ONE MYSTERY CLEARED UP.
The fire burned low in Rose's pretty room, and the lamp was dim on the
table. The window-curtains were closed, and the sheets of the little
low, white bed turned down, the easy chair was before the hearth, and
everything was the picture of comfort. She flung off her wrappings on
the carpet, and sat down in the easy chair, and looked into the glowing
cinders, lost in perplexed thought.
What would be the result of that night's adventure? Reginald Stanford,
good-natured and nonchalant, was yet proud. She had seen his face change
in the starlight, as once she had hardly thought it possible that
ever-laughing face could change; she had seen it cold and fixed as
stone. How would he act towards a lady, plighted to be his wife, and yet
who took midnight rambles with another man? Would the engagement be
broken off, and would he leave Canada forever in disgust? Or would he,
forsaking Kate, turn to Kate's younger sister for love and consolation?
Rose's heart throbbed, and her face grew hot in the solitude of her
chamber, at the thought. He would demand an explanation, of course;
would it be haughtily refused by that haughty sister, or would the
mystery of Mr. Richards be opened for him?
A clock down-stairs struck two. Rose remembered that late watching
involved pale cheeks and dull eyes, and got up, said her prayers with
sleepy devotion, and went to bed.
The sunlight of another bright March day flooded her room when she awoke
from a troubled dream of Mr. Richards. It was only seven o'clock, but
she arose, dressed rapidly, and, before eight, opened the dining-room
door.
Early as the hour was, the apartment was occupied. Grace sat at one of
the windows, braiding elaborately an apron, and Captain Danton stood
beside her, looking on. Grace glanced up, her colour heightening at
Rose's entrance.
"Good morning, Miss Rose," said her father. "Early to bed and early to
rise, eh? When did you take to getting up betimes?"
"Good morning, papa. I didn't feel sleepy, and so thought I would come
down."
"What time did you get home last night?"
"I left a little after twelve."
"Did you enjoy yourself, my dear?"
"Yes, papa."
"Reginald was with you?"
"Yes, papa."
"It's all right, I suppose," said her father, pinching her blooming
cheek; "but if I were Kate, I wouldn't allow it. Young man are
changeable as chameleons, and these pink cheeks are tempting."
The pink cheeks turned guiltily scarlet at the words. Grace, looking up
from her work, saw the tell-tale flush; but Captain Danton, going over
to the fire to read the morning paper, said nothing.
Rose stood listlessly in her father's place, looking out of the window.
The wintry landscape, all glittering in the glorious sunshine, was very
bright; but the dreamy, hazel eyes were not looking at it.
"Rose!" said Grace suddenly, "when did you hear from Ottawa?"
Rose turned to her, roused from her dreaming.
"What did you say?"
"When did you hear from Ottawa--from M. Jules La Touche?"
Again the colour deepened in Rose's face, and an angry light shone in
her eyes.
"What do you want to know for?"
"Because I want to know. That's reason enough, is it not?" replied
Grace, sewing away placidly.
"I don't see that it's any affair of yours, Mistress Grace. Jules La
Touche is a nuisance!"
"Oh, is he? He wasn't a month or two ago. Whom have you fallen in love
with now, Rose?"
"It's no business of yours," said Rose angrily.
"But if I choose to make it my business, my dear, sweet-tempered Rose,
what then? Do tell me the name of the last lucky man? I am dying to
know."
"Die, then, for you won't know."
"Suppose I know already."
"What?"
"It's not Mr. Stanford, is it?"
Rose gave a gasp--in the suddenness of the surprise, colouring crimson.
Grace saw it all, as she placidly threaded her needle.
"I wouldn't if I were you," she said quietly. "It's of no use, Rose.
Kate is handsomer than you are; and it will only be the old comedy of
'Love's Labour Lost' over again."
"Grace Danton, what do you mean?"
"Now, don't get excited, Rose, and don't raise your voice. Your father
might hear you, and that would not be pleasant. It is plain enough. Mr.
Stanford is very handsome, and very fascinating, and very hard to
resist, I dare say; but, still, he must be resisted. Mr. La Touche is a
very estimable young man, I have no doubt, and of a highly respectable
family; and, very likely, will make you an excellent husband. If I were
you, I would ask my papa to let me go on another visit to Ottawa, and
remain, say, until the end of May. It would do you good, I am sure."
