HARRY DANTON.
A spring-like afternoon. The March sun bright in the Canadian sky, the
wind soft and genial, and a silvery mist hanging over the river and
marshes. Little floods from the fast-melting snow poured through the
grounds; the ice-frozen fish-pond was thawing out under the melting
influence of the sunshine, and rubber shoes and tucked-up skirts were
indispensable outdoor necessaries.
Rose Danton, rubber-shoes, tucked-up skirts, and all, was trying to kill
time this pleasant afternoon, sauntering aimlessly through the wet
grounds. Very pretty and coquettish she looked, with that crimson
petticoat showing under her dark silk dress; that jockey-hat and feather
set jauntily on her sunshiny curls; but her prettiness was only vanity
and vexation of spirit to Rose. Where was the good of pink-tinted
cheeks, soft hazel eyes, auburn curls, and a trim little foot and ankle,
when there was no living thing near to see and admire? What was the use
of dressing beautifully and looking charming for a pack of insensible
mortals, to whom it was an old story and not worth thinking about? The
sunny March day had no reflection in Rose's face; "sulky" is the only
word that will tell you how she looked. Poor Rose! It was rather hard to
be hopelessly in love, to be getting worse every day, and find it all of
no use. It was a little too bad to have everything she wanted for
eighteen years, and then be denied the fascinating young officer she had
set her whole heart on. For Mr. Stanford was lost again. Just as she
thought she had her bird snared for certain--lo! it spread its dazzling
wings and soared up to the clouds, and farther out of reach than ever.
In plain English, he had gone back to the old love and was off with the
new, just when she felt most sure of him.
A whole week had passed since that night in the tamarack walk, that
night when he had seemed so tender and lover-like, the matchless
deceiver! And he had hardly spoken half a dozen words to her. He was
back at the footstool of his first sovereign, he was the most devoted of
engaged men; Kate was queen of the hour, Rose was nowhere. It was
trying, it was cruel, it was shameful. Rose cried and scolded in the
seclusion of her maiden bower, and hated Mr. Stanford, or said she did;
and could have seen her beautiful elder sister in her winding-sheet with
all the pleasure in life.
So, this sunny afternoon, Rose was wandering listlessly hither and
thither, thinking the ice would soon break upon the fish-pond if this
weather lasted, and suicide would be the easiest thing in the world. She
walked dismally round and round it, and wondered what Mr. Stanford would
say, and how he would feel when some day, in the cold, sad twilight,
they would carry her, white, and lifeless, and dripping before him, one
more unfortunate gone to her death! She could see herself--robed in
white, her face whiter than her dress, her pretty auburn curls all wet
and streaming around her--carried into the desolate house. She could see
Reginald Stanford recoil, turn deadly pale, his whole future happiness
blasted at the sight. She pictured him in his horrible remorse giving up
Kate, and becoming a wanderer and a broken-hearted man all the rest of
his life. There was a dismal delight in these musings; and Rose went
round and round the fish-pond, revelling, so to speak, in them.
As her watch pointed to three, one of the stable-helpers came round from
the stables leading two horses. She knew them--one was Mr. Stanford's,
the other Kate's. A moment later, and Mr. Stanford and Kate appeared on
the front steps, "booted and spurred," and ready for their ride. The
Englishman helped his lady into the saddle, adjusted her long skirt, and
sprang lightly across his own steed. Rose would have given a good deal
to be miles away; but the fish-pond must be passed, and she, the "maiden
forlorn," must be seen. Kate gayly touched her plumed-hat; Kate's
cavalier bent to his saddle-bow, and then they were gone out of sight
among the budding trees.
"Heartless, cold-blooded flirt!" thought the second Miss Danton,
apostrophizing the handsomest of his sex. "I hope his horse may run away
with him and break his neck!"
But Rose did not mean this, and the ready tears were in her eyes the
next instant with pity for herself.
"It's too bad of him--it's too bad to treat me so! He knows I love him,
he made me think he loved me; and now to go and act like this. I'll
never stay here and see him marry Kate! I'd rather die first! I will die
or do something! I'll run away and become an actress or a nun--I don't
care much which. They're both romantic, and they are what people always
do in such cases--at least I have read a great many novels where they
did!" mused Miss Danton, still making her circle round the fish-pond.
