VIA CRUCIS.
So once more Miss Danton was "engaged;" once more preparations for a
double wedding went on; once more her wedding day was named.
There was very little noise made about the matter this time. Father
Francis and Doctor Danton were almost the only two outside the household
who knew anything about it, and somehow these were the very two Kate
herself wished most to keep it from.
She was ashamed of her mercenary marriage; in spite of herself she
despised herself for it, and she felt they must despise her for it too.
She shrank away guiltily under the clear steadfast, searching gaze of
Father Francis, feeling how low she must have fallen in his estimation.
She respected and esteemed the priest and the Doctor so much, that it
was humiliating to lose their respect by her own voluntary act. But it
was too late to draw back, even if she wished it; her fetters were
forged--she was bound beyond recall.
Sir Ronald Keith had got the desire of his heart--Kate Danton was his
promised wife, and yet he was not quite happy. Are we ever quite happy,
I wonder, when we attain the end for which we have sighed and longed,
perhaps for years? Our imagination is so very apt to paint that desire
of our heart in rainbow-hues, and we are so very apt to find it, when it
comes, only dull gray, after all.
Sir Ronald loved his beautiful and queenly affianced with a changeless
devotion nothing could alter. He had thought her promise to marry him
would satisfy him perfectly; but he had that promise, and he was not
satisfied. He wanted something more--he wanted love in return, although
he knew she did not love him; and he was dissatisfied. It is not exactly
pleasant, perhaps, to find the woman you love and are about to marry as
cold as an iceberg--to see her shrink at your approach, and avoid you on
all possible occasions. It is rather hard, no doubt, to put up with the
loose touch of cold fingers for your warmest caress, and heavy sighs in
answer to your most loving speeches.
Sir Ronald had promised to be content without love; but he was not, and
was huffish and offended, and savagely jealous of Reginald Stanford and
all the hated past.
So the baronet's wooing was on the whole rather gloomy, and depressing
to the spirits, even of the lookers-on; and Kate was failing away once
more to a pale, listless shadow, and Sir Ronald was in a state of
perpetual sulkiness.
But the bridal-cakes and bridal-dresses were making, and the December
days were slipping by, one by one, bringing the fated time near. Miss
Danton still zealously and unweariedly continued her mission of love. No
weather kept her indoors, no pleadings of her future husband were strong
enough to make her give up one visit for his pleasure or accommodation.
"Let me alone, Sir Ronald Keith," she would answer, wearily, and a
little impatiently; "it will not be for long. Let me alone!"
The fever that had swept off so many was slowly dying out. The sick ones
were not so bad or so many now, but that Miss Danton, with a safe
conscience, might have given them up; but she would not. She never
wanted to be alone--she who had been so fond of solitude such a short
time ago. She was afraid of herself--afraid to think--afraid of that dim
future that was drawing so very near. Every feeling of heart and soul
revolted at the thought of that loveless marriage--the profanation of
herself seemed more than she could bear.
"I shall turn desperate at the very altar!" she thought, with something
like despair. "I can't marry him--I can't! It sets me wild to think of
it. What a wretch I am! What a weak, miserable, cowardly wretch, not to
be able to face the fate I have chosen for myself! I don't know what to
do, and I have no one to consult--no one but Father Francis, and I am
afraid to speak to him. I don't love him; I loathe the thought of
marrying him; but it is too late to draw back. If one could only die,
and end it all!"
Her arm lay across the window-sill; her head drooped and fell on it now,
with a heavy sigh. She was unspeakably miserable, and lonely, and
desolate; she was going to seal her misery for life by a loveless
marriage, which her soul abhorred, and she had no power to draw back.
She was like a rudderless ship, drifting without helm or compass among
shoals and quicksands--drifting helplessly to ruin.
"If I dared only ask Father Francis, he would tell me what to do," she
thought, despondingly; "he is so wise and good, and knows what is best
for every one. He would tell me how to do what is right, and I want to
do what is right if I can. But I have neglected, and avoided, and
prevaricated with him so long that I have no right to trouble him now.
