The Old Countess; or, The Two Proposals

CHAPTER IX.

THE FIRST PERFORMANCE.

The opera-house was full from floor to dome. A cheerful multitude crowded the body of the house with smiling faces, and filled it with gay colors, till it shone out gorgeously, like a thickly-planted flower-garden. The boxes filled, more slowly; but, after half an hour of soft, silken rustle and answering smiles, they, too, were crowded with distinguished men and beautiful women of the British aristocracy, and the whole arena was lighted up with the splendor of their garments and the flaming brightness of their jewels. Then came a movement, and a low murmur of discontent, which the grandest efforts of the orchestra could not silence. The hour had arrived, but the curtain was still down. Was there to be a disappointment, after all?

In the midst of this growing confusion a party entered one of the most prominent boxes that drew the general attention in that part of the house. A lady in crimson velvet, with some gossamer lace about her arms and bosom, and a cobweb of the same rich material floating from the thick braids of her coal-black hair, came into the box, followed by a gentleman so like her that people exclaimed at once:

"It is her brother!"

These two persons were accompanied by a bright young girl, in white muslin, with a blue ribbon drawn through her hair like a snood, and a string of large pearls on her neck. The girl was beautiful as a Hebe, and bright as a star—so bright and so beautiful that a whole battery of glasses was turned on the box the moment she entered it. Then a murmur ran from lip to lip.

"It is Lady Hope, that person who was once a governess, and the young lady must be Hope's daughter by his first marriage—the future Lady Carset, if the old countess ever dies, which she never will, if it is only to spite that woman yonder, whom she hates. Beautiful!"

"You are speaking of Lady Hope? Yes, very; but strange! Night and morning are not farther apart than those two. Yet I am told they are devoted to each other."

"Not unlikely. See how the woman smiles when the Hebe speaks to her! Wonderful fascination in that face. Just the person to carry away a man like Hope."

Here the conversation was broken off by an impatient outburst of the audience.

In obedience to it the curtain rolled up, and the first act of "Traviata" commenced.

The tumult stopped instantly, and every face was turned with expectation on the stage, ready to greet "the lost one" with a generous welcome.

She came in hurriedly, with her head erect, her hand clenching that cloud of lace to her bosom, and her eyes bright as stars. A stag hunted to desperation would have turned at bay with a look like that; and the poor animal might have recoiled as she did, when that wild burst of admiration stormed over her. For the outcry of the most vicious hounds that ever ran could not have been more appalling to a victim than that generous welcome was to her.

She did not bow or smile, but retreated slowly back, step by step, until a voice from behind the scene startled her. Then she bent her tall figure a little forward, her head drooped to her bosom, and her hands were clenched passionately under the laces.

Again those who were nearest heard the voice, but did not understand it as that poor girl did. In her panic the little acting that belonged to the scene was utterly overlooked; but this proud indifference was something new, and charmed the audience, which took her wounded pride for superb disdain of a pampered beauty, and accepted it as a graceful innovation; while she stood trembling from head to foot, conscious only of a burning desire to break away from it all and hide herself forever. She did once move swiftly toward the wing, but there stood Olympia, and the first glimpse of that frowning face drove her back, panting for breath.

The audience, seeing her panic, encouraged her with applause less stormy and more sustaining.

She felt this kindness. The multitude were less her enemy than the woman who stood in the shadows, hounding her on. Among all that sea of faces she saw one—that of a young girl, leaning over the crimson cushions of a box near the stage, so eager, so earnest, so bright with generous sympathy, that youth answered back to youth; a smile broke over her own face, and with it came her voice, fresh, pure, soaring like a bird suddenly let loose on the air.

The audience listened in breathless sympathy, which encouraged her. There was no doubt now; fear could not long hold such genius in thrall; her movements became free, her features brightened. She flung the lace back from her head, and gave herself up to the joyous riot of that drinking song.

In the midst of this scene, when every one present, on and off the stage, was lavishing homage upon her, she lifted her eyes to the young girl who leaned forward, poising herself in the box, like a bird preparing for flight, and clapped her little hand with the glee of a delighted child.

Once more their smiles met. Then a deathly faintness came over the debutante, and without a word or motion she sank upon the stage, like a statue of snow which the sun had touched.

In the next box, leaning forward like that young girl—but oh! with what a different expression—she had seen the Italian teacher, her lover.

The drinking-song was hushed in its most exultant swell—the revellers drew around the fainting girl and carried her from the stage, helpless as an infant, white as the lace that clouded her.

The audience watched them bear her away in silence; then it broke into murmurs of regret and sympathy.

"The effort had been too much for her. Of course, such genius was accompanied with corresponding sensitiveness, but she would speedily recover. It was only a little interruption."

They were mistaken. The debutante did not return that night; but in her place came Olympia, with a little tragedy in her face, and a touching speech, which excited admiration for herself and unbounded sympathy for her protege; after which, she entered into the character of Violette, with a grace of action and a power of voice that carried the management through what had threatened to be a serious dilemma.

The truth is, this woman, Olympia, was a remarkably clever person, and knew how to manage her subjects a great deal better than some monarchs of England have done. But she was in a raging passion that night, and the excitement lent her force, which she exhausted in the part, while her child lay moaning on the dressing-room sofa.

In the midst of the first confusion, that young girl in the box had started up, and laid her hand on Hepworth Closs's arm.

"Go back to where they have taken her. You know the way. Tell my maid, Margaret, to come to me at once. No, no; take me with you. I may be of use. Poor girl! poor girl! They have almost killed her."

"But it is impossible," said Closs, looking toward Lady Hope, who was leaning against the side of the box, with her face turned away. "She would not permit it."

