AT HOME.
Late in the afternoon of a dark November day our travellers reached St.
Croix, and found the carriage from the Hall awaiting them at the
station. Rose leaned back in a corner, wrapped in a large shawl, and
with a heart too full of mingled feelings to speak. How it all came back
to her, with the bitterness of death, the last time her eyes had looked
upon these familiar objects--how happy she had been then, how hopeful;
how miserable she had been since, how hopeless now. The well-known
objects flitted before her eyes, seen through a mist of tears, so
well-known that it seemed only yesterday since she had last looked at
them, and these dreary intervening months only a wretched dream. Ah! no
dream, for there sat the English nurse with the baby in her arms, a
living proof of their reality. One by one the old places spun by, the
church, the presbytery, with Father Francis walking up and down the
little garden, his soutane tucked up, and his breviary in his hand, all
looking ghostly in the dim afternoon light. Now the village was passed,
they were flying through wide open gates, and under the shadow of the
dear old trees. There was Danton Hall, not the dingy, weather-beaten
Danton Hall she knew, but a much more modern, much more elegant mansion;
and there on the gray stone steps stood her father, handsome and portly,
and kindly as ever; and there was Grace beside him--dear, good Grace;
and there was Eeny, dressed in pale pink with fluttering ribbons, fair
and fragile, and looking like a rosebud. A little group of three persons
behind, at sight of whom Kate uttered an exclamation of delight.
"Oh, Frank! there are Harry and Agnes! To think papa never told us! What
a charming surprise!"
That was all Rose heard; then she was clasped in her father's stalwart
arms, and sobbing on his breast. They all clustered around her
first--their restored prodigal--and Grace kissed her lovingly, and
Eeny's soft arms were around her neck. Then the group in the background
came forward, and Rose saw a sunburned sailor's face, and knew that it
was her brother Harry who was kissing her, and her sister Agnes whose
arms clung around her. Then she looked at the third person, still
standing modestly in the background, and uttered a little cry.
"Jules! M. La Touche!"
He came forward, a smile on his face, and his hand frankly outstretched,
while Eeny blushingly hovered aloof.
"I am very happy to see you again, Mrs. Stanford--very happy to see you
looking so well!"
So they had met, and this was all! Then they were in the
drawing-room--how, Rose could not tell--it was all like a dream to her,
and Eeny had the babe in her arms, and was carrying it around to be
kissed and admired. "The beauty! The darling! The pet!" Eeny could not
find words enough to express her enthusiastic rapture at such a miracle
of babydom, and kissed Master Reginald into an angry fit of crying.
They got up to their rooms at last. Rose broke down again in the
seclusion of her chamber, and cried until her eyes were as sore as her
heart. How happy they all looked, loving and beloved; and she, the
deserted wife, was an object of pity. While she sat crying, there was a
tap at the door. Hastily drying her eyes, she opened it, and admitted
Grace.
"Have you been crying, Rose?" she said, tenderly taking both her hands,
and sitting down beside her. "My poor dear, you must try and forget your
troubles, and be happy with us. I know it is very sad, and we are all
sorry for you; but the husband you have lost is not worth grieving for.
Were you not surprised," smiling, "to see Mr. La Touche here?"
"Hardly," said Rose, rather sulkily. "I suppose he is here in the
character of Eeny's suitor?"
"More than that, my dear. He is here in the character of Eeny's
affianced husband. They are to be married next month."
Rose uttered an exclamation--an exclamation of dismay. She certainly had
never dreamed of this.
"The marriage would have taken place earlier, but was postponed in
expectation of your and Kate's arrival. That is why Harry and Agnes are
here. M. La Touche has a perfect home prepared for his bride in Ottawa.
Come, she is in Kate's room now. I will show you her trousseau."
Rose went with her step-mother from her chamber into Eeny's
dressing-room. There was spread out the bridal outfit. Silks, in rich
stiffness, fit to stand alone; laces, jewels, bridal-veil, and wreath.
Rose looked with dazzled eyes, and a feeling of passionate, jealous envy
at her heart. It might have been hers, all this splendour--she might
have been mistress of the palace at Ottawa, and the wife of a
millionaire.
But she had given up all for love of a handsome face; and that handsome
face smiled on another now, and was lost to her forever. She choked back
the rebellious throbbing of her heart, and praised the costly wedding
outfit, and was glad when she could escape and be alone again. It was
all bitter as the waters of Marah, to poor, widowed Rose; their
forgiveness, so ready and so generous, was heaping coals of fire on her
head; and at home, surrounded by kind friends and every comfort so long
a stranger to her, she felt even more desolate than she had ever done in
the dreary London lodgings.