Grace, calling from one of the windows to a servant passing below,
caused her to look towards the house, just in time to see something
white flutter from an open bedroom window on the breeze. The bedroom
regions ran all around the third story of Danton Hall--six in each
range. Mr. Stanford's chamber was in the front of the house, and it was
from Mr. Stanford's room the white object had fluttered. Rose watched it
as it alighted on a little unmelted snowbank, and, hurrying over, picked
it up. It was part of a letter--a sheet of note-paper torn in half, and
both sides closely written. It was in Reginald Stanford's hand and
without more ado (you will be shocked to hear it, though) Miss Rose
deliberately commenced reading it. It began abruptly with part of an
unfinished sentence.
--"That you call me a villain! Perhaps I shall not be a villain,
after all. The angel with the auburn ringlets is as much an angel
as ever; but, Lauderdale, upon my soul, I don't want to do anything
wrong, if I can help it. If it is _kismit_, as the Turks say, my
fate, what can I do? What will be, will be; if auburn ringlets and
yellow-brown eyes are my destiny, what am I--the descendant of many
Stanfords--that I should resist? Nevertheless, if destiny minds its
own business and lets me alone, I'll come up to the mark like a
man. Kate is glorious; I always knew it, but never so much as now.
Something has happened recently--no matter what--that has elevated
her higher than ever in my estimation. There is something grand
about the girl--something too great and noble in that high-strung
nature of hers, for such a reprobate as I! This is _entre nous_,
though; if I tell you I am a reprobate, it is in confidence. I am a
lucky fellow, am I not, to have two of earth's angels to choose
from? And yet sometimes I wish I were not so lucky; I don't want to
misbehave--I don't want to break anybody's heart; but still--"
It came to an end as abruptly as it had begun. Rose's cheeks were
scarlet flame before she concluded. She understood it all. He was bound
to her sister; he was trying to be true, but he loved her! Had he not
owned it--might she not still hope? She clasped her hands in sudden,
ecstatic rapture.
"He loves me best," she thought; "and the one he loves best will be the
one he will choose."
She folded up the precious document, and hid it in her pocket. She
looked up at the window, but no more sheets of the unfinished letter
fluttered out.
"Careless fellow!" she thought, "to leave such tell-tale letters loose.
If Kate had found it, or Grace, or Eeny! They could not help
understanding it. I wish I dared tell him; but I can't."
She turned and went into the house. No more dreary rambles round the
fish-pond. Rose was happy again.
Suicide was indefinitely postponed, and Kate might become the nun, not
she. Kate was his promised wife; but there is many a slip; and the
second Miss Danton ran up to her room, singing, "New hope may bloom."
If Rose's heart had been broken, she would have dressed herself
carefully all the same. There was to be a dinner-party at the house that
evening, and among the guests a viscount recently come over to shoot
moose. The viscount was forty, but unmarried, with a long rent-roll, and
longer pedigree; and who knew what effect sparkling hazel eyes and
gold-bronzed hair, and honeyed smiles, might have upon him? So Eunice
was called in, and the auburn tresses freshly curled, and a sweeping
robe of silvery silk, trimmed with rich lace, donned. The lovely bare
neck and arms were adorned with pale pearls, and the falling curls were
jauntily looped back with clusters of pearl beads.
"You do look lovely, Miss!" cried Eunice, in irrepressible admiration.
"I never saw you look so 'andsome before. The dress is the becomingest
dress you've got, and you look splendid, you do!"
Rose flashed a triumphant glance at her own face in the mirror.
"Do I, Eunice? Do I look almost as handsome as Kate?"
"You are 'andsomer sometimes, Miss Rose, to my taste. If Miss Kate 'ad
red cheeks, now; but she's as w'ite sometimes as marble."
"So she is; but some people admire that style. I suppose Mr. Stanford
does--eh, Eunice?"
"I dare say he does, Miss."
"Do you think Mr. Stanford handsome, Eunice?" carelessly.
"Very 'andsome, Miss, and so pleasant. Not 'igh and 'aughty, like some
young gentlemen I've seen. Heverybody likes 'im."
