"SHE TOOK UP THE BURDEN OF LIFE AGAIN."
The second train from Montreal passing through St. Croix on its way
to--somewhere else, was late in the afternoon of the fifth of June.
Instead of shrieking into the village depot at four P.M., it
was six when it arrived, and halted about a minute and a half to let the
passengers out and take passengers in. Few got in and fewer got out--a
sunburnt old Frenchman, a wizen little Frenchwoman, and their pretty,
dark-skinned, black-eyed daughter; and a young man, who was tall and
fair, and good-looking and gentlemanly, and not a Frenchman, judging by
his looks. But, although he did not look like one, he could talk like
one, and had kept up an animated discussion with pretty dark eyes in
capital Canadian French for the last hour. He lifted his hat politely
now, with "_Bon jour, Mademoiselle_," and walked away through the main
street of the village.
It was a glorious summer evening. "The western sky was all aflame" with
the gorgeous hues of the sunset; the air was like amber mist, and the
shrill-voiced Canadian birds, with their gaudy plumage, sang their
vesper laudates high in the green gloom of the feathery tamaracks.
A lovely evening with the soft hum of village life, the distant tinkling
cow-bells, the songs of boys and girls driving them home, far and faint,
and now and then the rumbling of cart-wheels on the dusty road. The
fields on either hand stretching as far as the eye could reach, green as
velvet; the giant trees rustling softly in the faint, sweet breeze; the
flowers bright all along the hedges, and over all the golden glory of
the summer sunset.
The young man walked very leisurely along, swinging his light rattan.
Wild roses and sweetbrier sent up their evening incense to the radiant
sky. The young man lit a cigar, and sent up its incense too.
He left the village behind him presently, and turned off by the pleasant
road leading to Danton Hall. Ten minutes brought him to it, changed
since he had seen it last. The pines, the cedars, the tamaracks were all
out in their summer-dress of living green; the flower-gardens were
aflame with flowers, the orchard was white with blossoms, and the red
light of the sunset was reflected with mimic glory in the still, broad
fish-pond. Climbing roses and honeysuckles trailed their fragrant
branches round the grim stone pillars of the portico. Windows and doors
stood wide to admit the cool, rising breeze; and a big dog, that had
gambolled up all the way, set up a bass bark of recognition. No living
thing was to be seen in or around the house; but, at the sound of the
bark, a face looked out from a window, about waist-high from the lawn.
The window was open, and the sweetbrier and the rose-vines made a very
pretty frame for the delicate young face. A pale and pensive face, lit
with luminous dark eyes, and shaded by soft, dark hair.
The young man walked up, and rested his arm on the low sill.
"Good-evening, Agnes."
Agnes Darling held out her hand, with a look of bright pleasure.
"I am glad to see you again, Doctor Danton; and Tiger, too."
"Thanks. I thought I should find you sewing here. Have you ever left
off, night or day, since I left?"
She smiled, and resumed her work.
"I like to be busy; it keeps me from thinking. Not that I have been very
busy of late."
"Of course not; the wedding-garments weren't wanted, were they? and all
the trousseaux vanity and vexation of spirit. You see others in the
world came to grief besides yourself, Miss Darling. Am I expected?"
"Yes; a week ago."
"Who's in the house?"
"I don't know exactly. Miss Danton is in the orchard, I think, with a
book; Eeny is away for the day at Miss Howard's and the Captain went up
the village an hour ago. I dare say they will all be back for dinner."
Doctor Frank took another position on the window-sill, and leaned
forward, saying with a lowered voice:
"And how does the ghost get on, Agnes? Has it made its appearance
since?"
Agnes Darling dropped her work, and looked up at him, with clasped
hands.
"Doctor Danton, I have seen him!"
"Whom? The ghost?"
"No ghost; but my husband. It was Harry as plainly as ever I saw him."
She spoke in a voice of intense agitation; but the young Doctor listened
with perfect coolness.
"How was it, Agnes? Where did you see him?"
