COALS OF FIRE.
One afternoon, about a fortnight after the receipt of that letter from
France, Rose Stanford sat alone once more in the shabby little parlour
of the London lodging-house. It was late in April, but a fire burned
feebly in the little grate, and she sat cowering over it wrapped in a
large shawl. She had changed terribly during these two weeks; she had
grown old, and hollow-eyed, a haggard, worn, wretched woman.
It was her third day up, this April afternoon, for a low, miserable
fever had confined her to her bed, and worn her to the pallid shadow she
was now. She had just finished writing a letter, a long, sad letter, and
it lay in her lap while she sat shivering over the fire. It was a letter
to her father, a tardy prayer for forgiveness, and a confession of all
her misdoings and wrongs--of Reginald Stanford's rather, for, of course,
all the blame was thrown upon him, though, if Rose had told the truth,
she would have found herself the more in fault of the two.
"I am sick, and poor, and broken-hearted," wrote Mrs. Stanford; "and I
want to go home and die. I have been very wicked, papa, but I have
suffered so much, that even those I have wronged most might forgive me.
Write to me at once, and say I may go home; I only want to go and die in
peace. I feel that I am dying now."
She folded the letter with a weary sigh and a hand that shook like an
old woman's, and rising, rang the bell. The brisk young woman answered
the summons at once with a smile on her face, and Mrs. Stanford's baby
crowing in her arms. They had been very kind to the poor young mother
and the fatherless babe during this time of trial; but Mrs. Stanford was
too ill and broken down to think about it, or feel grateful.
"Here, Jane," said Mrs. Stanford, holding out the letter, "give me the
baby, and post this letter."
Jane obeyed; and Rose, with the infant in her lap, sat staring gloomily
at the red coals.
"Two weeks before it will reach them, two weeks more before an answer
can arrive, and another two weeks before I can be with them. Oh, dear
me! dear me! how shall I drag out life during these interminable weeks.
If I could only die at once and end it all."
Tears of unutterable wretchedness and loneliness and misery coursed down
her pale, thin cheeks. Surely no one ever paid more dearly for love's
short madness than this unfortunate little Rose.
"Marry in haste and repent at leisure," she thought, with unspeakable
bitterness. "Oh, how happy I might have been to-day if I had only done
right last year. But I was mad and treacherous and false, and I dare-say
it serves me right. How can I ever look them in the face when I go
home?"
The weary weeks dragged on, how wearily and miserably only Rose knew.
She never went out; she sat all day long in that shabby parlour, and
stared blankly at the passers-by in the street, waiting, waiting.
The good-natured landlady and her daughter took charge of the baby
during those wretched weeks of expectation, or Mrs. Reginald Stanford's
only son would have been sadly neglected.
April was gone; May came in, bringing the anniversary of Rose's
ill-starred marriage and finding her in that worst widowhood, a day of
ceaseless tears and regrets to the unhappy, deserted wife. The bright
May days went by, one after another, passing as wretched days and more
wretched nights do pass somehow; and June had taken its place. In all
this long, long time, no letter had come for Rose. How she watched and
waited for it; how she had strained her eyes day after day to catch
sight of the postman; how her heart leaped up and throbbed when she saw
him approach, and sank down in her breast like lead as he went by, only
those can know who have watched and waited like her. A sickening sense
of despair stole over her at last. They had forgotten her; they hated
and despised her, and left her to her fate. There was nothing for it but
to go to the alms-house and die, like any other pauper.
She had been mad when she fancied they could forgive her. Her sins had
been too great. All the world had deserted her, and the sooner she was
dead and out of the way the better.
She sat in the misty June twilight thinking this, with a sad, hopeless
kind of resignation. It was the fifth of June. Could she forget that
this very day twelvemonth was to have been her wedding-day? Poor
Jules--poor Kate! Oh, what a wretch she had been!
She covered her face with her hands, tears falling like rain through her
thin fingers.
"I wonder if they will be sorry for me, and forgive me, when they hear I
am dead?" she thought. "Oh, how I live, and live; when other women would
have died long ago with half this trouble. Only nineteen, and with
nothing left to wish for but death."
There was a tap at the door. Before she could speak it was opened, and
Jane, the brisk, came rustling in.
"There's a gentleman down-stairs, Mrs. Stanford, asking to see you."
Rose sprang up, her lips apart, her eyes dilating.
"To see me! A gentleman! Jane, is it Mr. Stanford?"
Jane shook her head.