"What is Kate going to wear this evening?" said Rose, her heart
fluttering at the praise.
"The black lace, miss, and her pearls. She looks best in blue, but she
will wear black."
"How is Agnes Darling getting on?" asked Rose, jumping to another topic.
"I haven't seen her for two days."
"Getting better, Miss; she is hable to be up halmost hall the time; but
she's failed away to a shadow. Is there hanythink more, Miss?"
"Nothing more, thank you. You may go."
Eunice departed; and Rose, sinking into a rocker, beguiled the time
until dinner with a book. She heard Mr. Stanford and Kate coming
upstairs together, laughing at something, and go to their rooms to
dress.
"I wonder if he will miss part of his letter," she thought, nervously.
"What would he say if I gave it to him, and told him I had read it? No!
I dare not do that. I will say nothing about it, and let him fidget as
much as he likes over the loss."
Rose descended to the drawing-room as the last bell rang, and found
herself bowing to half a dozen strangers--Colonel Lord Ellerton among
the rest. Lord Ellerton, who was very like Lord Dundreary every way you
took him, gave his arm to Kate, and Stanford, with a smile and an
indescribable glance, took possession of Rose.
"Has your fairy godmother been dressing you, Rose? I never saw you look
so bewildering. What is it?"
Rose shook back her curls saucily, though tingling to her finger-ends at
the praise.
"My fairy godmother's goddaughter would not bewilder you much, if
Cleopatra yonder were not taken possession of by that ill-looking peer
of the realm. I am well enough as a dernier resort."
"How much of that speech do you mean? Are you looking beautiful to
captivate the viscount?"
"I am looking beautiful because I can't help it, and I never stoop to
captivate any one, Mr. Stanford--not even a viscount. By-the-by, you
haven't quarrelled with Kate, have you?"
"Certainly not. Why should I?"
"Of course--why should you! She has a perfect right to walk in the
grounds at midnight with any gentleman she chooses."
She said it rather bitterly. Stanford smiled provokingly.
"_Chacun à son gout_, you know. If Kate likes midnight rambles, she must
have a cavalier, of course. When she is Mrs. Stanford I shall endeavour
to break her of that habit."
"Did you tell her I was with you?" demanded Rose, her eyes flashing.
"My dear Rose, I never tell tales. By-the-way, when shall we have
another moonlight stroll? It seems to me I see very little of you
lately."
"We will have no more midnight strolls, Mr. Stanford," said Rose,
sharply; "and you see quite as much of me as I wish you to see. My
lord--I beg your pardon--were you addressing me?"
She turned from Stanford, sitting beside her and talking under the cover
of the clatter of spoons and knives, and flashed the light of her most
dazzling smile upon Lord Ellerton, sitting opposite. Yes, the peer was
addressing her--some question he wanted to know concerning the native
Canadians, and which Kate was incapable of answering.
Rose knew all about it, and took his lordship in tow immediately. All
the witcheries known to pretty little flirts were brought to bear on the
viscount, as once before they had been brought to bear on Sir Ronald
Keith.
Kate smiled across at Reginald, and surrendered the peer at once. King
or Kaiser were less than nothing to her in comparison with that handsome
idol on the other side of the table.
Dinner was over, and the ladies gone. In the drawing-room Kate seated
herself at the piano, to sing a bewildering duet with Rose. Before it
was ended the gentlemen appeared, and once more Lord Ellerton found
himself taken captive and seated beside Rose--how, he hardly knew. How
that tongue of hers ran! And all the time Lord Ellerton's eyes were
wandering to Kate. Like Sir Ronald, pretty Rose's witcheries fell short
of the mark; the stately loveliness of Kate eclipsed her, as the sun
eclipses stars. When at last he could, without discourtesy, get away, he
arose, bowed to the young lady, and, crossing the long, drawing-room,
took his stand by the piano, where Kate still sat and sung. Stanford was
leaning against the instrument, but he resigned his place to the
viscount, and an instant later was beside Rose.
"Exchange is no robbery," he said. "Is it any harm to ask how you have
succeeded?"
Rose looked up angrily into the laughing dark eyes.