"Walking in the tamarack avenue, one moonlight night, about a week ago,
with Miss Danton."
"And you are positive it was your husband?"
"Do you think I could make a mistake in such a matter? It was Harry--I
saw him clearly in the moonlight."
"It's surprising you did not run out, and fall down in hysterics at his
feet."
She sighed wearily.
"No. I dared not. But, oh, Doctor Danton, when shall I see him? When
will you tell him I am innocent?"
"Not just yet; it won't do to hurry matters in this case. You have
waited long and patiently; wait yet a little longer until the right time
comes. The happiness of knowing he is alive and well, and dwelling under
the same roof with you should reconcile you to that."
"It does," she said, her tears falling softly. "Thank Heaven! he still
lives. I can hope now; but, oh, Doctor, do you really think him Captain
Danton's son?"
"I am certain of it; and no one will give you a more cordial welcome
than Captain Danton, when I tell him the truth. Just now I have no
proof. Do you know what I am going to do, Agnes?"
"No."
"Crosby is married, and living in New York. I mean to take a journey to
New York shortly, and get a written declaration of your innocence from
him. There--no thanks now. Keep up a good heart, and wait patiently for
a month or two longer. Come, Tiger."
He was gone, whistling a tune as he went. The entrance hall was
deserted, the dining-room was empty, and he ran up stairs to the
drawing-room. Grace was there with her back to the door; and coming up
noiselessly, he put his arm around her waist, and kissed her before she
was aware.
She faced about, with a little cry, that changed to an exclamation of
delight, upon seeing who it was.
"Oh, Frank! I am so glad! When did you come? I expected you a week ago."
"I know it," said her brother; "and I could have come too; but it struck
me I should like to arrive to-day."
"To-day! Why? Oh, I forgot the fifth of June. It is hard, Frank, isn't
it, just to think what might have been and what is."
"How does she take it?"
"She has been out nearly all day," replied Grace, knowing whom he meant;
"she feels it, of course, more than words can tell; but she never
betrays herself by look or action. I have never seen her shed a tear, or
utter one desponding word, from the day the news reached her until this.
Her face shows what she suffers, and that is beyond her power to
control."
Doctor Frank walked thoughtfully to the window, and looked out at the
fading brilliance of the sunset. A moment later, and Eeny rode up on
horseback, sprang out other saddle on the lawn, and tripped up the
steps.
Another moment, and she was in the drawing-room.
"I saw you at the window," she said. "I am glad you have come back
again. Danton Hall is too dismal to be described of late. Ah! Dear old
Tiger, and how are you? Doctor Frank," lowering her voice, "do you know
what day this is?"
Doctor Frank looked at her with a faint shadow of a smile on his face,
humming a line or two of a ballad.
"'Long have I been true to you. Now I'm true no longer.' Too bad, Eeny,
we should lose the wedding, and one wedding, they say, makes many."
"Too bad!" echoed Eeny, indignantly. "Oh, Doctor Frank, it was cruel of
Rose, wasn't it? You would hardly know poor Kate now."
"Hush!" said the Doctor, "here she comes!"
A tall, slender figure came out from the orchard path, book in hand, and
advanced slowly towards the house. Was it the ghost, the wraith, the
shadow of beautiful Kate Danton? The lovely golden hair, glittering in
the dying radiance of the sunset, and coiled in shining twists round the
head, was the same; the deep large eyes, so darkly blue, were clear and
cloudless as ever, and yet changed totally in expression. The queenly
grace that always characterized her, characterized her still; but how
wasted the supple form, how shadowy and frail it had grown. The haggard
change in the pale face, the nervous contraction of the mouth, the
sunken eyes, with those dark circles, told their eloquent tale.
"Poor child!" Doctor Frank said, with a look of unspeakable pity and
tenderness; "it was cruel!"
Eeny ran away to change her dress. Grace lightly dusted the furniture,
and her brother stood by the window and watched that fragile-looking
girl coming slowly up through the amber air.
"How tired she looks!" he said.