And I know he would tell me I am doing wrong; I have read it in his
face; and how can I do right?"
She sat thinking drearily, her face lying on her arm. It was the
afternoon of the 14th--ten days more, and it would indeed, be too late.
The nearer the marriage approached, the more abhorrent it grew. The
waving trees of Glen-Keith cast inviting shadows no longer. It was all
darkness and desolation. Sir Ronald's moody, angry face frightened and
distressed her--it was natural, she supposed. She did not behave well,
but he knew she did not care for him; she had told him so, honestly and
plainly; and if he looked like that before marriage, how would he look
after? She was unutterably wretched, poor child; and a remorseful
conscience that would give her no rest did not add to her comfort.
She sat there for a long time, her face hidden on her arm, quite still.
The short, wintry afternoon was wearing away; the cold, yellow sun hung
low in the pale western sky, and the evening wind was sighing mournfully
amid the trees when she rose up. She looked pale, but resolved; and she
dressed herself for a walk, with a veil over her face, and slowly
descended the stairs.
As she opened the house door, Sir Ronald came out of the drawing-room,
not looking too well pleased at having been deserted all the afternoon.
"Are you going out?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Up the village."
"Always up the village!" he exclaimed, impatiently, "and always alone.
May I not go with you? It is growing, late."
"There is no occasion," she replied, looking at him proudly. "I need no
protector in St. Croix."
She opened the door and went out, and walked rapidly down the bleak
avenue to the gates. The authoritative tone of the baronet stung her
proud spirit to the quick.
"What right has he to talk to me like that?" she thought, angrily. "If I
loved him, I would not endure it; I don't love him, and I won't endure
it."
Her eyes flashed as she walked along, lightly and rapidly, holding her
haughty head very erect. Greetings met her on every hand as she passed
through the village. She never paused until she reached the church, and
stood by the entrance gate of the little garden in front of the Curé's
house. There she paused irresolute. How peaceful it was--what a holy
hush seemed to linger round the place! All her courage left her, and she
stood as timid and fluttering as any school-girl. While she hesitated,
the door opened, and Father Francis stood looking at her.
"Come in, Miss Danton," he said. "You look as if you were almost
afraid."
She opened the little gate and went up the path, looking strangely
downcast and troubled. Father Francis held out his hand with a smile.
"I thought you would come to see me before you left Canada," he said,
"although you seem to have rather forgotten your old friends of late.
Come in."
"Are you alone?" Kate asked, following him into the little parlour.
"Quite alone. The Curé has gone two miles off on a sick call. And how
are the good people of Danton Hall?"
"Very well," Kate answered, taking a seat by the window and looking out
at the pale, yellow sunset.
"That is, except yourself, Miss Danton. You have grown thin within the
last fortnight. What is the matter?"
"I am not very happy," she said, with a little tremor of the voice;
"perhaps that is it."
"Not happy?" repeated Father Francis, with a short, peculiar laugh. "I
thought when young ladies married baronets, the height of earthly
felicity was attained. It seems rather sordid, this marrying for wealth
and title. I hardly thought Kate Danton would do it; but it appears I
have made a foolish mistake."
"Thank you," Kate said, very slowly. "I came here to ask you to be cruel
to me--to tell me hard truths. You know how to be cruel very well,
Father Francis."
"Why do you come to me for hard truths?" said the priest, rather coldly.
"You have been deluding yourself all along; why don't you go on? What is
the use of telling you the truth? You will do as you like in the end."
"Perhaps not. I have not fallen quite so low as you think. I dare say
you despise me, but you can hardly despise me more than I despise
myself."
"Then why walk on in the path that leads you downward? Why not stop
before it is too late?"
"It is too late now!"
"Stuff and nonsense! That is more of your self-delusion. You, or rather
that pride of yours, which has been the great stumbling-block of your
life, leads you on in that self-delusion. Too late! It would not be too
late if you were before the altar! Better stop now and endure the
humiliation than render your own and this man's future life miserable.