"She does not object. We need not be seen. No one will recognize us. Come! come!"

She took Hepworth's arm, and almost forced him from the box.

"Which way? Come! come! I will go."

Hepworth had been too often behind the scenes not to know how to gain admittance there on this occasion. He knew how resolute that young creature was, when a generous or daring idea possessed her, and, after waiting a moment for Lady Hope to speak, led Lady Clara away.

Clara was bewildered and almost terrified by the black darkness of the passage, which was lighted only by fitful gleams from the stage; but excitement kept up her courage, and she entered Olympia's dressing-room with the air of a person born to the tragic purple.

CHAPTER X.

THE TWO FOSTER-CHILDREN MEET.

She rose up on her elbow, and seeing the bright, honest face which had bent toward her so kindly from the box, reached out her arms, and wound them over Clara's neck.

"That's right; that's sisterly. I wish you were my sister; but what's the use of wishing? There! kiss me again, for I mean to be a mother to you—I do, indeed! Now tell me, what was it that struck you down so? It was frightful; it took away my breath. Tell me all about it. My maid here and yours were sisters, and I shouldn't wonder if we knew each other in America. But that is so long ago, it wouldn't signify, but for the maids, who love us so, that it makes a sort of tie. Don't you think so?"

"Oh, if it could! if it could! I have no relative but one, and she will not pity me!" cried Caroline, clinging to Lady Clara. "She will make me go back to that hateful part! It was bad enough before, but now I should die of shame!"

"Why? Why now more than at first?" inquired Clara.

"I will tell you. I know who you are, and how good every one thinks you. I hate the stage!"

"How strange! I cannot understand it. You don't know how I envied you when all those people started up, waving their handkerchiefs and shouting—to see them so sorry and disappointed when you did not come back. I could hardly keep myself from leaping over the box, and asking the crowd to let me try!"

Caroline looked into that animated face with wonder. The tears stood still on her cheeks, a faint smile crept into her eyes. Then she shook her head.

"Ah! I understand. There was a time when I thought like you, but that was before—before—"

"Before what? Margaret and the rest of you, just go outside. The room isn't large enough for so many. There, we are alone now. Just tell me all about it. You can trust me."

"I know it. Well, Lady Clara—you see I know your name—"

"Exactly. But just call me Clara—nothing more. I really don't care for being a lady—at any rate, not much. That one thing is going to give me any amount of trouble yet, you'll see. Well, now, having settled the lady, tell me why and when you began to hate the stage so. I think it is a glorious life. Just put me where you stand, without a sovereign to help myself with, and I'd give up the ladyship to you in a minute."

"But that is because you own your life."

"Own my life? Of course I do. That is just what every soul must own."

"Not if—if she cares for some one more than her life."

"Oh-e! oh-e! That is the secret! And he don't like it? The heathen! I wish he had seen you just now!"

"He did. He was standing in the box close by you. I saw his face, for the first time in months. He was leaning forward; his eyes met mine. They were full of reproach—contempt, perhaps. I could not tell, for the house swam round, the lights seemed leaping toward me. Then I felt as if the noise were putting them out, for everything grew dark."

"And you fainted dead away, poor dear! I know how to pity you. Not that I have had trouble yet; but it is sure to come, and then, of course, you will be sorry for me."

"I shall, indeed."

"Just as I am sorry for you now. But who is the man?"

"I hardly think I know. He gave me an Italian name, but I feel sure it was not his."

"That accounts for his antipathy to the stage. If he had really been an Italian, your singing would have entranced him. It was heavenly; but an Englishman—. Well, well, we must see!"

That moment the door swung open, and Olympia came in, radiant with jewels and fierce with anger. She saw Lady Clara, and stopped upon the threshold in haughty astonishment. Caroline shrank from the stormy expression of her face, but faltered out:

"Madame, it is Lady Clara, the daughter of Lord Hope."

Instantly the frown lost itself in a bland smile. Olympia was equal to her part at all times. She did not often see a lady of rank in her dressing-room, and the honor drove away the indignant wrath intended for Caroline.

"Ah!" she said, "this poor child—it was so unfortunate! But she will recover. In a day or two she will get back her courage. What a voice she has, my lady! Did you hear? So fresh, so powerful, up to the very time when she broke down. What could have occasioned it?"

"It is indeed a misfortune," said Clara, with some dignity; "because I am sure she will never do for the stage. Her voice is superb, but so uncertain! When we compare it with yours, madame, it is to regret that she ever ventured so far."

Olympia seated herself. She had a few moments to spare before the call-boy would summon her back to the stage.

"There you mistake, my lady. When I was her age no one ever dreamed that I would succeed as a singer; but you see what resolution and study can do."

"But you had study; your guardians gave plenty of time. Let her have that time; let her friends have an opportunity to think what is best for her."

"Her friends? I did not know that she had any in England."

"Oh, yes! I am one; Lady Hope is another. Then there is Mr. Closs."

"Oh!" said Olympia. "It is to that gentleman we owe the honor of this visit?"

"Yes," answered Clara. "He escorted me here. Being Lady Hope's brother, it was proper, you understand."

Olympia was looking in Clara's face. The girl pleased her. The bright mobility of her features, the graceful gestures with which she emphasized her expressions, charmed the experienced actress.

"Ah, if my daughter had your abandon!" she exclaimed, with enthusiasm.

"Or if I had her sweet dignity. But fortune is sometimes very perverse. Now I should glory in the applause which makes her faint away."

"Ah! she is sensitive as a child, proud as a duchess; but, where we have plenty of genius, these things only serve to brighten it. I shall take Caroline into my own training. When you come to hear her sing again, it will be a different affair."

