Kate Danton, or, Captain Danton's Daughters Part 55

A pang pierced Kate's heart. She remembered the day when she had strayed into the church with Reginald, and found old Pierre sweeping. He had made his request so humbly and earnestly, that she had sat down at the little harmonium and played and sung a hymn. And he had never forgotten it; he had talked of it in his dying hours. The sharpest remorse she had ever felt in her life, for the good she might have done, she felt then.

"My poor people have missed their Lady Bountiful," continued Father Francis, with that grave smile of his--"missed her more than ever, in this trying time. Do you remember Hermine Lacheur, Miss Danton?"

"That pretty, gentle girl, with the great dark eyes, and black ringlets?

Oh, yes, very well."

"The same. She was rather a pet of yours, I think. You taught her to sing some little hymns in the choir. You will be sorry to hear she has gone."

"Dead!" Kate cried, struck and thrilled.

"Dead," Father Francis said, a little tremor in his voice. "A most estimable girl, beloved by every one. Like Pierre, she talked a great deal of you in her last illness, and sang the hymns you taught her.

'Give my dear love to Miss Danton,' were almost her last words to me; 'she has been very kind to me. Tell her I will pray for her in Heaven.'"

There was silence.

"Oh," Kate thought, with unutterable bitterness of sorrow; "how happy I might have been--how happy I might have made others, if I had given my heart to G.o.d, instead of to His creatures. The bountiful blessings I have wasted--youth, health, opulence--how many poor souls I might have gladdened and helped!"

She rose from the table, and walked over to the window. The blackness of darkness had settled down over the earth, but she never saw it. Was it too late yet? Had she found her mission on earth? Had she still something to live for? Was she worthy of so great a charge? A few hours before, and life was all a blank, without an object. Had Father Francis been sent to point out the object for which she must henceforth live?

The poor and suffering were around her. It was in her power to alleviate their poverty and soothe their suffering. The great Master of Earth and Heaven had spent His life ministering to the afflicted and humble--surely it was a great and glorious thing to be able to follow afar off in His footsteps. The thoughts of that hour changed the whole tenor of her mind--perhaps the whole course of her life. She had found her place in the world, and her work to do. She might never be happy herself, but she might make others happy. She might never have a home of her own, but she might brighten and cheer other homes. As an unprofessed Sister of Charity, she might go among those poor ones doing good; and dimly in the future she could see the cloistered, grateful walls shutting her from the troubles of this feverish life. Standing there by the curtained window, her eyes fixed on the pitchy darkness, a new era in her existence seemed to dawn.

Miss Danton said nothing to any one about this new resolution of hers.

She felt how it would be opposed, how she would have to argue and combat for permission; so she held her tongue. But next morning, an hour after breakfast, she came to Grace, and in that tone of quiet authority she always used to her father's housekeeper, requested the keys to the sideboard.

Grace looked surprised, but yielded them at once; and Kate, going to the large, carved, old-fas.h.i.+oned, walnut wood buffet, abstracted two or three bottles of old port, a gla.s.s jar of jelly, and another of tamarinds; stowed away these spoils in a large morocco reticule, returned the keys to Grace, and, going upstairs, dressed herself in her plainest dress, mantle, and hat, took her reticule, and set off. She smiled at herself as she walked down the avenue--she, the elegant, fastidious Kate Danton, attired in those sombre garments, carrying that well-filled bag, and turning, all in a moment, a Sister of Mercy.

It was nearly noon when she returned, pale, and very tired, from her long walk. Grace wondered more than ever, as she saw her dragging herself slowly upstairs.

"Where can she have been?" she mused, "in that dress and with that bag, and what on earth can she have wanted the keys of the sideboard for?"

Grace was enlightened some hours later, when Father Francis came up, and informed the household that he had found Kate ministering to one of the worst cases of fever in the village--a dying old woman.

"She was sitting by the bedside reading to her," said the priest; "and she had given poor old Madame Lange what she has been longing for weeks past, wine. I a.s.sure you I was confounded at the sight."

"But, good gracious!" cried the Captain, aghast, "she will take the fever."

"I told her so--I expostulated with her on her rashness, but all in vain. I told her to send them as much wine and jellies as she pleased, but to keep out of these pestiferous cottages. She only looked at me with those big solemn eyes, and said:

"'Father, if I were a professed Sister of Charity, you would call my mission Heaven-sent and glorious; because I am not, you tell me I am foolish and rash. I don't think I am either; I have no fear of the fever; I am young, and strong, and healthy, and do not think I will take it. Even if I do, and if I die, I shall die doing G.o.d's work. Better such a death as that than a long, miserable, worthless life.'"

"She is resolved, then?"

"You would say so if you saw her face. Better not oppose her too much, I think; her mind is set upon it, and it seems to make her happy. It is, indeed, as she says, a n.o.ble work. G.o.d will protect her."

Captain Danton sighed. It seemed to him a very dreary and dismal labour for his bright Kate. But he had not the heart to oppose her in anything, let it be never so mad and dangerous. He had never opposed her in the days of her happiness, and it was late to begin now.

So Kate's new life began. While the weeks of November were ending in short, dark, dull days, and cold and windy nights, with the dying year, many in the fever-stricken village were dying too. Into all these humble dwellings the beautiful girl was welcomed as an angel of light. The delicacies and rich wines that nourished and strengthened them they owed to her bounty; the words of holy hope and consolation that soothed their dying hours, her sweet voice read; the hymns that seemed a foretaste of Heaven, her clear voice sang. Her white hands closed their dying eyes and folded the rigid arms, and decked the room of death with flowers that took away half its ghastliness. Her deft fingers arranged the folds of the shroud, and the winding-sheet, and her gentle tones whispered comfort and resignation to the sorrowing ones behind. How they blessed her, how they loved her, those poor people, was known only to Heaven and themselves.