You will never be happy as Sir Ronald Keith's wife; he will never be
happy as your husband. I know how you are trying to delude yourself; I
know you are trying to believe you will love him and be happy by-and-by.
Don't indulge such sophistry any longer; don't be led away by your own
pride and folly."
"Pride and folly!" she echoed indignantly.
"Yes, I repeat it. Your heart, your conscience, must own the truth of
what I say, if your lips will not. Would you ever have accepted Sir
Ronald Keith if your father had not been about to marry Grace Danton?"
The sudden flush that overspread her face answered for her, though she
did not speak. She sat looking straight before her into vacancy, with a
hard, despairing look in her dark, deep eyes.
"You know you would not. But your father is going to marry a most
excellent and most estimable woman; his affection is not wholly his
daughter's any longer; she must stand a little in the shade, and see
another reign where she used to be queen. She cannot hold the first
place in her father's heart and home; so she is ready to leave that home
with the first man who asks her. She does not love him; there is no
sympathy or feeling in common between them; they are not even of the
same religion; she knows that she will be wretched, and that she will
make him wretched too. But what does it all matter? Her pride is to be
wounded, her self-love humiliated, and every other consideration must
yield to that. She is ready to commit perjury, to swear to love and
honour a man who is no more to her than that peasant walking along the
road. She is ready to degrade herself and risk her soul by a mercenary
marriage sooner than bear that wound to pride!"
"Go on!" Kate said, bitterly; "it is well to have one's heart lacerated
sometimes, I suppose. Pray go on."
"I intend to go on. You have been used to queening it all your life--to
being flattered, and indulged, and pampered to the top of your bent, and
it will do you good. When you are this man's miserable wife, you shall
never say Father Francis might have warned me--Father Francis might have
saved me. You have ruled here with a ring and a clatter; you have been
pleased to dazzle and bewilder the simple people of St. Croix, to see
yourself looked up to as a sort of goddess. Your rank, and
accomplishments, and beauty--we are talking plain truth now, Miss
Danton--all these gifts that God has bestowed upon you so bountifully,
you have misused. It doesn't seem so to you, does it? You think you have
been very good, very charitable, very condescending. I don't deny that
you have done good, that you have been a sort of guardian angel to the
poor and the sick; but what was your motive? Was it that which makes
thousands of girls, as young, and rich, and handsome as yourself, resign
everything for the humble garb and lowly duties of a Sister of Charity?
Oh, no! You liked to be idolized, to be venerated, and looked up to as
an angel upon earth. That pride of yours which induces you to sell
yourself for so many thousand pounds per annum was at the bottom of it
all. You want to hold a foremost place in the great battle of life--you
want all obstacles to give way before you. It can't be; and your whole
life is a failure."
"Go on," Kate reiterated, never stirring, never looking at him, and
white as death.
"You have fancied yourself very good, very immaculate, and thanked
Heaven in an uplifted sort of way that you were not as other women,
false, and mean, and sordid. You wanted to walk through life in a
pathway of roses without thorns, to a placid death, and a heritage of
glory in Heaven. The trials of common people were not for you; sorrow,
and disappointment, and suffering were to pass Miss Danton by. You were
so good, and so far up in the clouds, nothing low or base could reach
you. Well, it was not to be. You were only clay, after all--the
porcelain of human clay, perhaps, but very brittle stuff withal. Trouble
did come; the man you had made a sort of idol of, to whom you had given
your whole heart, with a love so intense as to be sinful--this man
abandons you. The sister you have trusted and been fond of, deceives
you, and you find that trouble is something more than a word of two
syllables. You have been very great, and noble, and heroic all your
life, in theory--how do we find you in practice? Why, drooping like any
other lovelorn damsel, pining away without one effort at that greatness
and heroism you thought so much of; without one purpose to conquer
yourself, without one effort to be resigned to the will of Heaven. You
rebel against your father's marriage; everybody else ought to be lonely
and unhappy because you are; the world ought to wear crape, and the
light of the sun be darkened. But the world laughs and sings much as
usual, the sun shines as joyously. Your father's marriage will be an
accomplished fact, and our modern heroine says 'yes' to the first man
who asks her to marry him in a fit of spleen, because she will be Grace
Danton's step-daughter, and must retire a little into the background,
and look forward to the common humdrum life ordinary mortals lead. She
doesn't ask help where help alone is to be found; so in the hour of her
trial there is no light for her in earth or Heaven. Oh, my child! stop
and think what you are going to do before it is too late."