"I don't know what you mean."
"My dear little artless Rose! Shall I put it plainer? When are you to be
Lady Ellerton?"
"Mr. Stanford--"
"My dear Rose, don't be cross. He is too old and too ugly--low be it
spoken--for the prettiest girl in Canada!"
"Meaning me?"
"Meaning you."
"Why don't you except Kate?"
"Because I think you are prettier than Kate?"
"You don't! I know better! I don't believe you!"
"Disbelieve me, then."
"You think there is no one in the world like Kate."
"Do I? Who told you?"
"I don't need to be told; actions speak louder than words."
"And what have my actions said?"
"That you adore the ground she walks on, and hold her a little lower
than the angels."
"So I do. That is, I don't precisely adore the ground she walks on--I am
not quite so far gone as that yet--but I hold her a little lower than
the angels, certainly."
"That's enough then. Why don't you stay with her, and not come here
annoying me?"
"Oh, I annoy you, do I? You don't mean it, Rose?"
"Yes, I do," said Rose, compressing her lips. "What do you come for?"
"Because--you won't be offended, will you?"
"No."
"Because I am very fond of you, then."
"Fond of me!" said Rose, her heart thrilling--"and you engaged to Kate!
How dare you tell me so, Mr. Stanford?"
Rose's words were all they should have been, but Rose's tone was
anything but severe. Stanford took an easier position on the sofa.
"Because I like to tell the truth. Never mind the viscount, Rose; you
don't care about him, and if you only wait, and are a good girl,
somebody you do care about may propose to you one of these days. Here,
Doctor, there is room for another on our sofa."
"Will I be _de trop_?" asked Doctor Frank, halting.
"Not at all. Rose and I are discussing politics. She thinks Canada
should be annexed to the United States, and I don't. What are your views
on the matter?"
Doctor Danton took the vacant seat and Stanford's conversational cue,
and began discussing politics, until Rose got up in disgust, and left.
"I thought that would be the end of it," said Stanford. "Poor little
girl! the subject is too heavy for her."
"Only I knew you were done for, Mr. Stanford," said Doctor Danton, "I
should have fancied I was interrupting a flirtation."
"Not at all. Rose and I did not get on very well at first. I am afraid
she took a dislike to me, and I am merely trying to bring her to a more
Christian frame of mind. A fellow likes to be on good terms with his
sister."
"So he does. I noticed you and our charming Miss Rose were at
daggers-drawn even before you got properly introduced; and I couldn't
account for it in any other way than by supposing you had made love to
her and deserted her--in some other planet, perhaps."
Stanford looked with eyes of laughing wonder in the face of the
imperturbable Doctor, who never moved a muscle.
"Upon my life, Danton," he exclaimed letting his hand fall lightly on
the Doctor's shoulder, "you ought to be burned for a wizard! What other
planet do you suppose it was?"
"Has that sprained ankle of yours got quite strong again?" somewhat
irrelevantly inquired the physician.
Reginald Stanford laughed.
"Most astute of men! Who has been telling you tales?"
"My own natural sagacity. How many weeks were you laid up?"
"Three," still laughing.
"I was here at the time, and I recollect the sudden passion Rose was
seized with for long rides every day. I couldn't imagine what was the
cause. I think I can, now."
"Doctor Danton, your penetration does you credit. She's a dear little
girl, and the best of nurses."
"And do you know--But perhaps you will be offended."
"Not I. Out with it."
"Well, then, I think it is a pity you were engaged before you sprained
that ankle."
"Do you, really? Might I ask why?"
"I think Rose would make such a charming Mrs. Stanford."
"So do I," said Mr. Stanford, with perfect composure. "But won't Kate?"
"Miss Danton is superb; she ought to marry an emperor; but no, destiny
has put her foot in it. Captain Danton's second daughter should be the
one."
"You really think so?"
"I really do."
"How unfortunate!" said Stanford, stroking his mustache. "Do you think
it can be remedied?"
"I think so."
"By jilting--it's an ugly word, too--by jilting Kate?"
"Precisely."
"But she will break her heart."
"No, she won't. I am a physician, and I know. Hearts never break, except
in women's novels. They're the toughest part of the human anatomy."
