Kate and Sir Ronald were certainly very much together; but, notwithstanding their intimacy, she found time to devote two or three hours every day to Mr. Richards. Rose's mystery was her mystery still. She could get no further towards its solution. Mr. Richards might have been a thousand miles away, for all any of the household saw of him; and Grace, in the solitude of her own chamber, wondered over it a good deal of late.
She sat at her window one December night, puzzling herself about it. Kate had not come down to dinner that day—she had dined with the invalid in his rooms. When she had entered the drawing-room about nine o'clock, she looked pale and anxious, and was absent and distraite all the evening. Now that the house was still and all were in their rooms, Grace was wondering. Was Mr. Richards worse? Why, then, did they not call in a Doctor? Who could he be, this sick stranger, in whom father and daughter were so interested? Grace could not sleep for thinking of it. The night was mild and bright, and she arose, wrapped a large shawl around her, and took her seat by the window. How still it was, how solemn, how peaceful! The full moon sailed through the deep blue sky, silver-white, crystal-clear. Numberless stars shone sharp and keen. The snowy ground glittered dazzlingly bright and cold; the trees stood like grim, motionless sentinels, guarding Danton Hall. The village lay hushed in midnight repose; the tall cross of the Catholic and the lofty spire of the Episcopal church flashed in the moon's rays. Rapid river and sluggish canal glittered in the silvery light. The night was noiseless, hushed, beautiful.
No; not noiseless. A step crunched over the frozen snow; from under the still shadow of the trees a moving shadow came. A man, wrapped in a long cloak, and with a fur cap down over his eyes, came round the angle of the building and began pacing up and down the terrace. Grace's heart stood still for an instant. Who was this midnight walker? Not Sir Ronald Keith watching his lady's lattice—it was too tall for him. Not the Captain—the cloaked figure was too slight. No one Grace knew, and no ghost; for he stood still an instant, lit a cigar, and resumed his walk, smoking. He had loitered up and down the terrace for about a quarter of an hour, when another figure came out from the shadows and joined him. A woman this time, with a shawl wrapped round her, and a white cloud on her head. The moonlight fell full on her face—pale and beautiful. Grace could hardly repress a cry—it was Kate Danton.
The smoker advanced. Miss Danton took his arm, and together they walked up and down, talking earnestly. Once or twice Kate looked up at the darkened windows; but the watcher was not to be seen, and they walked on. Half an hour, an hour, passed; the hall clock struck one, and then the two midnight pedestrians disappeared round the corner and were gone.
The moments passed, and still Grace sat wondering, and of her wonder finding no end. What did it mean? Who was this man with whom the proudest girl the sun ever shone on walked by stealth, and at midnight? Who was he? Suddenly in the silence and darkness of the coming morning, a thought struck her that brought the blood to her face.
"Mr. Richards."
She clasped her hands together. Conviction as positive as certainty thrilled along every nerve. Mr. Richards, the recluse, was the midnight walker—Mr. Richards, who was no invalid at all; and who, shut up all day, came out in the dead of night, when the household were asleep, to take the air in the grounds. There, in the solemn hush of her room, Rose's thoughtless words came back to her like a revelation.
"Where there is secrecy there is guilt."
When the family met at breakfast, Grace looked at Kate with a new interest. But the quiet face told nothing; she was a little pale; but the violet eyes were as starry, and the smile as bright as ever. The English mail had come in, and letters for her and her father lay on the table. There was one, in a bold, masculine hand, with a coat-of-arms on the seal, that brought the rosy blood in an instant to her face. She walked away to one of the windows, to read it by herself. Grace watched the tall, slender figure curiously. She was beginning to be a mystery to her.
"She is on the best of terms with Sir Ronald Keith," she thought; "she meets some man by night in the grounds, and the sight of this handwriting brings all the blood in her body to her face. I suppose she loves him; I suppose he loves her. I wonder what he would think if he knew what I know."