"I can't think," she said, in a hollow voice. "I only know I am a
miserable, sinful, fallen creature. Help me, Father Francis; tell me
what I am to do."
"Do not ask help from me," the young priest said, gravely; "ask it of
that compassionate Father who is in Heaven. Oh! my child, the way to
that land of peace and rest is the way of the Cross--the only way. There
are more thorns than roses under our feet, but we must go on like
steadfast soldiers to the end, bearing our cross, and keeping the
battle-cry of the brave old Crusaders in our hearts, 'God wills it.'
Your trouble has been heavy, my poor child, I don't doubt, but you
cannot be exempt from the common lot. I am sorry for you, Heaven knows,
and I would make your life a happy one if I could, in spite of all the
harsh things I may say. It is because I would not have your whole life
miserable that I talk to you like this. Your heart acknowledges the
truth of every word I have said; and remember there is but one recipe
for real happiness--goodness. Be good and you will be happy. It is a
hackneyed precept out of a copy-book," Father Francis said, with a
slight smile; "but believe me, it is the only infallible rule. Rouse
yourself to a better life, my dear Kate; begin a new and more perfect
life, and God will help you. Remember, dear child, 'There is a love that
never fails when earthly loves decay.'"
She did not speak. She rose up, cold, and white, and rigid. The priest
arose too.
"Are you going?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You are not offended with me for all this plain talk? I like you so
much, you know, that I want to see you happy."
"Offended?" she answered, "oh, no! Some day I will thank you; I cannot
now."
She opened the door and was gone, flitting along, a lonely figure in the
bleak winter twilight. She never paused in her rapid walk until she
reached Danton Hall; and then, pale and absorbed, she ran rapidly
upstairs, and shut herself into her room. Throwing off her bonnet and
mantle, she sat down to her writing-desk at once, and without waiting to
think, took up a pen and dashed off a rapid note:
"Sir Ronald:--I have deceived you. I have done very wrong.
I don't love you--I never can; and I cannot be your wife. I am very
sorry; I ask you to forgive me--to be generous, and release me from
my promise. I should be miserable as your wife, and I would make
you miserable too. Oh! pray forgive me, and release me, for indeed
I cannot marry you.
"Kate Danton."
She folded the note rapidly, placed it in an envelope, wrote the
address, "Sir Ronald Keith," and sealed it. Still in the same rapid way,
as if she were afraid to pause, afraid to trust herself, she arose and
rang the bell. Eunice answered the summons, and stared aghast at her
mistress' face.
"Do you know if Sir Ronald is in the house?" Miss Danton asked.
"Yes, Miss; he's sitting in the library, reading a paper."
"Is he alone?"
"Yes, Miss."
"Take this letter to him, then; and, Eunice, tell Miss Grace I will not
be down to dinner. You can fetch me a cup of tea here. I do not feel
very well."
Eunice departed on her errand. Kate drew a long, long breath of relief
when she closed the door after her. She drew her favourite chair up
before the fire, took a book off the table, and seated herself
resolutely to read. She was determined to put off thought--to let events
take their course, and cease tormenting herself, for to-night at least.
Eunice brought up the tea and a little trayful of dainties, drew the
curtain, and lit the lamp. Kate laid down her book and looked up.
"Did you deliver the note, Eunice?"
"Yes, Miss."
"And my message to Miss Grace?"
"Yes, Miss."
"Very well, then--you may go."