"Kate?" said Grace, coming over. "She is always like that now. Tired at
getting up, tired at lying down, listless and apathetic always. If
Reginald Stanford had murdered her, it would hardly have been a more
wicked act."
Her brother did not reply.
A few minutes later, Kate walked into the room, still with that slow,
weary step. She looked at the new-comer with listless indifference,
spoke a few words of greeting with cold apathy, and then retreated to
another window, and bent her eyes on her book.
Captain Danton returned just as the dinner-bell was ringing; and his
welcome made up in cordiality what his daughter's lacked. He, too, had
changed. His florid face had lost much of its colour, and was grown
thin, and his eyes were ever wandering, with a look of mournful
tenderness, to his pale daughter.
They were all rather silent. Grace and her brother and the Captain
talked in a desultory sort of way during dinner; but Kate never spoke,
except when directly addressed, and silence was Eeny's forte. She sat
down to the piano after dinner, according to her invariable custom, but
not to sing. She had never sung since that day. How could she? There was
not a song in all her collection that did not bring the anguish of some
recollection of him, so she only played brilliant new, soulless
fantasias, that were as empty as her heart.
When she arose from the instrument, she resumed her book and sat down at
a table studiously; but Doctor Frank, watching her covertly, saw she did
not turn over a page in an hour. She was the first to retire--very
early, looking pale and jaded to death. Half an hour later, Eeny
followed her, and then Captain Danton pushed away the chess-board
impatiently. He had been playing with the Doctor, and began pacing
feverishly up and down the room.
"What shall I do with her?" he exclaimed. "What shall I do to keep my
darling girl from dying before my eyes? Doctor Danton, you are a
physician; tell me what I shall do?"
"Take her away from here," said the Doctor, emphatically. "It is this
place that is killing her. How can it be otherwise? Everything she sees
from morning till night brings back a thousand bitter recollections of
what is past and gone. Take her away, where there will be nothing to
recall her loss; take her where change and excitement will drown
thought. As her mind recovers its tone, so will her body. Take her
travelling for the summer."
"Yes--yes," said Grace, earnestly. "I'm sure it is the very best thing
you can do."
"But, my dear," said Captain Danton, smiling a little, "you forget that
the first week of July we are to be married."
"Oh, put it off," Grace said; "what does a little delay matter? We are
not like Rose and Reginald; we are old and steady, and we can trust one
another and wait. A few month's delay is nothing, and Kate's health is
everything."
"She might go with us," said the Captain; "suppose it took place this
month instead of next, and we made a prolonged wedding-tour, she might
accompany us."
Grace shook her head.
"She wouldn't go. Believe me, I know her, and she wouldn't go. She will
go with you alone, willingly--never with me."
"She is unjust to you, and you are so generously ready to sacrifice your
own plans to hers."
"Did you ever know a young lady yet who liked the idea of a
step-mother?" said Grace, with a smile. "I never did. Miss Danton's
dislike and aversion are unjust, perhaps; but perfectly natural. No, no,
the autumn or winter will be soon enough, and take Kate travelling."
"Very well, my dear; be it as you say. Now, where shall we go? Back to
England?"
"I think not," said Doctor Frank. "England has nearly as many painful
associations for her as Danton Hall. Take her where she has never been;
where all things are new and strange. Take her on a tour through the
United States, for instance."
"A capital idea," exclaimed the Captain. "It is what she has wished for
often since we came to Canada. I'll take her South. I have an old
friend, a planter, in Georgia. I'll take her to Georgia."
"You could not do better."
"Let me see," pursued the Captain, full of the hopeful idea; "we must
stay a week or two in Boston, a week or two in New York; we must visit
Newport and Saratoga, rest ourselves in Philadelphia and Washington, and
then make straight for Georgia. How long will that take us, do you
suppose?"
"Until October, I should say," returned the Doctor. "October will be
quite time enough to return here. If your daughter does not come back
with new life, then I shall give up her case in despair."
"I will speak to her to-morrow," said the Captain, "and start the next
day. Since it must be done, it is best done quickly. I think myself it
will do her a world of good."
