I said nothing of the letter. My greatest anxiety now was lest Captain Danton and Mr. Stanford should meet. I was in a state of feverish anxiety all day, which even Kate noticed. You know she never liked me, and latterly her aversion has deepened, though Heaven knows, without any cause on my part, and she avoided me as much as she possibly could without discourtesy. She inquired, however, if anything had happened—if I had bad news from her father, and looked at me in a puzzled manner when I answered "No." I could not look at her; I could hardly speak to her; somehow I felt about as guilty concealing the truth as if I had been in the vile plot that had destroyed her happiness.
Father Francis came up in the course of the day; and when he was leaving, I called him into the library, and told him the truth. I cannot tell you how shocked he was at Rose's perfidy, or how distressed for Kate's sake. He agreed with me that it was best to say nothing until Captain Danton's return.
He came that night. It was late—nearly eleven o'clock, and I and Thomas were the only ones up. Thomas admitted him; and I shall never forget how worn, and pale, and haggard he looked as he came in.
"It was too late, Grace," were his first words. "They have gone."
"Thank Heaven!" I exclaimed. "Thank Heaven you have not met them, and that there is no blood shed. Oh, believe me, it is better as it is."
"Does Kate know?" he asked.
"Not yet. No one knows but Father Francis. He thought as I did, that it was better to wait until you returned."
"My poor child! My poor Kate!" he said, in a broken voice, "who will tell you this?"
He was so distressed that I knelt down beside him, and tried to sooth and comfort him.
"Father Francis will," I said. "She venerates and esteems him more highly than any other living being, and his influence over her is greater. Let Father Francis tell her to-morrow."