Originally Published: March 6, 1876
Genres: Fiction
Dime Novel Bibliography: https://dimenovels.org/Item/852/Show
Goodreads link: https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/2932648
Gutenberg link: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19512
Chapters: 25
Warning: This may include outdated and derogatory language and attitudes.
CHAPTER I
GRACE DANTON
A low room, oblong in shape, three high narrow windows admitting the light through small, old-fashioned panes. Just at present, there was not much to admit, for it was raining hard, and the afternoon was wearing on to dusk; but even the wet half-light showed you solid mahogany furniture, old-fashioned as the windows themselves, black and shining with age and polish; a carpet soft and thick, but its once rich hues dim and faded; oil paintings of taste and merit, some of them portraits, on the papered walls, the red glow of a large coal fire glinting pleasantly on their broad gilded frames.
At one of the windows, looking out at the ceaseless rain, a young lady sat—a young lady, tall, rather stout than slender, and not pretty. Her complexion was too sallow; her features too irregular; her dark hair too scant, and dry and thin at the parting; but her eyes were fine, large, brown, and clear; her manner, self-possessed and lady-like. She was very simply but very tastefully dressed, and looked every day of her age—twenty-six.
The rainy afternoon was deepening into dismal twilight; and with her cheek resting on her hand, the young lady sat with a thoughtful face.
A long avenue, shaded by towering tamaracks, led down to stately entrance gates; beyond, a winding road, leading to a village, not to be seen from the window. Swelling meadows, bare and bleak now, spread away to the right and left of the thickly wooded grounds; and beyond all, through the trees, there were glimpses of the great St. Lawrence, turbid and swollen, rushing down to the stormy Gulf.
For nearly half an hour the young lady sat by the window, her solitude undisturbed; no sign of life within or without the silent house. Then came the gallop of horse's hoofs, and a lad rode up the avenue and disappeared round the angle of the building.
Ten minutes after there was a tap at the door, followed by the entrance of a servant, with a dark Canadian face.
"A letter, Miss Grace," said the girl, in French.
"Bring in some more coal, Babette," said Miss Grace, also in French, taking the letter. "Where is Miss Eeny?"
"Practising in the parlor, Ma'moiselle."
"Very well. Bring in the coal."
Babette disappeared, and the young lady opened her letter. It was very short.
"Montreal, November, 5, 18—. "My Dear Grace—Kate arrived in this city a week ago, and I have remained here since to show her the sights, and let her recruit after her voyage. Ogden tells me the house is quite ready for us, so you may expect us almost as soon as you receive this. We will be down by the 7th, for certain. Ogden says that Rose is absent. Write to her to return. "Yours sincerely, Henry Danton." "P. S.—Did Ogden tell you we were to have a visitor—an invalid gentleman—a Mr. Richards? Have the suite of rooms on the west side prepared for him. H. D."
The young lady refolded her note thoughtfully, and walking to the fire, stood looking with grave eyes into the glowing coals.
"So soon," she thought; "so soon; everything to be changed. What is Captain Danton's eldest daughter like, I wonder? What is the Captain like himself, and who can this invalid, Mr. Richards, be? I don't like change."
Babette came in with the coal, and Miss Grace roused herself from her reverie.
"Babette, tell Ledru to have dinner at seven. I think your master and his daughter will be here tonight."
"Mon Dieu, Mademoiselle! The young lady from England?"
"Yes; and see that there are fires in all the rooms upstairs."
"Yes, Miss Grace."
"Is Miss Eeny still in the parlor?"
"Yes, Miss Grace."
Miss Grace walked out of the dining room, along a carved and pictured corridor, up a broad flight of shining oaken stairs, and tapped at the first door.
"Come in, Grace," called a pleasant voice, and Grace went in.
It was a much more elegant apartment than the dining room, with flowers, and books, and birds, and pictures, and an open piano with music scattered about.
Half buried in a great carved and gilded chair lay the only occupant of the room—a youthful angel of fifteen, fragile in form, fair and delicate of face, with light hair and blue eyes. A novel lying open in her lap showed what her occupation had been.
"I thought you were practicing your music, Eeny," said Grace.
"So I was until I got tired. But what's that you've got? A letter?"
Grace put it in her hand.
"From Papa!" cried the girl, vividly interested at once. "Oh, Grace! Kate has come!"
"Yes."
The young lady laid down the letter and looked at her.
"How oddly you said that! Are you sorry?"
"Sorry! Oh, no."
"You looked as if you were. How strange it seems to think that this sister of mine, of whom I have heard so much and have never seen, should be coming here for good! And Papa—he is almost a stranger, too, Grace. I suppose everything will be very different now."
