There was very little noise made about the matter this time. Father Francis and Doctor Danton were almost the only two outside the household who knew anything about it, and somehow these were the very two Kate herself wished most to keep it from.
She was ashamed of her mercenary marriage; in spite of herself she despised herself for it, and she felt they must despise her for it too. She shrank away guiltily under the clear steadfast, searching gaze of Father Francis, feeling how low she must have fallen in his estimation. She respected and esteemed the priest and the Doctor so much, that it was humiliating to lose their respect by her own voluntary act. But it was too late to draw back, even if she wished it; her fetters were forged—she was bound beyond recall.
Sir Ronald Keith had got the desire of his heart—Kate Danton was his promised wife, and yet he was not quite happy. Are we ever quite happy, I wonder, when we attain the end for which we have sighed and longed, perhaps for years? Our imagination is so very apt to paint that desire of our heart in rainbow-hues, and we are so very apt to find it, when it comes, only dull gray, after all.
Sir Ronald loved his beautiful and queenly affianced with a changeless devotion nothing could alter. He had thought her promise to marry him would satisfy him perfectly; but he had that promise, and he was not satisfied. He wanted something more—he wanted love in return, although he knew she did not love him; and he was dissatisfied. It is not exactly pleasant, perhaps, to find the woman you love and are about to marry as cold as an iceberg—to see her shrink at your approach, and avoid you on all possible occasions. It is rather hard, no doubt, to put up with the loose touch of cold fingers for your warmest caress, and heavy sighs in answer to your most loving speeches.
Sir Ronald had promised to be content without love; but he was not, and was huffish and offended, and savagely jealous of Reginald Stanford and all the hated past.
So the baronet's wooing was on the whole rather gloomy, and depressing to the spirits, even of the lookers-on; and Kate was failing away once more to a pale, listless shadow, and Sir Ronald was in a state of perpetual sulkiness.
But the bridal-cakes and bridal-dresses were making, and the December days were slipping by, one by one, bringing the fated time near. Miss Danton still zealously and unweariedly continued her mission of love. No weather kept her indoors, no pleadings of her future husband were strong enough to make her give up one visit for his pleasure or accommodation.
"Let me alone, Sir Ronald Keith," she would answer, wearily, and a little impatiently; "it will not be for long. Let me alone!"
The fever that had swept off so many was slowly dying out. The sick ones were not so bad or so many now, but that Miss Danton, with a safe conscience, might have given them up; but she would not. She never wanted to be alone—she who had been so fond of solitude such a short time ago. She was afraid of herself—afraid to think—afraid of that dim future that was drawing so very near. Every feeling of heart and soul revolted at the thought of that loveless marriage—the profanation of herself seemed more than she could bear.
"I shall turn desperate at the very altar!" she thought, with something like despair. "I can't marry him—I can't! It sets me wild to think of it. What a wretch I am! What a weak, miserable, cowardly wretch, not to be able to face the fate I have chosen for myself! I don't know what to do, and I have no one to consult—no one but Father Francis, and I am afraid to speak to him. I don't love him; I loathe the thought of marrying him; but it is too late to draw back. If one could only die, and end it all!"