Captain Danton was as good as his word. He broached the subject to his
daughter shortly after breakfast next morning. It was out in the
orchard, where she had strayed, according to custom, with a book. It was
not so much to read--her favourite authors, all of a sudden, had grown
flat and insipid, and nothing interested her--but she liked to be alone
and undisturbed, "in sunshine calm and sweet," with the scented summer
air blowing in her face. She liked to listen, dreamy and listless, and
with all the energy of her nature dead within her, to the soft murmuring
of the trees, to the singing of the birds overhead, and to watch the
pearly clouds floating through the melting azure above. She had no
strength or wish to walk now, as of old. She never passed beyond the
entrance-gates, save on Sunday forenoons, when she went slowly to the
little church of St. Croix, and listened drearily, as if he was speaking
an unknown tongue, to Father Francis, preaching patience and
long-suffering to the end.
She was lying under a gnarled old apple-tree, the flickering shadow of
the leaves coming and going in her face, and the sunshine glinting
through her golden hair. She looked up, with a faint smile, at her
father's approach. She loved him very much still, but not as she had
loved him once; the power to love any one in that old trustful, devoted
way seemed gone forever.
"My pale daughter," he said, looking down at her sadly, "what shall I do
to bring back your lost roses!"
"Am I pale?" she said, indifferently. "What does it matter? I feel well
enough."
"I don't think you do. You are gone to a shadow. Would you like a
change, my dear? Would you not like a pleasure tour this summer
weather?"
"I don't care about it, papa."
"But you will come to please me. I shall take you to the Southern
States, and fetch you back in the autumn my own bright Kate again."
There was no light of pleasure or eagerness in her face. She only moved
uneasily on the grass.
"You will come, my dear, will you not? Eunice will accompany you; and we
will visit all the great cities of this New World, that you have so
often longed to see."
"I will do whatever you wish, papa," she said, apathetically.
"And you will give Eunice her orders about the packing to-day, and be
ready to start to-morrow?"
"Yes, papa."
"Ogden will remain behind," continued her father, in a lowered voice. "I
have said nothing to any one else as yet about Harry. I shall go and
speak to them both about it now."
"Yes, papa."
She watched him striding away, with that look of weary listlessness that
had grown habitual to her, and rose from her grassy couch with a sigh,
to obey his directions. She found Eunice in the sewing room, with Agnes
Darling, and gave her her orders to pack up, and be prepared to start
next morning. Then she went back to her seat under the old apple-tree,
and lay on the warm grass in a state between sleeping and waking all day
long.
The day of departure dawned cloudless and lovely. Grace, her
brother, and Eeny went to the station with the travellers, and saw
them off. Kate's farewell was very cold, even to Eeny. What was the
use of losing or being sorry to part with any one, since all the
world was false, and hollow, and deceitful? She had lost
something--heart--hope--conscience--she hardly knew what; but something
within her that had beat high, and hopeful, and trusting, was cold and
still as stone.
The little party on the platform went back through the yellow haze of
the hot afternoon, to the quiet old house. Ah! how indescribably quiet
and lonely now! Some one might have lain dead in those echoing rooms, so
deadly was the stillness.
There was one consolation for Grace and Eeny in their solitude. Doctor
Frank was going to remain in the village. It was chiefly at the
solicitation of Father Francis that he had consented.
"Dr. Pillule is superannuated," said the young priest, "and
old-fashioned, and obstinately prejudiced against all modern
innovations, at the best. We want a new man among us--particularly now
that this fever is spreading."
A low fever had been working its way, insidiously, among the people
since early spring, and increasing since the warm weather had come.
Perhaps the miasma, arising from the marshes, had been the cause; but
several had died, and many lay ill those sunny June days.
"Your mission lies here," Father Francis said, emphatically. "You can do
good, Doctor Danton. Stay!"
