[Mrs. Reginald Stanford to Grace Danton.]

Dear Mamma Grace:—I suppose, before this, you have heard the awful news that my Darling Reginald and I got married. Wouldn't I like to see you as you read this? Don't I know that virtuous scowl of yours so well, my precious mamma-in-law? Oh, you dear old prude, it's so nice to be married, and Reginald is an angel! I love him so much, and I am so happy; I never was half so happy in my life.

I suppose Madame Leblanc sent you the full, true, and particular account of my going on. Poor old soul! What a rare fright she must have got when she found out I was missing. And Virginie, too. Virginie was so jealous to think I was going to be married before her, as if I would ever have married that insipid Jules. How I wish my darling Reginald had his fortune; but fortune or no fortune, I love him with all my heart, and am going to be just as happy as the day is long.

I dare-say Kate is furious, and saying all kinds of hard things about me. It is not fair if she is. I could not help Reginald's liking me better than her, and I should have died if I had not got him. There! I feel very sorry for her, though; I know how I should feel if I lost him, and I dare say she feels almost as bad. Let her take Jules. Poor Jules, I expect he will break his heart, and I shall be shocked and disappointed if he does not. Let her take him. He is rich and good-looking; and all those lovely wedding-clothes will not go to waste. Ah! how sorry I am to leave them behind; but it can't be helped. We are off to-morrow for England. I shall not feel safe until the ocean is between us and papa. I suppose papa is very angry; but where is the use? As long as Reginald marries one of his daughters, I should think the particular one would be immaterial.

I am sorry I cannot be present at your wedding, Grace; I give you carte blanche to wear all the pretty things made for Mrs. Jules La Touche, if they will fit you. Tell poor Jules, when he comes, that I am sorry; but I loved Reginald so much that I could not help it. Isn't he divinely handsome, Grace? If he knew I was writing to you, he would send his love, so take it for granted.

I should like to write more, but I am going on board in an hour. Please tell Kate not to break her heart. It's of no use.

Give my regard to that obliging brother of yours. I like him very much. Perhaps I may write to you from England if you will not be disagreeable, and will answer. I should like to hear the news from Canada and Danton Hall. Rapturously thine,

[Grace Danton to Dr. Danton.]

Dear Frank:—"Man proposes—" You know the proverb, which holds good in the case of women too. I know my prolonged silence must have surprised you; but I have been so worried and anxious, of late, that writing has become an impossibility. Danton Hall has become a maison de deuil—a house of mourning indeed. I look back as people look back on some dim, delightful dream to the days that are gone, and wonder if indeed we were so merry and gay. The silence of the grave reigns here now. The laughter, the music—all the merry sounds of a happy household—have fled forever. A convent of ascetic nuns could not be stiller, nor the holy sisterhood more grave and sombre. Let me begin at the beginning, and relate events as they occurred, if I can.

The day after I wrote you last brought the first event, in the shape of a letter from Rose to myself. A more thoroughly selfish and heartless epistle could not have been penned. I always knew her to be selfish, and frivolous, vain, and silly to the backbone—yea, backbone and all; but still I had a sort of liking for her withal. That letter effectually dispelled any lingering remains of that weakness. It spoke of her marriage with Reginald Stanford in the most shamelessly insolent and exultant tone. It alluded to her sister and to poor Jules La Touche in a way that brought the "bitter bad" blood of the old Dantons to my face. Oh, if I could have but laid my hands on Mistress Rose at that moment, quiet as I am, I think I would have made her ears tingle as they never tingled before.

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."

Captain Danton agreed that that was the very best thing that could be done, and soon after retired.

I went to my room, too, but not to sleep. I was too miserably anxious about the morrow. The night was lovely—bright as day and warm as midsummer. I sat by the window looking out, and saw Kate walking up and down the tamarack avenue with that mysterious Mr. Richards. They lingered there for over an hour, and then I heard them coming softly upstairs, and going to their respective rooms.

Next morning after breakfast, Captain Danton rode down to the village and had an interview with Father Francis. Two hours after, they returned to Danton Hall together, both looking pale and ill at ease. Kate and I were in the drawing-room—she practising a new song, I sewing. We both rose at their entrance—she gayly; I with my heart beating thick and fast.

"I am glad the beauty of the day tempted you out, Father Francis," she said. "I wish our wanderers would come back. Danton Hall has been as gloomy as an old bastille lately."

I don't know what Father Francis said. I know he looked as though the errand he had come to fulfil were unspeakably distasteful to him.

"Reginald ought to be home to-day," Kate said, walking to the window, "and Rose next week. It seems like a century since they went away."

I could wait for no more—I hurried out of the room—crying, I am afraid. Before I could go upstairs, Captain Danton joined me in the hall.

"Don't go," he said, hoarsely; "wait here. You may be wanted."

My heart seemed to stand still in vague apprehension of—I hardly know what. We stood there together waiting, as the few friends who loved the ill-fated Scottish Queen so well, may have stood when she laid her head on the block. I looked at that closed door with a mute terror of what was passing within—every nerve strained to hear the poor tortured girl's cry of anguish. No such cry ever came. We waited ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, half an hour, an hour, before that closed door opened. We shrank away, but it was only Father Francis, very pale and sad. Our eyes asked the question our tongues would not utter.

"She knows all," he said, in a tremulous voice; "she has taken it very quietly—too quietly. She has alarmed me—that unnatural calm is more distressing than the wildest outburst of weeping."

"Shall we go to her?" asked her father.

"I think not—I think she is better alone. Don't disturb her to-day. I will come up again this evening."