"What a consolating thought! And you really advise me to throw over
Kate, and take to my bosom the fair, the fascinating Rose?"
"You couldn't do better."
"Wouldn't there be the deuce to pay if I did, though, with that
fire-eating father of hers? I should have my brains blown out before the
honey-moon was ended."
"I don't see why, so that you marry one of his daughters, how can it
matter to him which? With a viscount and a baronet at the feet of the
peerless Kate, he ought to be glad to be rid of you."
"It seems to me, Doctor Danton, you talk uncommonly plain English."
"Is it too plain? I'll stop if you say so."
"Oh, no. Pray continue. It does me good. And, besides, I don't know but
that I agree with you."
"I thought you did. I have thought so for some time."
"Were you jealous, Doctor? You used to be rather attentive to Rose, if I
remember rightly."
"Fearfully jealous; but where is the use? She gave me my _coup de congé_
long ago. That I am still alive, and talking to you is the most
convincing proof I can give that hearts do not break."
"After all," said Stanford, "I don't believe you ever were very far gone
with Rose. My stately fiancée suits you better. If I take you at your
word, and she rejects the baronet and the viscount, you might try your
luck."
"It would be worse than useless. I might as well love some bright,
particular star, and hope to win it, as Miss Danton. Ah! here she
comes!"
Leaning on the arm of Lord Ellerton, Miss Danton came up smilingly.
"Are you two plotting treason, that you sit there with such solemn faces
all the evening?" she asked.
"You have guessed it," replied her lover; "it is treason. Doctor, I'll
think of what you have been saying."
He arose. Lord Ellerton resigned his fair companion to her rightful
owner, and returned to Rose, who was looking over a book of beauty; and
Doctor Danton went over to Eeny, who was singing to herself at the
piano, and listened, with an odd little smile, to her song:
"Smile again, my dearest love,
Weep not that I leave you;
I have chosen now to rove--
Bear it, though it grieve you.
See! the sun, and moon, and stars,
Gleam the wide world over,
Whether near, or whether far,
On your loving rover.
"And the sea has ebb and flow,
Wind and cloud deceive us;
Summer heat and winter snow
Seek us but to leave us.
Thus the world grows old and new--
Why should you be stronger?
Long have I been true to you,
Now I'm true no longer.
"As no longer yearns my heart,
Or your smiles enslave me,
Let me thank you ere we part,
For the love you gave me.
See the May flowers wet with dew
Ere their bloom is over--
Should I not return to you,
Seek another lover."
Doctor Danton laughed.
"'Long have I been true to you,
Now I'm true no longer!'"
"Those are most atrocious sentiments you are singing--do you not know
it, Miss Eeny?"
Mr. Stanford beside Kate, Lord Ellerton listening politely to Rose, and
Doctor Frank with Eeny, never found time flying, and were surprised to
discover it was almost midnight. The guests departed, "the lights were
fled, the garlands dead, and the banquet-hall deserted" by everybody but
Reginald Stanford and Captain Danton. They were alone in the long,
dimly-lighted drawing-room.
"You will take Kate's place to night," the Captain was saying, "and be
Harry's companion in his constitutional. I told him that another knew
his secret. I related all the circumstances."
"How did he take it? Was he annoyed?"
"No; he was a little startled at first, but he allowed I could not do
otherwise. Poor fellow! He is anxious to see you now. If you will get
your overcoat, you will find him here when you return."
Mr. Stanford ran upstairs in a hurry, and returned in fur cap and
overcoat in ten minutes. A young man, tall and slender, but pale to
ghastliness, with haggard cheeks and hollow eyes, stood, wrapped in a
long cloak, beside the Captain. He had been handsome, you could see,
even through that bloodless pallor, and there was a look in his great
blue eyes that startlingly reminded you of Kate.
"You two know each other already," said the Captain. "I claim you both
as sons."
Reginald grasped Harry Danton's extended hand, and shook it heartily.
"Being brothers, I trust we shall soon be better acquainted," he said.
"I am to supply Kate's place to-night in the tamarack walk. I trust no
loiterers will see us."