So Doctor Danton stayed, hanging out his shingle and taking up his abode
at the village hotel. Doctor Pillule all of a sudden, like the Moor of
Venice, found his occupation gone. Every one liked the pleasant young
Doctor, whose ways were so different from those of Doctor Pillule, and
who sat by their fevered bedsides, and talked to them so kindly. Every
one liked him; and he soon found himself busy enough, but never so busy
that some time, each day, he could not run up for half an hour to Danton
Hall.
July came, and brought a letter from Captain Danton to Grace. Like many
others, he hated letter-writing, and, never performed that duty when he
could possibly avoid it. But Kate declined writing, absolutely; so it
fell to his lot. They were in New York, on the eve of departure for
Newport, and Kate had already benefited by the change. That was nearly
all; and it was the middle of July before the second arrived. They were
still at Newport, and the improvement in Kate was marked. The wan and
sickly look was rapidly passing away--the change, the excitement, the
sea-bathing, the gay life, were working wonders.
"She has created somewhat of a sensation here," said the latter, "and
might be one of the belles, if she chose; but she doesn't choose. Her
coldness, her proud and petrified air, her strange and gloomy manner,
throws a halo of mystery around her, that has fixed all eyes upon her,
and set all tongues going. We are quite unknown here, and I don't choose
to enlighten any one. I dare say, more than one little romance has been
concocted, founded on poor Kate's settled gloom; but, beyond our names,
they really know nothing. Some of the young men look as if they would
like to be a little more friendly, but she freezes them with one flash
of her blue eyes."
August came, burning and breezeless, and they were at Saratoga, drinking
Congress water, and finding life much the same as at Newport. Kate had
recovered her looks, the Captain's letters said; the beauty that had
made her so irresistible had returned, and made her more irresistible
than ever. There was nothing like her at Saratoga; but she was as deeply
wrapped in mystery as ever, and about as genial as a statue in Parian
marble.
The end of August found them journeying southward. The beginning of
September, and they were domesticated in the friendly Georgian
homestead; and then, Kate, tired after all her wanderings, sank down in
the tropical warmth and beauty, and drew a breath of relief. She liked
it so much, this lovely southern land, where the gorgeous flowers
bloomed and the tropic birds flitted with the hues of Paradise on their
wings. She liked the glowing richness of the southern days and nights,
the forests and fields so unlike anything she had ever seen before; the
negroes with their strange talk and gaudy garments, the pleasant house
and the pleasant people. She liked it all, and the first sensation of
peace and rest she had felt all these months stole into her heart here.
And yet it had done her a world of good--she was a new being--outwardly
at least--although her heart felt as mute and still as ever. Her life's
shipwreck had been so sudden and so dreadful, she had been so stunned
and stupefied at first, and the after-anguish so horribly bitter, that
this haven of rest was as grateful as some green island of the sea to a
shipwrecked mariner. Here there was nothing to remind her of all that
was past and gone--here, where everything was new, her poor bruised
heart might heal.
Captain Danton saw and thanked Heaven gratefully for the blessed change
in the daughter he loved, and yet she was not the Kate of old. All the
youth and joyousness of life's springtime was gone. She sang no more the
songs he loved; they were dead and buried in the dead past; her clear
laugh never rejoiced his heart now; her fleeting smile came cold and
pale as moonlight, on snow. She took no interest in the home she had
left; she made no inquiries for those who were there.
"I have had a letter from Danton Hall," he would say; "and they are
well." And she would silently bend her head. Or, "I am writing to Danton
Hall; have you any message to send?" "Only my love to Eeny," would be
the answer; and then she would stray off and leave him alone. She was as
changed to him as she was changed in other things. Grace stood
between--an insuperable barrier.
September drew to a close. October came, and with it the time for their
departure. Kate left reluctantly; she longed to stay there forever, in
that land of the sun, and forget and be at peace. It was like tearing
half-healed wounds open to go back to a place where everything her eye
rested on or her ear heard, from morning till night, recalled the bitter
past. But fate was inexorable; farewell must be said to beautiful
Georgia and the kind friends there; and the commencement of the second
week of October found them starting on their journey to their northern
home.