"Oh, madam, do not ask it!" cried Caroline, in a panic. "I never, never can go on to that stage again!"

"We shall see," answered Olympia, blandly. "Here comes the call-boy; I must say adieu, with many thanks for this visit."

"But I have a request to make. You will give her time?"

"Oh! yes, my lady. She shall have sufficient time."

Olympia went out smiling; but Caroline understood the craft that lay under her soft words.

"You see that I have accomplished something," said Clara, delighted with her success; "we have gained time."

"No, no! She will have her way."

"What! that soft, handsome creature?"

"Has a will of iron!"

"And so have I!" exclaimed the young girl, "and my will is that she shall not force you into a life you do not like; but I wonder at it. Upon my word, if it were not for one thing, I should like to change places with you."

Caroline shook her head.

"You have no idea what the life is!"

"Oh! yes, I have; and it must be charming. No dignity to keep up, no retinue of servants to pass every time you come and go; but all sorts of homage, plenty of work, while everything you have brings in a swift recompense. Talent, beauty, grace discounted every night. Oh! it must be charming."

"I thought so once," answered Caroline, with a heavy sigh.

"Well, never trouble yourself to think about it again. If that lovely woman has an iron will, you must get up one of steel; but here comes Margaret. I suppose Mr. Closs is getting tired of staying out there in the dark. Besides, Lady Hope will be frightened. Adieu, my friend; I will manage to see you again."

CHAPTER XI.

LADY CLARA QUARRELS WITH HER STEPMOTHER.

No one observed this, for the whole audience was intensely occupied by what was passing on the stage; and the pang of self-consciousness returned to Rachael Closs in the utter solitude of a great crowd. She opened her eyes wearily, as if the effort were a pain. Then a wild light broke through their darkness. She cast a quick glance upon the stage and over the crowd. Then turning to look for her companions, she found that they were gone. A sense of relief came to the woman from a certainty that she was alone. She leaned back against the side of the box in utter depression. Her lips moved, her hands were tightly clasped—she seemed in absolute terror.

What had Rachael Closs heard or seen to agitate her thus? That no one could tell. The cause of those faint shudders that shook her from time to time was known only to herself and her God.

When Hepworth and Lady Clara came back, Lady Hope rose, and gathering her ermine cloak close to her throat, said that she was tired of the confusion, and would go home, unless they very much wished to stay and see Olympia.

They consented to go at once. The pallor of that beautiful face, as it turned so imploringly upon them, was appeal enough.

On their way home Lady Clara told her stepmother of her visit behind the scenes.

Rachael listened, and neither rebuked her for going nor asked questions; but when Clara broke forth, in her impetuous way, exclaiming, "Oh, mamma Rachael, you will help us! You will get this poor girl out of her mother's power! You will let me ask her down to Oakhurst!" Rachael almost sprang to her feet in the force of her sudden passion.

"What! I—I, Lady Hope of Oakhust, invite that girl to be your companion, my guest! Clara, are you mad? or am I?"

The girl was struck dumb with amazement. Never in her existence had she been so addressed before—for, with her, Rachael had been always kind and delicately tender. Why had she broken forth now, when she asked the first serious favor of her life?

"Mamma! mamma Rachael!" she cried. "What is the matter? What have I done that you are so cross with me?"

"Nothing," said Rachael, sighing heavily, "only you ask an unreasonable thing, and one your father would never forgive me for granting."

"But she is so lovely! papa would like her, I know. She is so unhappy, too! I could feel her shudder when the stage was mentioned. Oh, mamma Rachael, we might save her from that!"

"I cannot! Do not ask me; I cannot!"

"But I promised that you would be her friend."

"Make no promises for me, Clara, for I will redeem none. Drive this girl from your thoughts. To-morrow morning we go back to Oakhurst."

"To-morrow morning! And I promised to see her again."

"It is impossible. Let this subject drop. In my wish to give you pleasure, I have risked the anger of Lord Hope. He would never forgive me if I permitted this entanglement."

Lady Clara turned to Hepworth Closs.

"Plead for me—plead for that poor girl!" she cried, with the unreasoning persistence of a child; but, to her astonishment, Hepworth answered even more resolutely than his sister.

"I cannot, Clara. There should be nothing in common between the daughter of Olympia and Lord Hope's only child."

"Oh, how cruel! What is the use of having rank and power if one is not to use it for the good of others?"

"We will not argue the matter, dear child."

"But I will argue it, and if I cannot convince, I will hate you, Hepworth Closs, just as long as I live."

"Not quite so bad as that, I trust," answered Hepworth, sadly. "To own the truth, Clara, I fear your mother will have enough to do in reconciling Lord Hope to the position another person has assumed in his household. Do not let us add new difficulties to her position."

Clara began to cry.

"I'm sure I never thought of troubling her or offending my father. It is so natural for them to be good and kind, why should I doubt them now, when the grandest, sweetest, most beautiful girl in the whole world wants help—just the help they can give, too? Well, well, when papa comes home, I will lay the whole case before him."

"Not for the world!" cried Rachael, suddenly. "I tell you, cast this subject from your mind. I will not have my lord annoyed by it. For once, Clara, I must and will be obeyed."

Clara sank back in her seat, aghast with surprise.

"Oh, mamma Rachael, you are getting to be awfully cruel."

"Cruel? No! In this I am acting kindly. It is you who are cruel in pressing a distasteful and impossible thing upon me."

"I don't understand it; I can't believe it. You are always so free, so generous, to those who need help. It is just because this poor girl is my friend. Oh! I only wish old Lady Carset would just die, and leave me everything! I would let the world see a specimen of independence—I would! Don't speak to me, don't attempt to touch my hand, Mr. Closs! You haven't a spark of human nature in you. I have a good mind to leave you all, and go on the stage myself."