"I trust not," said Harry, with an apprehensive shiver. "I have been
seen by so many, and have frightened so many that I begin to dread
leaving my room night or day."
"There is nothing to dread, I fancy," said Stanford, cheerfully, as they
passed out, and down the steps. "They take you for a ghost, you know.
Let them keep on thinking so, and you are all right. You have given
Danton Hall all it wanted to make it perfect--it is a haunted house."
"It is haunted," said his companion, gloomily. "What am I better than
any other evil spirit? Oh, Heaven!" he cried, passionately, "the horror
of the life I lead! Shut up in the prison I dare not leave, haunted
night and day by the vision of that murdered man, every hope and
blessing that life holds gone forever! I feel sometimes as though I were
going mad!"
He lifted his cap and let the chill night wind cool his burning
forehead. There was a long, blank pause. When Reginald Stanford spoke,
his voice was low and subdued.
"Are you quite certain the man you shot was shot dead? You hardly waited
to see, of course; and how are you to tell positively the wound was
fatal?"
"I wish to Heaven there could be any doubt of it!" groaned the young
man. "My aim is unerring; I saw him fall, shot through the heart."
His voice died away in a hoarse whisper. Again there was a pause.
"Your provocation was great," said Reginald. "If anything can extenuate
killing a fellow-creature, it is that. Are you quite positive--But
perhaps I have no right to speak on this matter."
"Speak, speak!" broke out Harry Danton. "I am shut up in these horrible
rooms from week's end to week's end, until it is the only thing that
keeps me from going mad--talking of what I have done. What were you
going to say?"
"I wanted to ask you if you were quite certain--beyond the shadow of
doubt--of your wife's guilt? We sometimes make terrible mistakes in
these matters."
"There was no mistake," replied his companion, with a sudden look of
anguish, "there could be none. I saw and heard as plainly as I see and
hear you now. There could be no mistake."
"Do you know where your--where she is now?"
"No!" with that look of anguish still. "No, I have never heard of her
since that dreadful night. She may be dead, or worse than dead, long ere
this."
"You loved her very much," said Reginald, impelled to say it by the
expression of that ghastly face.
"Loved her?" he repeated. "I have no words to tell you how I loved her.
I thought her all that was pure, and innocent, and beautiful, and
womanly, and she--oh, fool, that I was to believe her as I did!--to
think, as she made me think, that I had her whole heart!"
"Would you like to have some one try and trace her out for you? Her fate
may be ascertained yet. I will go to New York, if you wish, and do my
best."
"No, no," was the reply. "What use would it be? If you discovered her
to-morrow, what would it avail? Better let her fate remain forever
unknown than find my worst fears realized. False, wicked, degraded, as I
know her, I cannot forget how madly I loved her--I cannot forget that I
love her yet."
They walked up and down the tamarack-walk in the frosty starlight, all
still and peaceful around them--the sky, sown with silver stars, so
serene--the earth, white with its snowy garb, all hushed and
tranquil--nothing disturbed but the heart of man, all things at peace
but his storm-tossed soul.
"I am keeping you here," said Harry, "and it is growing late, and cold.
I am selfish and exacting in my misery, as, I fear, poor Kate knows. Let
us go in."
They walked to the house. When they entered, Reginald secured the door,
and the two young men went upstairs together. Ogden sat sleepily on a
chair, and started up at sight of them. Harry Danton held out his hand,
with a faint sad smile.
"Good night," he said; "I am glad to have added another to the list of
my friends. I hope we shall meet soon again. Good night, and pleasant
dreams."
"We shall meet as often as you wish," answered Reginald. "You have my
deepest sympathy. Good night."
The white, despairing face haunted Reginald Stanford's dreams all night,
as if he had indeed been a ghost. He was glad when morning came, and he
could escape the spectres of dream-land in the business of everyday
life. He stopped in the hall on his way down stairs, to look out at the
morning, wet, and cold, and dark, and miserable. As he stood, some one
passed him, going up to the upper bedroom regions of the servants--a
small, pallid little creature, looking like a stray spirit in its black
dress--Agnes Darling.
"Another ghost?" thought Mr. Stanford, running down stairs. "They are
not far wrong who call Danton Hall a haunted house."