Kate sat at her father's side—Grace presided now, Grace was mistress of the Hall—and listened in the same dazed and dreary way to the confusion of tongues, the fire of toasts, the clatter of china and silver, and the laughter of the guests. She sat very still, eating and drinking, because she must eat and drink to avoid notice, and never thinking how beautiful she looked in her blue silk dress, her neck and arms gleaming like ivory against azure. What would it ever matter again how she looked?
Captain and Mrs. Danton were going on a brief bridal-tour to Toronto—not to be absent over a fortnight. They were to depart by the two o'clock train; so, breakfast over, Grace hurried away to change her dress. Dr. Frank was going to drive Eeny to the station, in the cutter, to see them off, but Kate declined to accompany them. She shook hands with them at the door; and then turned and went back into the empty, silent house.
A wedding, when the wedded pair, ashamed of themselves, go scampering over the country in search of distraction and amusement, leaves any household almost as forlorn as a funeral. Dead silence succeeds tumult and bustle; those left behind sit down blankly, feeling a gap in their circle, a loss never to be repaired. It was worse than usual at Danton Hall. The wintry weather, precluding all possibility of seeking forgetfulness and recreation out of doors, the absence of visitors—for the Curé, Father Francis, Doctor Danton, and the Reverend Mr. Clare comprised Kate's whole visiting list now—all tended to make dismalness more dismal. She could remember this time last year, when Reginald and Rose, and Sir Ronald, and all were with them—so many then, so few now; only herself and Eeny left.
The memory of the past time came back with a dulled sense of pain and misery. She had suffered so much that the sense of suffering was blunted—there was only a desolate aching of the heart when she thought of it now.
December and the old year died out, in a great winding-sheet of snow. January came, and its first week dragged away, and the master and mistress of the house were daily expected home.
Late in the afternoon of a January day, Kate sat at the drawing-room window, her chin resting on her hand, her eyes fixed on the white darkness. The wind made such a racket and uproar within and without, that she did not hear a modest tap at the door, or the turning of the handle. It was only when a familiar voice sounded close to her elbow that she started from her reverie.
"If you please, Miss Kate."
"Oh, is it you, Ogden? I did not hear you. What is the matter?"
Mr. Ogden drew nearer and lowered his voice.
"Miss Kate, have you been upstairs to-day?"