Again Lady Hope broke into a storm of impatience so unlike her usual self-restraint, that Clara was really terrified.

"Hush, girl! Not another word of this. I will not endure it."

This severe reprimand took away Clara's breath for an instant; then she burst into a passion of sobs and tears, huddling herself up into a corner of the carriage, and utterly refused all consolation from Hepworth, who was generously disturbed by her grief.

Lady Hope did nothing, but sat in silence, lost in thought, or perhaps striving to subdue the tumult of feelings that had so suddenly broke forth from her usual firm control.

Thus they drove home in distrust and excitement. A few low murmurs from Hepworth, bursts of grief from Lady Clara, and dead silence on the part of Rachael Closs, attended the first disagreement that had ever set the stepmother and daughter in opposition.

When they reached home, Clara, her face all bathed in tears, and her bosom heaving with sobs, ran up to her room, without the usual kiss or "Good-night."

She was bitterly offended, and expressed the feeling in her own childish fashion.

Rachael sat down in the hall, and watched the girl as she glided up the broad staircase, perhaps hoping that she would look back, or, it may be, regretting the course she had taken, for her face was unutterably sad, and her attitude one of great despondency.

At last, when Clara was out of sight, she turned a wistful look on her brother.

"She will hate me now."

Her voice was more plaintive than the words. The confidence of that young girl was all the world to her; for, independent of everything else, it was the one human link that bound her to the man she loved with such passionate idolatry. Her kindness to his child was the silver cord which even his strong will could not sunder, even if he should wish it.

Hepworth saw her anguish, and pitied it.

"Let her go," he said, stooping down and kissing his sister on the forehead, which, with her neck and arms, was cold as marble. "She is disappointed, vexed, and really indignant with us both; but a good night's sleep will set her heart right again. I wish we had never chanced to come here."

"Oh, Heavens! so do I."

"Rachael," said Hepworth, "what is it troubles you so?"

"What? Is it not enough that the child I have made a part of my own life should quarrel with me and with you, because of me, for a stranger?"

"No; because her own generous nature assures us that the evil will die of itself before morning. This is not enough to account for the fact that you quiver as if with cold, and the very touch of your forehead chills me."

"Do I?" questioned Rachael. "I did not know it. My cloak has fallen off—that is all."

"Mamma Rachael!"

They both started, for leaning over the banisters was the sweet, tearful face of Lady Clara.

"My own darling!" cried Rachael, lifting her arms.

Down the staircase sprang that generous young creature, her feet scarcely touching the polished oak, her hair all unbound and rolling in waves down her back. Struck with sweet compunctions, she had broken from the hands of her maid, and left her with the blue ribbon fluttering in her hand, while she ran back to make peace with the woman who was almost dearer to her than a mother.

She fell upon her knees by Rachael, and shook the hair from her face, which was glowing with sweet penitence.

"Kiss me, mamma Rachael, not on this saucy mouth of mine, but here upon my forehead. I cannot sleep till you have kissed me good night."

Rachael laid one hand on that bright young head, but it was quivering like a shot bird. She bent the face back a little, and pored over the features with yearning scrutiny, as if she longed to engrave every line on her heart.

Something in those black eyes disturbed the girl afresh. She reached up her arms, and cried out:

"Don't be angry with me, mamma Rachael, but kiss me good night, and ask God to make me a better girl."

Instead of kissing her, Rachael Closs fell upon her neck and broke into a passion of tears such as Clara had never seen her shed before.

CHAPTER XII.

THE OLD PRISONER.

In the midst of this desolation, that old woman had lived and suffered fourteen years, without a complaint, without once asking for the freedom, which would have been so sweet to her, even of her God. She had sinned deeply—how far, she and the Almighty, who knows all things, alone could tell; but she had borne her punishment with much humility; in her quiet way, had made her presence in that dreary place a blessing to those more wretched than herself.

During that long, weary time many a poor prisoner had felt the comfort of her presence near her sick couch and her grave. Kind looks had cheered other desponding souls when words of compassion were forbidden to her lips.

One day this woman sat at her task sewing on some heavy prison garments. A skein of coarse thread hung about her neck, and a steel thimble was upon her long, slender finger, where it had worn a ring about the nail with incessant use.

She did not look up when the matron entered the room, but worked on, with steady purpose, not caring to see that strange gentleman who came in with the matron, and stood looking kindly upon her.

"Mrs. Yates."

The old woman lifted her head with a suddenness that almost shook the iron spectacles from her face. Her eyes encountered those of the gentleman, and she stood up meekly, like a school-girl aroused from her task, and remained, with her eyes bent on the floor, waiting for the man to pass on. He did not move, however, but stood gazing upon her snow-white hair, her thin old face, and the gentle stoop that had, at last, bent her shoulders a little, with infinite compassion in his face.

"Mrs. Yates, why do you stand so motionless? How is it that your eyes turn so steadily to the floor?"

The old woman lifted her eyes slowly to that calm, thin face. She did not know it, had never seen it before in her life; but it was so seldom any one spoke to her, that a soft glow of comfort stole to her heart as she looked, and two great tears rolled from under her spectacles. Then she remembered that he had asked something.

"In prison, here, we get a down look," she said, with pathetic simplicity.

"But you will look in my face now."

She did gaze at him earnestly; but shook her head and dropped her eyes, for the force of habit was still upon her.

"I do not know you," she murmured.

"Did you then expect some friend?" asked the gentleman.

"I have no friends," was the sad reply.

"Does no one come to see you?"

"Years ago my son used to come and his wife, too; but they are both dead."