"What did she say?" I asked.

"Very little. She seemed stunned, as people are stunned by a sudden blow. Don't linger here; she will probably be going up to her room, and may not like to think you are watching her."

Father Francis went away. Captain Danton retired to his study. I remained in the recess, which you know is opposite the drawing-room, with the door ajar. I wished to prevent Eeny or any of the servants from disturbing her by suddenly entering. About an hour after, the door opened, and she came out and went slowly upstairs. I caught a glimpse of her face as she passed, and it had turned to the pallor of death. I heard her enter the room and lock the door, and I believe I sat and cried all the morning.

She did not come down all day. I called in Eeny, and told her what had happened, and shocked the poor child as she was never shocked before. At dinner-time I sent her upstairs, to see if Kate would not take some refreshment. Her knocking and calling remained unanswered. She left in despair, and Kate never came down.

Another sleepless night—another anxious morning. About eight o'clock I heard Kate's bell ring, and Eunice go upstairs. Presently the girl ran down and entered the room where I was.

"If you please, Miss Grace, Miss Kate wants you," said Eunice, with a scared face; "and oh, Miss, I think she's ill, she do look so bad!"

Wanted me! I dropped the silver I was holding, in sheer affright. What could she want of me? I went upstairs, my heart almost choking me with its rapid throbbing, and rapped at the door.

She opened it herself. Well might Eunice think her ill. One night had wrought such change as I never thought a night could work before. She had evidently never lain down. She wore the dress of yesterday, and I could see the bed in the inner room undisturbed. Her face was so awfully corpse-like, her eyes so haggard and sunken, her beauty so mysteriously gone, that I shrank before her as if it had been the spectre of the bright, beautiful, radiant Kate Danton. She leaned against the low mantelpiece, and motioned me forward with a cold, fixed look.

"You are aware," she said, in a hard, icy voice—oh so unlike the sweet tones of only yesterday—"what Father Francis came here yesterday to say. You and my father might have told me sooner; but I blame nobody. What I want to say is this: From this hour I never wish to hear from anyone the slightest allusion to the past; I never want to hear the names of those who are gone. I desire you to tell this to my father and sister. Your influence over them is greater than mine."

I bowed assent without looking up; I could feel the icy stare with which she was regarding me, without lifting my eyes.

"Father Francis mentioned a letter that R——"; she hesitated for a moment, and finally said—"that she sent you. Will you let me see it?"

That cruel, heartless, insulting letter! I looked up imploringly, with clasped hands.

"Pray don't," I said. "Oh, pray don't ask me! It is unworthy of notice—it will only hurt you more deeply still."

She held out her hand steadily.

"Will you let me see it?"

What could I do? I took the letter from my pocket, bitterly regretting that I had not destroyed it, and handed it to her.

"Thank you."

She walked to the window, and with her back to me read it through—read it more than once, I should judge, by the length of time it took her. When she faced me again, there was no sign of change in her face.

"Is this letter of any use to you? Do you want it?"

"No! I only wish I had destroyed it long ago!"

"Then, with your permission, I will keep it."

"You!" I cried in consternation. "What can you want with that?"

A strange sort of look passed across her face, darkening it, and she held it tightly in her grasp.

"I want to keep it for a very good reason," she said, between her teeth; "if I ever forget the good turn Rose Danton has done me, this letter will serve to remind me of it."

I was so frightened by her look, and tone, and words, that I could not speak. She saw it, and grew composed again instantly.

"I need not detain you any longer," she said, looking at her watch. "I have no more to say. You can tell my father and sister what I have told you. I will go down to breakfast, and I am much obliged to you."

She turned from me and went back to the window. I left the room deeply distressed, and sought the dining-room, where I found the Captain and Eeny. I related the whole interview, and impressed upon them the necessity of obeying her. The breakfast-bell rang while we were talking, and she came in.

Both Eeny and her father were as much shocked as I had been by the haggard change in her; but neither spoke of it to her. We tried to be at our ease during breakfast, and to talk naturally; but the effort was a miserable failure. She never spoke, except when directly addressed, and ate nothing. She sat down to the piano, as usual, after breakfast, and practised steadily for two hours. Then she took her hat and a book, and went out to the garden to read. At luncheon-time she returned, with no better appetite, and after that went up to Mr. Richards' room. She stayed with him two or three hours, and then sat down to her embroidery-frame, still cold, and impassionate, and silent. Father Francis came up in the evening; but she was cold and unsocial with him as with the rest of us. So that first day ended, and so every day has gone on since. What she suffers, she suffers in solitude and silence; only her worn face, haggard cheeks, and hollow eyes tell. She goes through the usual routine of life with treadmill regularity, and is growing as thin as a shadow. She neither eats, nor sleeps, nor complains; and she is killing herself by inches. We are worried to-death about her; and yet we are afraid to say one word in her hearing. Come to us, Frank; you are a physician, and though you cannot "minister to a mind diseased," you can at least tell us what will help her failing body. Your presence will do Captain Danton good, too; for I never saw him so miserable! We are all most unhappy, and any addition to our family circle will be for the better. We do not go out; we have few visitors; and the place is as lonely as a tomb. The gossip and scandal have spread like wildfire; the story is in everybody's mouth; even in the newspapers. Heaven forbid it should come to Kate's ears! This stony calm of hers is not to be trusted. It frightens me far more than any hysterical burst of sorrow. She has evidently some deep purpose in her mind—I am afraid to think it may be of revenge. Come to us, brother, and try if you can help us in our trouble.