"Very, very different," Grace said, with her quiet eyes fixed on the fire. "The old life will soon be a thing of the past. And we have been very happy here; have we not, Eeny?"
"Very happy," answered Eeny; "and will be still, I hope. Papa and Kate, and Mr. Richards—I wonder who Mr. Richards is?—shall not make us miserable."
"I suppose, Eeny," said Grace, "I shall be quite forgotten when this handsome Sister Kate comes. She ought to be very handsome."
She looked up at an oval picture about the marble mantel, in a rich frame—the photograph of a lovely girl about Eeny's age. The bright young face looked at you with a radiant smile, the exuberant golden hair fell in sunlight ripples over the plump white shoulders, and the blue eyes and rosebud lips smiled on you together. A lovely face, full of the serene promise of yet greater loveliness to come. Eeny's eyes followed those of Grace.
"You know better than that, Cousin Grace. Miss Kate Danton may be an angel incarnate, but she can never drive you quite out of my heart. Grace, how old is Kate?"
"Twenty years old."
"And Harry was three years older?"
"Yes."
"Grace, I wonder who Mr. Richards is?"
"So do I."
"Did Ogden say nothing about him?"
"Not a word."
"Will you write to Rose?"
"I shall not have time. I wish you would write, Eeny. That is what I came here to ask you to do."
"Certainly, with pleasure," said Eeny. "Rose will wait for no second invitation when she hears who have come. Will they arrive this evening?"
"Probably. They may come at any moment. And here I am lingering. Write the note at once, Eeny, and send Sam back to the village with it."
She left the parlor and went downstairs, looking into the dining room as she passed. Babette was setting the table already, and silver and cut glass sparkled in the light of the ruby flame. Grace went on, up another staircase, hurrying from room to room, seeing that all things were in perfect order. Fires burned in each apartment, lamps stood on the tables ready to be lit, for neither furnace nor gas was to be found here. The west suite of rooms spoken of in the letter were the last visited. A long corridor, lit by an oriel window, through which the rainy twilight stole eerily enough, led to a baize door. The baize door opened into a shorter corridor, terminated by a second door, the upper half of glass. This was the door of a study, simply furnished, the walls lined with bookshelves, surmounted by busts. Adjoining was a bathroom, adjoining that a bedroom. Fires burned in all, and the curtained windows commanded a wide western prospect of flower garden, waving trees, spreading fields, and the great St. Lawrence melting into the low western sky.
"Mr. Richards ought to be very comfortable here," thought Grace. "It is rather strange Ogden did not speak of him."
She went downstairs again and back to the dining room. Eeny was there, standing before the fire, her light shape and delicate face looking fragile in the red firelight.
"Oh, Grace," said she, "I have just sent Babette in search of you. There is a visitor in the parlor for you."
"For me?"
"Yes, a gentleman; young, and rather handsome. I asked him who I should say wished to see you, and—what do you think?—he would not tell."
"No! What did he say?"
"Told me to mention to Miss Grace Danton that a friend wished to see her. Mysterious, is it not?"
"Who can it be?" said Grace, thoughtfully. "What does this mysterious gentleman look like, Eeny?"
"Very tall," said Eeny, "and very stately, with brown hair, and beard and mustache—a splendid mustache, Grace! and beautiful, bright brown eyes, something like yours. Very good-looking, very polite, and with the smile of an angel. There you have him."
"I am as much at a loss as ever," said Grace, leaving the dining room. "This is destined to be an evening of arrivals I think."
She ran upstairs for the second time and opened the parlor door. A gentleman before the fire, in the seat Eeny had vacated, arose at her entrance. Grace stood still an instant, doubt, amazement, delight, alternately in her face; then with a cry of "Frank!" she sprang forward and was caught in the tall stranger's arms.
"I thought you would recognize me in spite of the whiskers," said the stranger. "Here, stand off and let me look at you; let me see the changes six years have wrought in my sister Grace."
He held her out at arm's length and surveyed her smilingly.
"A little older—a little graver, but otherwise the same. My solemn Gracie, you will look like your own grandmother at thirty."
"Well, I feel as if I had lived a century or two now. When did you come?"
"From Germany, last week; from Montreal at noon."
"You have been a week in Montreal then?"
"With Uncle Roosevelt—yes."
"How good it seems to see you again, Frank. How long will you stay here—in St. Croix?"
"That depends—until I get tired, I suppose. So Captain Danton and his eldest daughter are here from England?"
"How did you learn that?"
"Saw their arrival in Montreal duly chronicled."
"What is she like, Grace?"
"Who?"
"Miss Kate Danton."
"I don't know. I expect them every moment; I should think they came by the same train you did."
"Perhaps so—I rode second-class. I got talking to an old Canadian and found him such a capital old fellow, that I kept beside him all the way. By-the-by, Grace, you've got into very comfortable quarters, haven't you?"
