failed, you see," he said.
"Rose is a mystery," said Kate, vexed; "she has quite a new way of
acting. But you know," smiling radiantly, "a Stanford never yields."
"True. It is discouraging, but I shall try again. Good-night, dearest
and best, and pleasant dreams--of me."
He ascended to his bedroom, lamp in hand. A fire blazed in the grate;
and sitting down before it, his coat off, his slippers on, his hands in
his pockets, he gazed at it with knitted brow, and whistling softly. For
half an hour he sat, still as a statue. Then he got up, found his
writing-case, and sat down to indite a letter. He was singing the
fag-end of something as he dipped his pen in the ink.
"Bind the sea to slumber stilly--
Bind its odour to the lily--
Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver--
Then bind love to last forever!"
* * * * *
"Danton Hall, February 26, 18--
"My Dear Lauderdale: I think I promised, when I left
Windsor, to write to tell you how I got on in this horribly Arctic
region. It is nearly two months since I left Windsor, and my
conscience (don't laugh--I have discovered that I have a
conscience) gives me sundry twinges when I think of you. I don't
feel like sleeping to-night. I am full of my subject, so here goes.
"In the first place, Miss Danton is well, and as much of in angel
as ever. In the second place, Danton Hall is delightful, and holds
more angels than one. In the third place, Ronald Keith is here, and
half mad with jealousy. The keenest north wind that has ever blown
since I came to Canada is not half so freezing as he. Alas, poor
Yorick! He is a fine fellow, too, and fought like a lion in the
Russian trenches; but there was Sampson, and David, and Solomon,
and Marc Antony--you know what love did to them one and all.
"Kate refused him a year ago, in England--I found it out by
accident, not from her, of course; and yet here he is. It is the
old story of the moth and the candle, and sometimes I laugh, and
sometimes I am sorry for him. He has eight thousand a year, too;
and the Keiths are great people in Scotland, I hear. Didn't I
always try to impress it on you that it was better to be born
handsome than rich? I am not worth fifteen hundred shillings a
year, and in June (D. V.) beautiful Kate Danton is to be my wife.
Recant your heresy, and believe for the future.
"Angel, No. 2.--I told you there were more than one--has hazel
eyes, pink cheeks, auburn curls, and the dearest little ways. She
is not beautiful--she is not stately--she does not play and sing
the soul out of your body, and yet--and yet----. Lauderdale, you
always told me my peerless fiancée was a thousand times too good
for me. I never believed you before. I do believe you now. She
soars beyond my reach sometimes. I don't pretend to understand her,
and--tell it not in Gath--I stand a little in awe of her. I never
was on speaking terms with her most gracious majesty, whom Heaven
long preserve; but, if I were, I fancy I should feel as I do
sometimes talking to Kate. She is perfection, and I am--well, I am
not, and she is very fond of me. Would she break her heart, do you
think, if she does not become Mrs. Reginald Stanford? June is the
time, but there is many a slip. I know what your answer will
be--'She will break her heart if she does!' It is a bad business,
old boy; but it is fate, or we will say so--and hazel eyes and
auburn curls are very, very tempting.
"You used to think a good deal of Captain Danton, if I recollect
right. By the way, how old is the Captain? I ask, because there is
a housekeeper here, who is a distant cousin, one of the family,
very quiet, sensible, lady-like, and six and twenty, who may be
Mrs. Captain Danton one day. Mind, I don't say for certain, but I
have my suspicions. He couldn't do better. Grace--that's her
name--has a brother here, a doctor, very fine fellow, and so cute.
I catch him looking at me sometimes in a very peculiar manner,
which I think I understand.
"You don't expect me before June, do you? Nevertheless, don't faint
if I return to our 'right little, tight little' island before that.
Meantime, write and let me know how the world wags with you; and,
only I know it is out of your line, I should ask you to offer a
prayer for your unfortunate friend
"Reginald Stanford."