"Poor woman!"

She looked up again with a glance of earnest surprise. She was so unused to pity that the compassionate voice brought a dry sob to her throat.

"Are you content here? Tell me."

"Yes, I am content."

Her voice was low, but inexpressibly mournful.

"I know the crime for which you were committed," said the gentleman, "and have read the case over. Tell me, were you guilty?"

The old woman lifted her eyes slowly, and replied:

"Yes, I was a guilty woman."

"But were you, before God, guilty of murder?"

She met his eyes steadily. He saw a quiver of pain sweep over her features, and the thin lips began to stir.

"He is dead, my innocent, my honest son. Nothing can harm him now. I have not suffered in vain. Before God I was not guilty of murder, but terribly guilty in taking this crime on myself: but it was to save him, and I cannot repent, I cannot repent, and in that lies double guilt!"

The stranger searched her features keenly as she spoke. Perhaps he was prepared for this answer; but the light that came over his face was full of compassion.

"Have you done with me?" questioned the old woman, in the meek, sad voice that had become habitual to her. "Perhaps you will not believe me; but God knows!"

The man turned from her and stepped into the matron's room.

The old woman sat down upon the bench from which she had arisen, took the coarse needle from the bosom of her dress, where she had fastened it when spoken to, and threaded it again; but her hand shook a little, and the thread baffled her confused vision. Then the strange gentleman came back again, smiling, and with moisture in his eyes.

"My good woman," he said, "put up your work. You did not know it, but I am the Governor of New York, and your pardon has just gone to the warden."

The needle dropped from one quivering old hand—a thread fell from its companion.

"Pardon for me!"

Her lips were white, and the words trembled from them one by one. She did not comprehend that this man had given her back to the world.

"It is true," said the matron, weeping the glad, sweet tears of a benevolent heart, "His Excellency has pardoned you. This very hour you are free to leave the prison."

"God help me! Oh! God help me!" cried the poor old woman, looking around at her rude work and seating herself among it. "Where can I go?"

The Governor took some money from his pocket and laid it in her lap. Then he went hastily from the room.

The matron sat down upon the bench, and clasped the withered hand in hers.

"Have you no friend?"

"None."

"No duties left undone?"

The old woman drew herself up. Duties last longer than friends. Yes, she had duties, and God had taken the shackles from her limbs that she might perform them. Freedom was before her and an object. She arose gently and looked around a little wildly.

"I will go now."

The matron went out and returned with a bundle of clothes and a black bonnet upon which was some rusty crape; a huge, old-fashioned thing that framed in her silver-white hair like a pent-house. The very shape and fashion of this bonnet was pathetic—it spoke of so long ago. The black dress and soft shawl with which she had come to the prison were a little moth-eaten, but not much, for they had been carefully hoarded; but the poor old woman looked with a sigh on her prison-dress as it fell to the floor, and wept bitterly before she went out, as if that gloomy mass of stones had been a pleasant home to her.

Slowly, and with a downcast look, the old woman went out of the prison, up through the rugged quarries, where a gang of men were at work, dragging their weary limbs from stone to stone, with the listless, haggard effort of forced labor. Some of these men looked up, as she passed them, and watched her with bitter envy.

"There goes a pardon," they said to each other; "and that old woman with one foot in the grave, while we are young and strong! Freedom would be everything to us; but what good will it do to her?"

So the poor old prisoner passed on, sadly bewildered and afraid, like a homeless child, but thanking God for a mercy she could not yet realize.

There was one place to which she must go. It might be empty and desolate, but there her son had died, and she had seen the roof of his dwelling from the graveyard when they let her come out from prison to see him buried.

She knew the road, for her path led to the grave first, and after that she could find the way, for every step, so far, had been marked by a pang, to which her heart was answering back now.

At sunset, that day, some workmen, passing the village burying-place, saw an old woman sitting by a grave that had been almost forgotten in the neighborhood.

She was looking dreary and forlorn in the damp enclosure, for clouds were drifting low in the sky, and a cold rain was beginning to fall; but they did not know that this poor woman had a home-feeling by that grave, even with the rain falling, which belonged to no other place on earth.

A little later, when the gray darkness was creeping on, this same tall figure might have been discovered moving through the rough cedar pillars of the Yates cottage. There was no light in the house, for no human soul lived beneath its roof; but a door was so lightly fastened that she got it open with some effort, and entered what seemed to her like the kitchen; for the last tenant had left some kindling-wood in the fireplace, and two or three worn-out cooking utensils stood near the hearth, where they were beginning to rust.

When she left the prison, the matron had, with many kind words, thrust a parcel into the old woman's hand. Knowing her helplessness, she had provided food for a meal or two, and to this had added some matches and candles.

In the gray light which came through one of the windows, she untied this parcel and found the candles. It seemed to the forlorn creature as if a merciful God had sent them directly to her, and she fell upon her knees, thanking Him. The light which she struck gave her the first gleam of hope that her freedom had yet brought. She was at liberty to build a fire on that dark hearth, and to sit there just as long as she pleased, enjoying its warmth. The rain that began to rattle down on the low roof made her shelter more pleasant. She began to realize that even in such desolation liberty was sweet.

She built a fire with the dry wood, and its blaze soon filled the kitchen with a golden glow. Her garments were wet, and a soft steam arose from them as she sat, enveloping her in a gray cloud. The loneliness might have been terrible to another person, but she had been so long accustomed to the darkness and gloom of a prison cell, that this illuminated space seemed broad as the universe to her.