"Yes, Danton Hall is a very fine place."
"How long is it you have been here?"
"Four years."
"And how often has the Captain been in that time?"
"Twice; but he has given up the sea now, and is going to settle down."
"I thought his eldest daughter was a fixture in England?"
"So did I," said Grace; "but the grandmother with whom she lived has died, it appears; consequently, she comes to her natural home for the first time. That is her picture."
Miss Danton's brother raised his handsome brown eyes to the exquisite face and took a long survey.
"She ought to be a beauty if she looks like that. Belle blonde, and I admire blondes so much! do you know, Grace, I think I shall fall in love with her?"
"Don't. It will be of no use."
"Why not? I am a Danton—a gentleman—a member of the learned profession of medicine and not so bad-looking. Why not, Grace?"
He rose up as he said it, his brown eyes smiling. Not so bad-looking, certainly. A fine-looking fellow, as he leaned against the marble mantel, bronzed and bearded, and a thorough gentleman.
"It is all of no use," Grace said, with an answering smile. "Doctor Danton's numberless perfections will be quite lost on the heiress of Danton Hall. She is engaged."
"What a pity! Who is the lucky man?"
"Hon. Lieutenant Reginald Stanford, of Stanford Royals, Northumberland, England, youngest son of Lord Reeves."
"Then mine is indeed a forlorn hope! What chance has an aspiring young doctor against the son of a lord."
"You would have no chance in any case," said Grace, with sudden seriousness. "I once asked her father which his eldest daughter most resembled, Rose or Eeny. 'Like neither,' was his reply. 'My daughter Kate is beautiful and stately, and proud as a queen.' I shall never forget his own proud smile as he said it."
"You infer that Miss Danton, if free, would be too proud to mate with a mere plebeian professional man."
"Yes."
"Then resignation is all that remains. Is it improper to smoke in this sacred chamber, Grace? I must have something to console me. Quite a grand alliance for Danton's daughter, is it not?"
"They do not seem to think so. I heard her father say he would not consider a prince of the blood royal too good for his peerless Kate."
"The duse he wouldn't! What an uplifted old fellow he must be!"
"Captain Danton is not old. His age is about forty-five, and he does not look forty."
"Then I'll tell you what to do, Grace—marry him!"
"Frank, don't be absurd! Do you know you will have everything in this room smelling of tobacco for a week? I can't permit it, sir."
"Well, I'll be off," said her brother, looking at his watch, "I promised to return in half an hour for supper."
"Promised whom?"
"M. le Curé. Oh, you don't know I am stopping at the presbytery. I happened to meet the curate, Father Francis, in Montreal—we were schoolboys together—and he was about the wildest, most mischievous fellow I ever met. We were immense friends—a fellow feeling, you know, makes us wondrous kind. Judge of my amazement on meeting him on Notre Dame street, in soutane and broad-brimmed hat, and finding he had taken to Mother Church. You might have knocked me down with a feather, I assure you. Mutual confidence followed; and when he learned I was coming to St. Croix, he told me that I must pitch my tent with him. Capital quarters it is, too; and M. le Curé is the soul of hospitality. Will you give me a glass of wine after that long speech, and to fortify me for my homeward route?"
Grace rang and ordered wine. Doctor Danton drank his glass standing, and then drew on his gloves.
"Have you to walk?" asked his sister. "I will order the buggy for you."
"By no means. I rode up here on the Curé's nag and came at the rate of a funeral. The old beast seemed to enjoy himself and to rather like getting soaked through, and I have no doubt will return as he came. And now I must go; it would never do to be found here by these grand people—Captain and Miss Danton."
His wet overcoat hung on a chair; he put it on while walking to the door, with Grace by his side.
"When shall I see you again, Frank?"
"Tomorrow. I want to have a look at our English beauty. By Jove! it knows how to rain in Canada."
The cold November blast swept in as Grace opened the front door, and the rain fell in a downpour. In the black darkness, Grace could just discern a white horse fastened to a tree.
"That is ominous, Grace," said her brother. "Captain Danton and his daughter come heralded by wind and tempest. Take care it is not prophetic of domestic squalls."
He ran down the steps but was back again directly.
"Who was that pale, blue-eyed fairy I met when I entered?"
"Eveleen Danton."
"Give her my best regards—Doctor Frank's. She will be rather pretty, I think; and if Miss Kate snubs me, perhaps I shall fall back on Miss Eveleen. It seems to me I should like to get into so great a family. Once more, bon soir, sister mine, and pleasant dreams."
He was gone this time for good. His sister stood in the doorway and watched the white horse and its tall, dark rider vanish under the tossing trees.
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