"Dear Old Boy:—I'm off. In an hour I shall be on my way to Ottawa, and from thence I will write you next. Do you know why I am going? I am running away from myself! 'Lead us not into temptation;' and Satan seems to have me hard and fast at Danton Hall. Lauderdale, in spite of your bad opinion of me, I don't want to be a villain if I can help it. I don't want to do any harm; I do want to be true! And here it is impossible. I have got intoxicated with flowing curls, and flashing dark eyes, and all the pretty, bewitching, foolish, irresistible ways of that piquant little beauty, whom I have no business under heaven to think of. I know she is silly, and frivolous, and coquettish, and vain; but I love her! There, the murder is out, and I feel better after it. But, withal, I want to be faithful to the girl who loves me (ah! wretch that I am!), and so I fly. A month out of sight of that sweet face—a month out of hearing of that gay, young voice—a month shooting, and riding, and exploring these Canadian wilds, will do me good, and bring me back a new man. At least, I hope so; and don't you set me down as a villain for the next four weeks, at least."
The day of departure was miserably long and dull at the Hall. It rained ceaselessly, and that made it worse. Rose never left her room; her plea was headache. Kate wandered drearily up stairs and down stairs, and felt desolate and forsaken beyond all precedent.
There was a strange, forlorn stillness about the house, as if some one lay dead in it; and from morning to night the wind never ceased its melancholy complaining.
Of course this abnormal state of things could not last. Sunshine came next day, and the young ladies were themselves again. The preparations for the treble wedding must begin in earnest now—shopping, dressmakers, milliners, jewellers, all had to be seen after. A journey to Montreal must be taken immediately, and business commenced. Kate held a long consultation with Rose in her boudoir; but Rose, marvellous to tell, took very little interest in the subject. She, who all her life made dress the great concern of her existence, all at once, in this most important crisis, grew indifferent.
She accompanied Kate to Montreal, however, and helped in the selection of laces, and silks, and flowers, and ribbons; and another dressmaker was hunted up and carried back.
It was a busy time after that; the needles of Agnes Darling, Eunice, and the new dressmaker flew from morning until night. Grace lent her assistance, and Kate was always occupied superintending, and being fitted and refitted, and had no time to think how lonely the house was, or how much she missed Reginald Stanford. She was happy beyond the power of words to describe; the time was near when they would never part again—when she would be his—his happy, happy wife.
It was all different with Rose; she had changed in a most unaccountable manner. All her movements were languid and listless, she who had been wont to keep the house astir; she took no interest in the bridal dresses and jewellery; she shrank from every one, and wanted to be alone. She grew pale, and thin, and hysterical, and so petulant that it was a risk to speak to her. What was the matter?—every one asked that question, and Grace and Grace's brother were the only two who guessed within a mile of the truth.
And so April wore away. Time, that goes on forever—steadily, steadily, for the happy and the miserable—was bringing the fated time near. The snow had fled, the new grass and fresh buds were green on the lawn and trees, and the birds sang their glorias in the branches so lately tossed by the wintry winds.
Doctor Danton was still at St. Croix, but he was going away, too. He had had an interview with Agnes Darling, whose hopes were on the ebb; and once more had tried to engraft his own bright, sanguine nature on hers.