"Not a bit like Mr. Stanford, ma'am; not near so 'andsome, though a very
fine-looking gentleman. He said, to tell you as 'ow a friend wanted to
see you."
A friend! Oh, who could it be? She made a motion to Jane to show him
up--she was too agitated to speak. She stood with her hands clasped over
her beating heart, breathless, waiting.
A man's quick step flew up the stairs; a tall figure stood in the
doorway, hat in hand.
Rose uttered a faint cry. She had thought of her father, of Jules La
Touche, never once of him who stood before her.
"Doctor Frank!" she gasped; and then she was holding to a chair for
support, feeling the walls swimming around her.
Doctor Frank took her in his arms, and kissed her pale cheek as tenderly
and pityingly as her father might have done.
"My poor child! My poor little Rose! What a shadow you are! Don't cry
so--pray don't!"
She bowed her weary head against his shoulder, and broke out into
hysterical sobbing. It was so good to see that friendly familiar face
once more--she clung to him with a sense of unspeakable trust and
relief, and cried in the fullness of her heart.
He let her tears flow for awhile, sitting beside her, and stroking the
faded, disordered hair away from the wan, pale face.
"There! there!" he said, at last, "we have had tears enough now. Look up
and let me talk to you. What did you think when you received no answer
to your letter?"
"I thought you all very cruel. I thought I was forgotten."
"Of course you did; but you are not forgotten, and it is my fault that
you have had no letter. I wanted to surprise you; and I have brought a
letter from your father breathing nothing but love and forgiveness."
"Give it to me!" cried Rose, breathlessly; "give it to me!"
"Can't, unfortunately, yet awhile. I left it at my hotel. Don't look so
disappointed. I am going to take you there in half an hour. Hallo! Is
that the baby?"
Reginald Stanford, Junior, asleep in his crib, set up a sudden squall at
this moment.
Doctor Frank crossed the floor, and hoisted him up in a twinkling.
"Why, he's a splendid little fellow, Rose, and the very image of--What
do you call him?"
"Reginald," Rose said, in a very subdued tone.
"Well, Master Reginald, you and I are going to be good friends, aren't
we, and you're not going to cry?"
He hoisted him high in the air, and baby answered with a loud crow.
"That's right. Babies always take to me, Rose. You don't know how many
dozens I have nursed in my time. But you don't ask me any questions
about home. Aren't you curious to know how they all get on?"
"Papa is married, I suppose?" Rose said.
"Of course--last January. And Danton Hall was burnt down; and they have
built up another twice as big and three times as handsome. And Mr.
Richards--you remember the mysterious invalid, Rose?"
"Yes."
"Well, Mr. Richards turned out to be your brother Harry, who lived shut
up there, because he thought he had committed a murder, some time
before, in New York. And Agnes Darling--you have not forgotten Agnes
Darling?"
"Oh, no."
"Agnes Darling turns out to be his wife. Quite a romance, isn't it? I
will tell you all the particulars another time. Just now, I want you to
put on your bonnet and come with me to my hotel. Don't ask me why--I
won't tell you. We will fetch the baby too. Go, get ready."
Doctor Frank was imperative, and Rose yielded at once. It was so
indescribably delightful, after all these weeks of suspense and despair,
to see Frank Danton's friendly face, and to listen to his friendly
voice, commanding as one who had the right. Rose had her hat and shawl
on directly, and, with baby in her arms, followed him down stairs. A
hansom stood waiting. He helped her in, gave the cabman his orders, took
his place beside her, and they rattled off.
"When am I going home?" Rose asked, suddenly. "Have you come to fetch
me?"
"Not precisely. You are to return with me, however."
"And when are we going?"
"That is not quite decided yet. It is an after-consideration, and there
is no hurry. Are you particularly anxious to be back to Canada?"
"I am tired of being lonely and homeless," poor Rose replied, the tears
starting. "I want to be at rest, and among the dear familiar faces.
Doctor Frank," she said, looking at him appealingly, "have they forgiven
me, do you think?"
"Whom do you mean by they, Mrs. Stanford?"
"Papa and--and Kate."
"I have reason to think so. Of course, it must have been rather
disagreeable to Kate at first, to have her lover run away and leave her,
but I really think she has got over it. We must be resigned to the
inevitable, you know, my dear Rose, in this changeable world."
Rose sighed, and looked out of the window. A moment later, and the cab
drew up before a stately hotel.
"This is the place," said the Doctor. "Come!"