Rose listened to this harangue, her eyes flashing.
"And if I were you, Miss Grace Danton, I would keep my advice until it
was asked. Be so good for the future, as to mind your own business,
attend to your housekeeping, and let other people's love affairs alone."
With which Rose sailed stormily off, with very red cheeks, and very
bright, angry eyes, and sought refuge in a book.
Grace, perfectly unmoved, quite used to Rose's temper, sewed serenely
on, and waited for the rest of the family to appear.
Eeny was the next to enter, then came Sir Ronald Keith, who took a chair
opposite Captain Danton, and buried himself in another paper. To him, in
Kate's absence, the room was empty.
The breakfast bell was ringing when that young lady appeared, beautiful
and bright as the sunny morning, in flowing white cashmere, belted with
blue, and her lovely golden hair twisted in a coronet of amber braids
round her head. She came over to where Rose sat, sulky and silent, and
kissed her.
"_Bon jour, ma soeur!_ How do you feel after last night!"
"Very well," said Rose, not looking at her.
"Reginald came home with you?" smiled Kate, toying with Rose's pretty
curls.
"Yes," she said, uneasily.
"I am glad. I am so glad that you and he are friends at last."
Rose fidgeted more uneasily still, and said nothing.
"Why was it you didn't like him?" said Kate, coaxingly. "Tell me, my
dear."
"I don't know. I liked him well enough," replied Rose, ungraciously. "He
was a stranger to me."
"My darling, he will be your brother."
Rose fixed her eyes sullenly on her book.
"You will come to England with us, won't you, Rose--dear old
England--and my pretty sister may be my lady yet?"
The door opened again. Mr. Stanford came in.
Rose glanced up shyly.
His face was unusually grave and pale; but all were taking their places,
and in the bustle no one noticed it. He did not look at Kate, who saw,
with love's quickness, that something was wrong.
All through breakfast Mr. Stanford was very silent, for him. When he did
talk, it was to Captain Danton--seldom to any of the ladies.
Grace watched him, wonderingly; Rose watched him furtively, and Kate's
morning appetite was effectually taken away.
The meal ended, the family dispersed.
The Captain went to his study, Sir Ronald mounted and rode off, Grace
went away to attend to her housekeeping affairs, Eeny to her studies,
and Rose hurried up to her room.
The lovers were left alone. Kate took her embroidery. Mr. Stanford was
immersed in the paper Captain Danton had lately laid down. There was a
prolonged silence, during which the lady worked, and the gentleman read,
as if their lives depended on it.
She lifted her eyes from her embroidery to glance his way, and found him
looking at her steadfastly--gravely.
"What is it, Reginald?" she exclaimed, impatiently. "What is the matter
with you this morning?"
"I am wondering!" said Stanford, gravely.
"Wondering?"
"Yes; if the old adage about seeing being believing is true."
"I don't understand," said Kate, a little haughtily.
Stanford laid down his paper, came over to where she sat, and took a
chair near her.
"Something extraordinary has occurred, Kate, which I cannot comprehend.
Shall I tell you what it is?"
"If you please."
"It was last night, then. You know I spent the day and evening with the
Howards? It was late--past twelve, when I escorted Rose home; but the
night was fine, and tempted me to linger still longer. I turned down the
tamarack walk--"
He paused.
Kate's work had dropped in her lap, with a faint cry of dismay.
"I had reached the lower end of the avenue," continued Reginald
Stanford, "and was turning, when I saw two persons--a man and a
woman--enter. 'Who can they be, and what can they be about here at this
hour?' I thought, and I stood still to watch. They came nearer. I saw in
the starlight her woman's face. I heard in the stillness her words. She
was telling the man how much she loved him, how much she should always
love him, and then they were out of sight and hearing. Kate, was that
woman you?"
She sat looking at him, her blue eyes dilated, her lips apart, her hands
clasped, in a sort of trance of terror.
"Was it you, Kate?" repeated her lover. "Am I to believe my eyes?"
She roused herself to speak by an effort.
"Oh, Reginald!" she cried, "what have you done! Why, why did you go
there?"
There was dismay in her tone, consternation in her face, but nothing
else. No shame, no guilt, no confusion--nothing but that look of grief
and regret.