But while all were happy at Danton Hall, save Captain Danton's second
daughter, once the gayest among them, the days flew by, and Eveleen
Danton's wedding-day dawned. Such a lovely December day, brilliant,
cloudless, warm--just the day for a wedding. The little village church
was crowded with the rich and the poor, long before the carriages from
the Hall arrived. Very lovely looked the young bride, in her silken robe
of virgin white, her misty veil, and drooping, flower-crowned head. Very
sweet, and fair, and innocent, and as pale as her snowy dress, the
centre of all eyes, as she moved up the aisle, on her father's arm.
There were four bride-maids; the Demoiselles La Touche came from Ottawa
for the occasion. Miss Emily Howard, and Miss La Favre. The bride's
sisters shared with her the general admiration--Mrs. Dr. Danton; Mrs.
Stanford, all auburn ringlets, and golden brown silk, and no outward
sign of the torments within; Mrs. Harry Danton, fair as a lily, clinging
to her sailor-husband's arm, like some spirit of the sea; and last, but
not least, Captain Danton's wife, very simply dressed, but looking so
quietly happy and serene. Then it was all over, and the gaping
spectators saw the wedding party flocking back into the carriages, and
whirling away to the Hall.
Mr. and Mrs. La Touche were to make but a brief tour, and return in time
for a Christmas house-warming. Doctor Frank and his wife went to their
Montreal home, and Mrs. Stanford remained at St. Croix. The family were
all to reassemble at Ottawa, to spend New Year with Madame La Touche.
Rose found the intervening weeks very long and dreary at the Hall.
Captain Harry had gone back to his ship, and of course Agnes had gone
with him. They had wanted her to stay at home this voyage, but Agnes had
lifted such appealing eyes, and clung in so much alarm to Harry at the
bare idea of his leaving her, that they had given it up at once. So
Rose, with no companion except Grace, found it very dull, and sighed the
slow hours away, like a modern Mariana in the Moated Grange.
But the merry New Year time came round at last; and all the Dantons were
together once more in Eeny's splendid home. It made Rose's heart ache
with envy to walk through those lovely rooms--long vistas of splendour
and gorgeousness.
"It might have been mine!--It might have been mine!" that rebellious
heart of hers kept crying out. "I might have been mistress of all this
retinue of servants--these jewels and silks I might have worn! I might
have reigned like a queen in this stately house if I had only done
right!"
But it was too late, and Mrs. Stanford had to keep up appearances, and
smiles, though the serpents of envy and regret gnawed at her vitals. It
was very gay there! Life seemed all made up of music, and dancing, and
feasting, and mirth, and skating, and sleighing, and dressing, and
singing. Life went like a fairy spectacle, or an Eastern drama, or an
Arcadian dream--with care, and trial, and trouble, monsters unknown even
by name.
Mme. Jules La Touche played the rôle with charming grace--a little shy,
as became her youth and inexperience, but only the more charming for
that. They were very, very happy together, this quiet young pair--loving
one another very dearly, as you could see, and looking forward hopefully
to a future that was to be without a cloud.
Mrs. La Touche and Mrs. Stanford were very much admired in society, no
doubt; but people went into raptures over Mrs. Frank Danton. Such eyes,
such golden hair, such rare smiles, such queenly grace, such singing,
such playing--surely nature had created this darling of hers in a
gracious mood, and meted out to her a double portion of her favours. You
might think other ladies--those younger sisters of hers
included--beautiful until she came; and then that stately presence, that
bewitching brightness and grace, eclipsed them as the sun eclipses
stars.
"What a lucky fellow Danton is!" said the men. "One doesn't see such a
superb woman once in a century."
And Doctor Frank heard it, and smiled, as he smoked his meerschaum, and
thought so too.
* * * * *
And so we leave them. Kate is happy; Eeny reigns right royally in her
Ottawa home; and Rose--well, poor Rose has no home, and flits about
between St. Croix, and Montreal, and Ottawa, all the year round. She
calls Danton Hall home, but she spends most of her time with Kate. It is
not so sumptuous, of course, as at Ottawa, in the rising young Doctor's
home; but she is not galled every moment of the day by the poignant
regrets that lacerate her heart at Eeny's. She hears of her husband
occasionally, as he wanders through the Continent, and the chain that
binds her to him galls her day and night. Little Reginald, able to trot
about on his own sturdy legs now, accompanies her in her migratory
flights, and is petted to death wherever he goes. He has come to grief
quite recently, and takes it very hard that grandpa should have
something else to nurse besides himself. This something else is a little
atom of humanity named Gracie, and is Captain Danton's youngest
daughter.
THE END.
* * * * *
_By May Agnes Fleming._
NORINE'S REVENGE.
"Mrs. Fleming's stories are growing more and more popular every day.
Their delineations of character, lifelike conversations, flashes of wit,
constantly varying scenes, and deeply interesting plots, combine to
place their author in the very first rank of Modern Novelists."