He helped her out, gave his arm, and led her up a long flight of broad
stairs. It was quite a little journey through carpeted corridors to the
gentleman's apartments; but he reached the door at last. It opened into
a long vista of splendour, as it seemed to Rose, accustomed so long to
the shabby Strand lodgings. She had expected to find the Doctor's rooms
empty; but, to her surprise, within an inner apartment, whose door stood
wide, she saw a lady. The lady, robed in bright silk, tall and stately,
with golden hair twisted coronet wise round the shapely head, stood with
her back to them, looking out of the window. Something in that straight
and stately form struck with a nameless thrill to Rose Stanford's heart;
and she stood in the doorway, spell-bound. At the noise of their
entrance, the lady turned round, uttered an exclamation of pleasure, and
advanced towards them. Doctor Frank stood with a smile on his face,
enjoying Mrs. Stanford's consternation. Another second and she was
clasped in the lady's arms.
"Rose! Rose! My dear little sister!"
"Kate!" Rose murmured, faintly, all white and trembling.
Kate looked up at the smiling face of the Doctor, a new light dawning on
her.
"Oh, he has never told you! For shame, Frank, to shock her so! My
darling, did you not know I was here?"
"No; he never told me," Rose said, sinking into a chair, and looking
hopelessly at her sister. "What does it mean, Kate? Is papa here?"
"I leave the onerous duty of explaining everything to you, Kate," said
the Doctor, before Kate could reply. "I am going down stairs to smoke."
"That provoking fellow!" Kate said, smilingly, looking after him; "it is
just like him."
"Is papa here?" Rose repeated, wonderingly.
"No, my dear; papa is at Danton Hall, with his wife. It was impossible
for him to come."
"Then how do you happen to be here, and with Doctor Frank?"
Kate laughed--such a sweet, clear, happy laugh--as she kissed Rose's
wondering face.
"For the very best reason in the world, Mrs. Stanford! Because I happen
to be Doctor Frank's wife!"
Rose sat, confounded, speechless--literally struck dumb--staring
helplessly.
"His wife!" she repeated. "His wife!" and then sat lost in overwhelming
amaze.
"Yes, my dear; his happy wife. I do not wonder you are astonished,
knowing the past; but it is a long story to tell. I am ashamed to think
how wicked and disagreeable, and perverse, I used to be; but it is all
over now. I think there is no one in all the wide world like Frank!"
Her eyes filled as she said it, and she laid her face for a moment on
her sister's shoulder.
"I was blind in those past days, Rose, and too prejudiced to do justice
to a noble man's worth. I love my husband with my whole heart--with an
affection that can never change."
"And you forgive me?"
"I forgave you long ago. Is this the baby? How pretty! Give him to me."
She took Master Reginald in her arms, and kissed his chubby face.
"To think that you should ever nurse Reginald Stanford's child! How
odd!" said Rose, languidly.
The colour rushed into Mrs. Frank Danton's face for a second or two, as
she stooped over the baby.
"Strange things happen in this world. I shall be very fond of the baby,
I know."
"And Grace, whom you disliked so much, is your mother and sister both
together. How very queer!"
Kate laughed.
"It is odd, but quite true. Come, take your things off; you are not to
leave us again. We will send to your lodgings for your luggage."
"How long have you been married?" asked Rose, as she obeyed.
"Three weeks; and this is our bridal tour. We depart for Paris in two
days. You know Frank has had a fortune."
"I don't know anything. Do tell me all about it--your marriage and
everything. I am dying of curiosity."
Mrs. Doctor Danton seated herself in a low chair, with Reginald
Stanford's first-born in her lap, and began recapitulating as much of
the past as was necessary to enlighten Mrs. Stanford.
"So he saved Eeny's life; and you nursed him, and fell in love with him,
and married him, and his old uncle dies and leaves him a fortune in the
nick of time. It sounds like a fairy tale; you ought to finish
with--'and they lived happy forever after!'"
"Please Heaven, we will! Such real-life romance happens every day,
sister mine. Oh, by-the-by, guess who was at our wedding?"
"Who?"
"A very old friend of yours, my dear--Monsieur Jules La Touche."
"No! Was he, though? How did you come to invite him?"
"He chanced to be in the neighbourhood at the time. Do you know, Rose, I
should not be surprised if he accomplished his destiny yet, and became
papa's son-in-law."
Rose looked up, breathlessly, thinking only of herself.
"Impossible, Kate!--What do you mean?"