The girl went away, and Kate sat sipping her tea and reading. She sat
for upward of half an hour, and then she arose and took the way to the
apartments of Mr. Richards. It was after ten before she returned and
entered her sitting-room. She found Eunice waiting for her, and she
resigned herself into her hands at once.
"I shall go to bed early to-night," she said. "My head aches. I must try
and sleep."
Sleep mercifully came to her almost as soon as she laid her head on her
pillow. She slept as she had not done for many a night before, and awoke
next morning refreshed and strengthened for the new trials of the new
day. She dreaded the meeting with her discarded suitor, with a nervous
dread quite indescribable; but the meeting must be, and she braced
herself for the encounter with a short, fervent prayer, and went down
stairs.
There was no one in the dining-room, but the table was laid. She walked
to the window, and stood looking out at the black, bare trees, writhing
and groaning in the morning wind, and the yellow sunshine glittering on
the frozen snow. While she stood, a quick, heavy tread crossed the
hall--a tread she knew well. Her heart throbbed; her breath came quick.
A moment later, and Sir Ronald entered, the open note she had sent him
in his hand.
"What is the meaning of this folly, Kate?" he demanded, angrily,
striding towards her. "Here, take it back. You did not mean it."
"I do mean it," Kate said, shrinking. "I have behaved very badly; I am
very sorry, but I mean it."
His black brows contracted stormily over his gloomy eyes.
"Do you mean to say you have jilted me? Have you been playing the
capricious coquette from first to last?"
"I am very sorry! I am very sorry!" poor Kate faltered. "I have done
wrong! Oh, forgive me! And please don't be angry."
He broke into a harsh laugh.
"You are sorry! and you have done wrong! Upon my soul, Miss Danton, you
have a mild way of putting it. Here, take back this nonsensical letter.
I can't and won't free you from your engagement."
He held the letter out, but she would not take it. The strong and proud
spirit was beginning to rise; but the recollection that she had drawn
this on herself held her in check.
"I cannot take back one word in that letter. I made a great mistake in
thinking I could marry you; I see it now more than ever. I have owned my
fault. I have told you I am sorry. I can do no more. As a gentleman you
are bound to release me."
"Of course," he said, with a bitter sneer. "As a gentleman, I am bound
to let you play fast and loose with me to your heart's content. You have
behaved very honourably to me, Miss Danton, and very much like a
gentlewoman. Is it because you have been jilted yourself, that you want
the pleasure of jilting another? It is hardly the thing to revenge
Reginald Stanford's doings on me."
Up leaped the indignant blood to Kate's face; bright flashed the angry
fire from her eyes.
"Go!" she cried, in a ringing tone of command. "Leave my father's house,
Sir Ronald Keith! I thought I was talking to a gentleman. I have found
my mistake. Go! If you were monarch of the world, I would not marry you
now."
He ground his teeth with a savage oath of fury and rage. The letter she
had sent him was still in his hand. He tore it fiercely into fragments,
and flung them in a white shower at her feet.
"I will go," he said; "but I shall remember this day, and so shall you.
I shall take good care to let the world know how you behave to an
honourable man when a dishonourable one deserts you."
With the last unmanly taunt he was gone, banging the house door after
him until the old mansion shook. And Kate fled back to her room, and
fell down on her knees before her little white bed, and prayed with a
passionate outburst of tears for strength to bear her bitter, bitter
cross.
Later in the day a man from the village hotel came to Danton Hall for
the baronet's luggage. Captain Danton, mystified and bewildered, sought
his daughter for an explanation of these strange goings on. Kate related
the rather humiliating story, leaving out Sir Ronald's cruel taunts, in
dread of a quarrel between him and her father.
"Don't say anything about it, papa," Kate said, imploringly. "I have
behaved very badly, and I feel more wretched and sorry for it all than I
can tell you. Don't try to see Sir Ronald. He is justly very angry, and
might say things in his anger that would provoke a quarrel. I am
miserable enough now without that."
Captain Danton promised, and quietly dispatched the Scotchman's
belongings. That evening Sir Ronald departed for Quebec, to take passage
for Liverpool.