There were two others in all these stricken houses, at these beds of death--Father Francis and Dr. Danton. They were her indefatigable fellow-labourers in the good work, as unwearied in their zeal and patience and as deeply beloved as she was. Perhaps it was that by constantly preaching patience, she had learned patience herself. Perhaps it was through seeing all his goodness and untiring devotion, she began to realize after a while she had been unjust to Doctor Danton. She could not help liking and respecting him. She heard his praises in every mouth in the village, and she could not help owning they were well deserved.

Almost without knowing it, she was beginning to like and admire this devoted young Doctor, who never wearied in his zeal, who was so gentle, and womanly, and tender to the poor and suffering. Doing the brother tardy justice, it began dimly to dawn on her mind that she might have done the sister injustice too. She had never known anything of Grace but what was good. Could it be that she had been prejudiced, and proud, and unjust from first to last?

She asked herself the question going home one evening from her mission of mercy. The long-deferred wedding was to take place on Christmas eve, and it was now the 7th of December. She was walking home alone, in the yellow l.u.s.tre of the wintry sunset, the snow lying white and high all around her. Her new life had changed her somewhat; the hard look was gone, her face was far more peaceful and gentle than when she had come.

Its luminous brightness was not there, perhaps; but the light that remained was far more tender and sweet. She looked very lovely, this cold, clear December, afternoon, in her dark, fur-trimmed mantle, her pretty hat, fur-trimmed too, and the long black plume contrasting with her amber-tinted hair. The frosty wind had lit a glow in her pale cheeks, and deepened the light of her starry violet eyes. She looked lovely, and so the gentleman thought, striding after her over the snowy ground. She did not look around to see who it was, and it was only when he stepped up by her side that she glanced at him, uttering a cry of surprise.

"Sir Ronald Keith! Is it really you? Oh, what a surprise!"

She held out her gloved hand. He took it, held it, looking piercingly into her eyes.

"Not an unpleasant one, I hope? Are you glad to see me?"

"Of course! How can you ask such a question? But I thought you were hundreds of miles away, shooting moose, and bears, and wolves in New Brunswick."

"And so I was, and so I might have remained, had I not heard some news that sent me to Canada like a bolt from a bow."

"What news?"

"Can you ask?"

She lifted her clear eyes to his face, and read it there. The news that she was free. The red blood flushed up in her face for a moment, and then receded, leaving her as white as the snow.

"I learned in the wilds of New Brunswick, where I fled to forget you, Kate, that that man was, what I knew he would be, a traitor and a villain. I only heard it two weeks ago, and I have never rested on my way to you since. I am a fool and a madman, perhaps, but I can't help hoping against hope. I love you so much, Kate, I have loved you so long, that I cannot give you up. He is false, but I will be true. I love you with all my heart and soul, better than I love my own life. Kate, don't send me away again. Reginald Stanford does not stand between us now.

Think how I love you, and be my wife."

She had tried to stop him, but he ran on impetuously. He was so haggard and so agitated speaking to her, that she could not be angry, that she could not help pitying him.

"Don't," she said, gently; "don't, Sir Ronald. You are only paining yourself and paining me. What I told you before, you force me to tell you again. I don't love you, and I can't be your wife."

"I don't expect you to love me yet," he said, eagerly; "how should you?

I will wait, I will do everything under Heaven you wish, only give me hope. Give me a chance, Kate! I love you so truly and entirely, that it will win a return sooner or later."

"Ah! don't talk to me," she said, with an impatient sigh; "don't talk to me of love. I have done with that, my heart feels like dust and ashes. I am not worthy of you--I am not worthy of such devotion. I thank you, Sir Ronald, for the honour you do me; but I cannot--I cannot marry you!"

"And you will let that poltroon Stanford boast, as he does boast, that you will live and die single for his sake!" he cried, bitterly. "He has made it the subject of a bet in a London club-room with Major Lauderdale of the Guards."

"No!" said she, her face flus.h.i.+ng, her eyes kindling; "he never did that!"

"He did do it. I have proof of it. You loved him so well--he boasted--that you would never marry. He and Lauderdale made the bet."

She drew a long, hard breath, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng, her white teeth clenched.

"The dastard," she cried; "the mean, lying, cowardly dastard! Oh, if I were a man!"

"Take your revenge without being a man. Prove him a liar and a boaster.

Marry me!"

She did not answer; but he read hope in her flushed and excited face.

"Besides," he artfully went on, "what will you do here? You have no longer a home when your father marries; unless you can consent to be subject to the woman who was once his housekeeper. You will have no place in the world; you will only be an inc.u.mbrance; your step-mother will wish you out of the way, and your father will learn to wish as his new wife does. Oh, Kate, come with me! Come to Glen Keith, and reign there; we will travel over the world; you shall have every luxury that wealth can procure; your every wish shall be gratified; you shall queen it, my beautiful one, over the necks of those who have slighted and humiliated you. Leave this hateful Canada, and come with me as my wife--as Lady Keith!"

"Don't! don't!" she cried, lifting her hand to stop his pa.s.sionate pleading. "You bewilder me; you take my breath away! Give me time; let me think; my head is whirling now."