"Not at all impossible, I assure you. Eeny was my bride-maid, and you
have no idea how pretty she looked; and so Monsieur La Touche seemed to
think, by the very marked attention he paid her. It would be an
excellent thing for her; he is in a fair way of becoming a millionaire."
A pang of the bitterest envy and mortification she had ever felt,
pierced Rose Stanford's heart. Oh! what a miserable--what an unfortunate
creature she had been! She turned away, that her sister might not see
her face, and Kate carelessly went on.
"Eeny always liked him, I know. She likes him better than ever now. I
shall not be at all surprised if we find her engaged when we go home."
"Indeed!" Rose said, trying to speak naturally, and failing signally.
"And when are we going home?"
"Early in November, I believe. Frank and I are to make Montreal our
home, for he will not give up his profession, of course; and you shall
come and live with us if you like the city better than St. Croix."
Rose's slumbers that night were sadly disturbed. It was not the contrast
between her handsome bedroom and downy pillows, and the comfortless
little chamber she had slept in so long; it was not thought of her
sister's goodness and generosity: it was the image of Eeny, in silk and
jewels, the bride of Jules La Touche, the millionaire.
Somehow, unacknowledged in her heart of hearts, there had lingered a
hope of vengeance on her husband, triumph for herself as the wife of her
deserted lover! There would be a divorce, and then she might legally
marry. She had no conscientious scruples about that sort of marriages,
and she took it for granted Monsieur La Touche could have none either.
But now these hopes were nipped in the bud. Eeny--younger, fresher,
fairer, perhaps--was to have him and the splendid position his wife must
attain; and she was to be a miserable, poor, deserted wife all her days.
I am afraid Mrs. Stanford was not properly thankful for her blessings
that night. She had thought, only one day before, that to find her
friends and be forgiven by them would be the sum total of earthly
happiness; but now she had found them, and was forgiven, she was as
wretched as ever.
The contrast between what she was and what she might have been was
rather striking, certainly; and the bitterest pang of all was the
thought she had no one to blame, from first to last, but herself.
Oh, if she had only been true! This was what came of marrying for love,
and trampling under foot prudence, and honour, and truth. A month or two
of joy, and life-long regret and repentance!
Doctor Danton, his wife, and sister, took a hurried scamper over London,
and departed for Paris.
The weather in that gay capital was very warm, indeed, but delightful to
Rose, who had never crossed the Channel before. Paris was comparatively
familiar ground to the young Doctor; he took the two ladies sight-seeing
perpetually; and Mrs. Stanford almost forgot her troubles in the
delights of the brilliant French city.
A nurse had been engaged for baby, so that troublesome young gentleman
no longer came between his mamma and life's enjoyment. Her diminished
wardrobe had been replenished too; and, well-fed and well-dressed, Rose
began to look almost like the sparkling, piquant Rose of other days.
The Dantons had been three weeks in Paris, and were to leave in a day or
two en route for Switzerland. The Doctor had taken them for a last drive
through the Bois de Boulogne the sunny afternoon that was to be their
last for some time in the French capital. Kate and Rose, looking very
handsome, and beautifully dressed, lay back among the cushions,
attracting more than one glance of admiration from those who passed by.
Mrs. Danton was chatting gayly with her husband, and Rose, poising a
dainty azure parasol, looked at the well-dressed Parisians around her.
Suddenly, the hand so daintily holding the parasol grasped it tight, the
hot blood surged in a torrent to her face, and her eyes fixed and
dilated on two equestrians slowly approaching. A lady and gentleman--the
lady a Frenchwoman evidently, dark, rather good-looking, and not very
young; the gentleman, tall, eminently handsome, and much more youthful
than his fair companion, Rose Stanford and her false husband were face
to face!
He had seen them, and grown more livid than death; his eyes fixed on
Doctor Danton and his beautiful wife, talking and laughing with such
infinitely happy faces.
One glance told him how matters stood--told him the girl he had forsaken
was the happy wife of a better man. Then his glance met that of his
wife, pretty, and blooming and bright as when he had first fallen in
love with her; but those hazel eyes were flashing fire, and the pretty
face was fierce with rage and scorn.
Then they were past; and Reginald Stanford and his wife had seen each
other for the last time on earth.
* * * * *
The summer flew by. They visited Switzerland, Germany, Italy, and were
back in Paris in October. About the middle of that month they sailed
from Havre to New York, and reached that city after a delightful
passage. It being Rose's first sight of the Empire City, they lingered a
week to show her the lions, and early in November were on the first
stage of their journey to Danton Hall.