After her clothes were dry, the old woman lighted her candle and began to examine the house. The parlor was almost empty, and a gust of wind took her candle as she opened the door, flaring back the flame into her face. The wind came from a broken pane of glass in the oriel window, through which a branch of ivy, and the long tendril of a Virginia creeper had penetrated, and woven themselves in a garland along the wall. A wren had followed the creeping greenness and built her nest in the cornice, from which she flew frightened, when a light entered the room.

The old woman went out disappointed. The thing she sought was not there; perhaps it had been utterly destroyed. The man who had promised to keep it sacred, lay sleeping up yonder in the graveyard. How could she expect strangers to take up his trust? But if the object she sought could not be found, what was the use of liberty to her. The one aim of her life would be extinguished. She took up the candle and mounted a flight of narrow stairs which led to the chambers.

They were all empty except one small room, where she found an iron bedstead, on which some old quilts and refuse blankets were heaped. Behind this bed, pressed into a corner, was an old chair, covered with dust.

When she saw this, the light shook in her hand. She sat down upon the bedstead, and reaching the candle out, examined the old chair, through its veil of cobwebs. It was the same. How well she remembered that night when her own hands had put on that green cover.

The chair was broken. One of its castors dropped to the floor as Mrs. Yates drew it from the corner, and the carved wood-work came off in her hand; the cushion was stained and torn in places, but this dilapidation she knew had not reached her secret.

She took the chair in her arms and carried it down to the kitchen. Some of the brass nails dropped loose on the stairs, but she took no heed of them. All she wanted was some instrument with which she could turn the ricketty thing into a complete wreck. In the drawer of a broken kitchen table she found an old knife, with the blade half ground away. This she whetted to an edge on the hearth, and directly the little brass nails flew right and left, a mass of twisted fringe lay on the hearth, when the old woman stood in a cloud of dust, holding the torn rep in her hand. It dropped in a heap with the fringe, then the inner lining was torn away, handsful of hair were pulled out from among the springs, and that casket with a package of papers rustled and shook in the old woman's hands.

Mrs. Yates trembled from head to foot. It was many long years since she had touched heavy work like that, and it shocked her whole frame.

The dull monotony of sewing upon prison garments had undermined all her great natural strength. She sat there panting for breath, and white to the lips. The excitement had been too much for this poor prison woman.

She sat like a dazed creature, looking down into the casket which lay open in her lap, with ten thousand rainbow fires leaping out of it, as the blaze in the chimney quivered and danced and blazed over the diamonds. That morning the old woman had crept out of prison in her moth-eaten garments, and a little charity money in her bosom. Now a fortune blazed up from her lap.

There was money, too, a purse heavy with sovereigns, dropped there from the gold contained in that malachite box, from which all her awful sorrows had sprung. She gathered up these things in the skirt of her dress and sat brooding over them a long time, while the fire rose and crackled, and shed warm floods of light all around her, and the rain poured down in torrents. She was completely worn out at last, and thought itself became a burden; then her head fell back upon the ruined cushions of the chair, which held her in a half-sitting position, as the heaviest sleep that ever came to mortal eyes fell upon her.

Still the rain poured down continually upon the roof and overran the gutters in torrents. Up from the darkness of a hollow near by, the rush and roar of a stream, swollen into a torrent, came through the beating storm like a heavy bass voice pouring its low thunders through a strain of music. The great elm tree at the end of the house tossed its streaming branches, and beat them upon the roof, till a host of warriors seemed breaking their way through, while the old vines were seized by the wind and ripped from the sides of the house, as the storm seizes upon the cords of a vessel, and tears them up into a net work of tangled floss.

The old woman who had left her stone cell in the prison for the first time in fourteen years, heard nothing of this, but lay half upon the floor half on the broken chair, with the broad blaze of the fire flashing over her white hair, and kindling up the diamonds in her lap to a bed of living coals. She was perfectly safe with those treasures, even in that lonely house, for in the pouring rain no human being was likely to go about from his own free will. But one poor fellow, whose child was desperately sick, did pass the house, and saw the blaze of a fire breaking through a window, where the shutters were dashing to and fro on their hinges, and found breath to say, as he sped on in search of a doctor:

"So the cedar cottage has got another tenant at last. I wonder who it is?"

When the man went by to his work, the next morning, he saw the shutters swaying to and fro yet, and wondering at it, went into the enclosure, in hopes of meeting some of the new inmates; but everything was still, the doors were fastened, and through the kitchen window he saw nothing but a heap of ashes on the hearth, and an old chair, torn to pieces, standing before it.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE OLD COUNTESS.

For many a long year that broad flag had streamed like a meteor over the intense greenness of oaks and chestnuts; for, when the head of the house was at home, the crimson pennant was always to be seen floating against the sky, and over that sea of billowy foliage. The old lady of Houghton had not been absent from the castle in many years, for she was a childless woman, and so aged, that a home among her own people was most befitting her infirmities and her pride.

One day, as the sun was going down behind those massive castle towers, filling the sky so richly with gold and crimson, that the red flag was lost among its fiery billows, an old woman stood on the highway, with a hand uplifted to shade her eyes, as she searched for the old flag.

There was dust upon her leathern shoes and on the black folds of her alpaca dress, for she had walked from the railway station, and the roads were dry.

"Ah, how the trees have grown!" she said, mournfully, dropping her hand. "I never, never thought to be so near Houghton and not see the flag. Is my lady dead?"

The old woman was so distressed by the thought, that she sat down on a bank by the wayside, and over her came that dry, hard foreboding, which forbids tears to old eyes, but holds the worn heart like a vise. Thus, with her eyes fixed on the dusty road, she sat till all those bright clouds melted into the coming night; then she looked up and saw the great red flag streaming out against a sea of purplish gray, as it had done when she was a girl, seventy years ago.