A conviction that had possessed him all along that it was all right,
somehow or other, became stronger than ever now; but his face did not
show it--perhaps, unconsciously, in his secret heart he was hoping it
would not be all right.
"Perhaps I was unfortunate in going there," he said, coldly; "but I
assure you I had very little idea of what I was to see and hear. Having
heard, and having seen, I am afraid I must insist on an explanation."
"Which I cannot give you," said Kate, her colour rising, and looking
steadfastly in his dark eyes.
"You cannot give me!" said Reginald, haughtily. "Do I understand you
rightly, Kate?"
She laid her hand on his, with a gentle, caressing touch, and bent
forward. She loved him too deeply and tenderly to bear that cold, proud
tone.
"We have never quarrelled yet, Reginald," she said, sweetly. "Let us not
quarrel now. I cannot give you the explanation you ask; but papa shall."
He lifted the beautiful hand to his lips, feeling somehow, that he was
unworthy to touch the hem of her garment.
"You are an angel, Kate--incapable of doing wrong. I ought to be content
without an explanation, knowing you as I do; but--"
"But you must have one, nevertheless. Reginald, I am sorry you saw me
last night."
He looked at her, hardly knowing what to say. She was gazing sadly out
at the sunny prospect.
"Poor fellow!" she said, half to herself, "poor fellow! Those midnight
walks are almost all the comfort he has in this world, and now he will
be afraid to venture out any more."
Still Stanford sat silent.
Kate smiled at him and put away her work.
"Wait for me here," she said, rising. "Papa is in his study. I will
speak to him."
She left the room. Stanford sat and waited, and felt more uncomfortable
than he had ever felt in his life. He was curious, too. What family
mystery was about to be revealed to him? What secret was this hidden in
Danton Hall?
"I have heard there is a skeleton in every house," he thought; "but I
never dreamed there was one hidden away in this romantic old mansion.
Perhaps I have seen the ghost of Danton Hall, as well as the rest. How
calmly Kate took it!--No sign of guilt or wrong-doing in her face. If I
ever turn out a villain, there will be no excuse for my villainy on her
part."
Kate was absent nearly half an hour, but it seemed a little century to
the impatient waiter. When she entered, there were traces of tears on
her face, but her manner was quite calm.
"Papa is waiting for you," she said, "in his study."
He rose up, walked to the door, and stood there, irresolute.
"Where shall I find you when I return?"
"Here."
She said it softly and a little sadly. Stanford crossed to where she
stood, and took her in his arms--a very unusual proceeding for him--and
kissed her.
"I have perfect confidence in your truth, my dearest," he said. "I am as
sure of your goodness and innocence before your father's explanation as
I can possibly be after it."
There was a witness to this loving declaration that neither of them
bargained for. Rose, getting tired of her own company, had run
down-stairs to entertain herself with her music. Stanford had left the
door ajar when he returned; and Rose was just in time to see the embrace
and hear the tender speech. Just in time, too, to fly before Reginald
left the drawing-room and took his way to the study.
Rose played no piano that morning; but, locked in her own room, made the
most of what she had heard and seen. Kate had the drawing-room to
herself, and sat, with clasped hands, looking out at the bright March
morning. The business of the day went on in the house, doors opened and
shut, Grace and Eeny came in and went away again, Doctor Frank came up
to see Agnes Darling, who was nearly well; and in the study, Reginald
Stanford was hearing the story of Miss Danton's midnight stroll.
"You must have heard it sooner or later," Captain Danton said, "between
this and next June. As well now as any other time."
Stanford bowed and waited.
"You have not resided in this house for so many weeks without hearing of
the invalid upstairs, whom Ogden attends, who never appears in our
midst, and about whom all in the house are more or less curious?"
"Mr. Richards?" said Stanford, surprised.
"Yes, Mr. Richards; you have heard of him. It was Mr. Richards whom you
saw with Kate last night."
Reginald Stanford dropped the paper-knife he had been drumming with, and
stared blankly at Captain Danton.
"Mr. Richards!" he echoed; "Mr. Richards, who is too ill to leave his
room!"
"Not now," said Captain Danton, calmly; "he was when he first came here.
You know what ailed Macbeth--a sickness that physicians could not cure.
That is Mr. Richards' complaint--a mind diseased. Remorse and terror are
that unhappy young man's ailments and jailers."