"My lady is alive. She is there. Oh! my God! make me thankful!" she exclaimed, standing up in the road. "Through all, I shall see her again."

So she moved on, carrying a leathern travelling bag, worn and rusty, in her feeble hand. Along the highway, up to the gates of that noble park, she travelled with the slow, toilsome step of old age; but when she came to the gates they were closed, and her voice was so feeble that it failed to reach the lodge, from which she could see lights gleaming through the twinkling ivy leaves.

In patient disappointment the old woman turned from the gate, and walked on half a mile farther, for she knew of a small public house where a night's lodging could be obtained. She reached this low stone building after dark, and entered it quietly, like a gray ghost.

It was a strange guest to enter that tap-room, with her dusty garments and her old satchel. The villagers, who were taking their beer comfortably, lifted their eyes in astonishment at her sudden appearance, and they rounded with wonder, as she passed through the room and entered the kitchen naturally, as if she had belonged to the premises all her life.

No one in the house remembered the old woman. A curly-headed girl named Susan, had flitted like a bird about that kitchen the last time she had entered it, and now, when a man's voice called out "Susan!" she started and looked around in a dazed way, expecting the bright eyed girl would come dancing through the door. But instead appeared an elderly woman, with quantities of coarse black hair, smoothed under her cap. A linen apron, large and ample, protected her stuff dress, and a steel chatelaine, to which were suspended scissors, a needle case and tiny money box rattled at her side.

"Well, what is to do now, Stephen?" said the landlady, brushing some crumbs from her apron, for she had been cutting bread.

"Not much, only look sharp. Here is an old body just come off the tramp. Ah, there she sits. See to her while I mind the bar, for she seems a little above the common, and is quiet."

The landlord sank his voice as he made the communication, and, after a glance at the old woman, went back to his guests, while the matron addressed Mrs. Yates.

"Ye will be wanting something, no doubt. Will it be tea or a cup of ale posset?"

The old heart in that bosom stirred with a tender recollection of long ago, as this almost forgotten dish was mentioned, a dish so purely English, that she had never once heard it mentioned in her American life.

"I will thank you for a posset," she said, taking off her bonnet and smoothing her milk-white hair with both hands. "It is long since I have tasted one."

"Yes," answered the landlady, "there is more refreshment in a cup of warm posset, than in quarts of tea from China. Wait a bit and you shall have one of my own making; the maids never will learn how to curdle the milk properly, but I am a rare hand at it, as was my mother before me."

"Aye, a good housewife was your mother," said the old woman, as tender recollections stirred in her bosom, "for now I see that it is little Susan."

"Little Susan, and you know of her? That was what they used to call me when I was a lass, so high."

"But now, what is the name you go by?"

"What name should a woman go by but that of her own husband? You have just seen the master. The neighbors call him Stephen Burke."

"What, the son of James Burke, gamekeeper at the castle?"

"Why, did you know him, too?"

"Aye, that did I. A brave young fellow he was, and every one at the castle up yonder—"

The old woman checked herself. She had not intended to make herself known, but old recollections had thronged upon her so warmly, that it seemed impossible to keep silent.

"You speak of the castle as if you knew about it," said the landlady, eyeing her askance.

"And no wonder," answered the old woman; "people have told me about it, and I was in the neighborhood years ago, when you were a slip of a lass."

It was strange, but this old woman, since her entrance to that room, had fallen back upon phrases and words familiar to her lips once, but which had not made any part of her speech for years. There was a home sound in them that warmed her heart.

"Did ye ever know any of them up yonder?" asked the landlady, as she placed a broad porringer before the fire, and poured some milk into it.

"Yes. I have seen the countess, but it was long ago."

"May-be it was when the young lady was at home. Oh! them were blithe times, when young Lord Hope came a courting, and we could see them driving like turtle doves through the park and down the village; or, walking along by the hedges and gathering hyacinths and violets. It was a sorry time, though, when he took her away for good and all."

"Is the young lady living near this?" inquired Mrs. Yates, with an effort.

"Near this, my good woman! Why, she has been dead these many years, and Lord Hope had been married to his second wife ten years, when my first lass was born; but he lives at Oakhurst, and never comes here now. No one, in these parts, has seen his second lady, for the countess was sadly put out with the marriage, and all her household was forbidden to mention Lord Hope's name before her. She never got over the death of our own young lady in foreign parts, off in America among the red Indians, who tomahawk people, and no one asks why. This was where Lord Hope took his wife and child. Can any one wonder that our countess could not forgive him, especially when he came back home with a new wife, and stood out that his daughter should never come to Houghton, till our old lady up yonder was ready to be gracious to the new woman."

"So the child was never at the castle?" inquired the old woman.

"No one hereabouts has ever seen her, though we are told that she is a beautiful young lady, sweet and pleasant, but with a will of her own. The old countess sent for her once, for she must be heiress of Houghton, you know; but she sent back word that nothing could entice her into a house where her stepmother was forbidden to come, and this so offended our countess, that she has taken no notice of her since."

While she was talking, the landlady poured a measure of frothing ale into the porringer, and became all at once silent. The delicate art of curding the milk into whey took up all her attention. Thus the old lady was allowed to drop into a fit of thought, from which she was aroused, with a start, when the hostess poured the warm posset into a china bowl and began stirring it with a heavy silver spoon, as she called out:

"Come to the table, grandame, and sup the posset while it is hot. You'll not get its fellow till I turn my hand to another for ye. Come, come!"

Mrs. Yates drew her chair to the table, and took up the silver spoon, eagerly. Poor woman! She had travelled all day without tasting food, and the posset took her from a very painful train of thought.