There was a dead pause. Reginald Stanford, still "far wide," gazed at
his father-in-law-elect, and waited for something more satisfactory.
"It is not a pleasant story to tell," Captain Danton went on, in a
subdued voice; "the story of a young man's folly, and madness, and
guilt; but it must be told. The man you saw last night is barely
twenty-three years of age, but all the promise of his life is gone; from
henceforth he can be nothing more than a hunted outcast, with the stain
of murder on his soul."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed his hearer; "and Kate walks with such a man,
alone, and at midnight?"
"Yes," said Kate's father, proudly "and will again, please Heaven. Poor
boy! poor, unfortunate boy! If Kate and I were to desert him, he would
be lost indeed."
"This is all Greek to me," said Stanford, coldly. "If the man be what
you say, a murderer, nothing can excuse Miss Danton's conduct."
"Listen, Reginald, my dear boy--almost my son; listen, and you will have
nothing but pity for the poor man upstairs, and deeper love for my noble
daughter. But, first, have I your word of honour that what I tell you
shall remain a secret?"
Reginald bowed.
"Three years ago, this young man, whose name is not Richards," began
Captain Danton, "ran away from home, and began life on his own account.
He had been a wilful, headstrong, passionate boy always, but yet loving
and generous. He fled from his friends, in a miserable hour of passion,
and never returned to them any more; for the sick, sinful, broken-down,
wretched man who returned was as different from the hot-headed,
impetuous, happy boy, as day differs from night.
"He fled from home, and went to New York. He was, as I am, a sailor; he
had command of a vessel at the age of nineteen; but he gave up the sea,
and earned a livelihood in that city for some months by painting and
selling water-colour sketches, at which he was remarkably clever.
Gradually his downward course began. The wine-bottle, the gaming-table,
were the first milestones on the road to ruin. The gambling-halls
became, at length, his continual haunt. One day he was worth thousands;
the next, he did not possess a stiver. The excitement grew on him. He
became, before the end of the year, a confirmed and notorious gambler.
"One night the crisis in his life came. He was at a Bowery theatre, to
see a Christmas pantomime. It was a fairy spectacle, and the stage was
crowded with ballet-girls. There was one among them, the loveliest
creature, it seemed to him, he had ever seen, with whom, in one mad
moment, he fell passionately in love. A friend of his, by name Furniss,
laughed at his raptures. 'Don't you know her, Harry?' said he; 'she
boards in the same house with you. She is a little grisette, a little
shop-girl, only hired to look pretty, standing there, while this fairy
pantomime lasts. You have seen her fifty times.'
"Yes, he had seen her repeatedly. He remembered it when his friend
spoke, and he had never thought of her until now. The new infatuation
took possession of him, body and soul. He made her acquaintance next
morning, and found out she was, as his friend had said, a shop-girl.
What did he care; if she had been a rag-picker, it would have been all
one to this young madman. In a fortnight he proposed; in a month they
were married, and the third step on the road to ruin was taken.
"Had she been a good woman--an earnest and faithful wife--she might have
made a new man of him, for he loved her with a passionate devotion that
was part of his hot-headed nature. But she was bad--as depraved as she
was fair--and brought his downward course to a tragical climax
frightfully soon.
"Before her marriage, this wretched girl had had a lover--discarded for
a more handsome and impetuous wooer. But she had known him longest, and,
perhaps, loved him best. At all events, he resumed his visits after
marriage, as if nothing had happened. The young husband, full of love
and confidence, suspected no wrong. He sanctioned the visits and was on
most friendly terms with the discarded suitor. For some months it went
on, this underhand and infamous intimacy, and the wronged husband saw
nothing. It was Furniss who first opened his eyes to the truth, and a
terrible scene ensued. The husband refused passionately to believe a
word against the truth and purity of the wife he loved, and called his
friend a liar and a slanderer.
"'Very well,' said Furniss, coolly, 'bluster as much as you please, dear
boy, and, when you are tired, go home. It is an hour earlier than you
generally return. He will hardly have left. If you find your pretty
little idol alone, and at her prayers, disbelieve me. If you find Mr.
Crosby enjoying a _tête-à-tête_ with her, then come back and apologize
for these hard names.'"
"He went off whistling, and the half-maddened husband sprang into a
passing stage and rode home. It was past ten, but he was generally at
the gambling-table each night until after one, and his wife had usually
retired ere his return. He went upstairs softly, taking off his boots,
and noiselessly opened the door. There sat his wife, and by her side,
talking earnestly, the discarded lover. He caught his last words as he
entered:
"'You know how I have loved--you know how I do love, a thousand times
better than he! Why should we not fly at once. It is only torture to
both to remain longer.'
"They were the last words the unfortunate man ever uttered. The gambler
had been drinking--let us hope the liquor and the jealous fury made him
for the time mad. There was the flash, the report of a pistol; Crosby,
his guilty wife's lover, uttered a wild yell, sprang up in the air, and
fell back shot through the heart."
There was another dead pause. Captain Danton's steady voice momentarily
failed, and Reginald Stanford sat in horrified silence.
"What came next," continued the Captain, his voice tremulous, "the
madman never knew. He has a vague remembrance of his wife's screams
filling the room with people; of his finding himself out somewhere under
the stars, and his brain and heart on fire. He has a dim remembrance of
buying a wig and whiskers and a suit of sailor's clothes next day, and
of wandering down among the docks in search of a ship. By one of those
mysterious dispensations of Providence that happen every day, the first
person he encountered on the dock was myself. I did not know him--how
could I in that disguise--but he knew me instantly, and spoke. I
recognized his voice, and took him on board my ship, and listened to the
story I have just told you. With me he was safe. Detectives were
scouring the city for the murderer; but I sailed for England next day,
and he was beyond their reach. On the passage he broke down; all the
weeks we were crossing the Atlantic he lay wandering and delirious in a
raging brain-fever. We all thought, Doctor and all, that he never would
reach the other side; but life won the hard victory, and he slowly grew
better. Kate returned, as you know, with me. She, too, heard the
tragical story, and had nothing but pity and prayer for the
tempest-tossed soul.
"When we reached Canada, he was still weak and ill. I brought him here
under an assumed name, and he remains shut up in his rooms all day, and
only ventures out at night to breathe the fresh air. His mind has never
recovered its tone since that brain fever. He has become a monomaniac on
one subject, the dread of being discovered, and hanged for murder.
Nothing will tempt him from his solitude--nothing can induce him to
venture out, except at midnight, when all are asleep. He is the ghost
who frightened Margery and Agnes Darling; he is the man you saw with
Kate last in the grounds. He clings to her as he clings to no one else.
The only comfort left him in this lower world are these nightly walks
with her. She is the bravest, the best, the noblest of girls; she leaves
her warm room, her bed, for those cold midnight walks with that unhappy
and suffering man."
Once again a pause. Reginald Stanford looked at Captain Danton's pale,
agitated face.
"You have told me a terrible story," he said. "I can hardly blame this
man for what he has done; but what claim has he on you that you should
feel for him and screen him as you do? What claim has he on my future
wife that she should take these nightly walks with him unknown to me?"
"The strongest claim that man can have," was the answer; "he is my
son--he is Kate's only brother!"
"My God! Captain Danton, what are you saying?"
"The truth," Captain Danton answered, in a broken voice. "Heaven help
me--Heaven pity him! The wretched man whose story you have heard--who
dwells a captive under this roof--is my only son, Henry Danton."
He covered his face with his hands. Reginald Stanford sat confounded.
"I never dreamed of this," he said aghast. "I thought your son was
dead!"
"They all think so," said the Captain, without looking up; "but you know
the truth. Some day, before long, you shall visit him, when I have
prepared him for your coming. You understand all you heard and saw now?"
"My dear sir!" exclaimed Stanford, grasping the elder man's hand;
"forgive me! No matter what I saw, I must have been mad to doubt Kate.
Your secret is as safe with me as with yourself. I shall leave you now;
I must see Kate."
"Yes, poor child! Love her and trust her with your whole heart,
Reginald, for she is worthy."
Reginald Stanford went out, still bewildered by all he had heard, and
returned to the drawing-room. Kate sat as he had left her, looking
dreamily out at the bright sky.
"My dearest," he said bending over her, and touching the white brow:
"can you ever forgive me for doubting you? You are the truest, the best,
the bravest of women."
She lifted her loving eyes, filled with tears, to the handsome face of
her betrothed.
"To those I love I hope I am--and more. Before I grow false or
treacherous, I pray Heaven that I may die."