The hostess sat down at one end of the table, smiling blandly over the keen appetite of her guest. With her arms folded on the white cloth, and her ruddy face bending forward, she went on with her talk. But this time she turned from the castle, and began to ask questions, for the presence of this singular old woman in her house had fully aroused her curiosity.

But the traveller was on her guard now, and escaped these blunt questions with quiet adroitness. When they became oppressive, she arose from the table and asked permission to seek her bed, as the day's travel had left her tired beyond anything.

The hostess took a candle from the table and led the way up stairs, somewhat baffled, but full of kindly feeling. There was something about the manner and speech of this old woman that set all her warm-hearted interest afloat. Who was she? From what part of England had she travelled with that rusty little bag and those thick-soled shoes? That quiet manner and gentle voice might have belonged to any lady of the land.

In the midst of these conjectures the quiet old woman reached out her hand for the candle, and with a soft "good-night," closed the chamber-door.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE OLD COUNTESS AND HER SERVANT.

The next morning Mrs. Yates was early at the park-gate. She found no trouble in passing through now, and was soon in the avenue, making slow progress toward the castle, under the shade of those vast oaks and chestnuts. The way was long, and the avenue swept upward with what, to the old woman, was a toilsome ascent. The bag, which she carried in her hand, was of some weight, too, and the cramped inaction of so many years had rendered walking a slow and painful process.

At last she stood in full view of that grand old building—a castle of the olden times—kept, so far as possible to elegance or comfort, in its ponderous mediæval grandeur. But Madam Art had softened all its ruder features. Plate-glass was sunk into those thick walls; circular rooms in those twin towers, commanded a splendid view of the valley, over which the castle was built. The broad stone terrace connecting the towers, and fronting the main building was connected with a velvet lawn by a forest of hot-house plants, that clung around the stone parapet in a sumptuous garland of vines and flowers, that shed a soft and delicious fragrance over everything in and around the building.

Across this lawn and over the stone terrace the old woman toiled toward the main entrance. She was beginning to tremble now with something beside weariness. Her satchel bore down the feeble hand that carried it, till it dragged along the stones with a low, rasping sound, as she climbed the terrace-steps. She lifted the ponderous bronze knocker, and let it fall from her shaking hand with a crash that startled herself, and brought a man, all glittering in silver gray and scarlet, to the door, where he stood, with his insolent lips ajar, waiting to know what miracle had brought that forlorn creature to the grand entrance of Houghton Castle.

"I wish to speak with the countess."

That sweet old voice could not counteract the effect of her dress and worn satchel. The parted lips of the man in scarlet fell together, and drooped scornfully down at the corners.

"There is a proper entrance for servants and village-people," said this high functionary, with his powdered head thrown back.

"I know," answered the woman, quietly; "but I wish to see my lady, and do not care to seek her from the servants' hall. Go to her and say that Hannah Yates, an old servant of the family, is below, waiting to see her."

The man hesitated. Then the old woman stepped softly into the hall, passing him so suddenly that he drew back aghast.

"If you will not go, I must find the way for myself," she said, still in a voice so gentle that he could take little offence at it.

Her composure rather disturbed the man, who gave his powdered head a toss, and mounted the broad oaken staircase, with an indignant swell of the chest. Through a long passage, carpeted with the thickness of forest turf, he went, giving forth no sound till he opened a door in one of the lower chambers, and, sweeping a curtain of crimson silk back with his arm, announced the name that old woman had given him at the door.

Something lying under the rich colors of a great India shawl moved quickly; the shawl dropped to the floor, and a little old woman sat up on the couch where she had been resting.

"Yates—Hannah Yates? Did you say Yates, Henry?"

"That was the name, my lady."

"An old woman like me?"

"Old enough, my lady; but Heaven forbid I should say like your ladyship. I could not force myself to do it."

"Bring her here, Henry."

The door closed, and the old countess drew herself gradually upright.

She was a pale, little woman, with hair as soft and white as the delicate lace that fell like a spider's web over it. The child-like hands, which lay in relief among the folds of her black-satin dress, were withered in their whiteness, like the leaves of a frost-bitten lily. They were quivering, too; and now that she was alone, you might have seen that delicate head begin to vibrate with a slow, perpetual motion, which had been stopped a moment by the surprise which had fallen upon her. She sat with her eyes on the curtain, which shut the door from view. The trembling of her head extended to her whole body, and her small feet pattered freely on the carpet, like those of a child in the impotence of sickness.

As she looked the red curtain was lifted, and into the luxurious splendor of that room came a tall, old woman, who was trembling like herself, and stood in her presence, apparently afraid to look up.

The old countess arose from her couch, trampling the India shawl under her feet, and moved with feeble slowness toward her strange visitor.

"Hannah Yates!"

At these words the down prison-look that had fallen upon Hannah was lifted from her, and those large gray eyes were bent on the little patrician with a look of intense mournfulness.

"My mistress!"

"Hannah Yates, I never expected to see you again on this earth, and now you come before me like a ghost."

"Ah, my mistress," answered the old servant, with pathetic humility. "I am a ghost of the woman who once loved and served you."

"And I? Look upon me, Yates. How have God and time dealt with your mistress? Has my head been respected more than yours?"

They stood for a moment looking solemnly at each other—that tall, stately woman, born a peasant, and the delicate, proud, sensitive peeress, whose blue blood rolled through a series of dead greatness back to the Conqueror. The contrast was touching. Both had begun to stoop at the shoulders, both had suffered, and they were as far apart in station as social power could place them; but a host of memories linked them together, and the common sympathies of humanity thrilled in the hearts of both with such pain and pleasure that, unconsciously, the little withered hand of the countess clasped that of her old servant.

"Come in, Yates, and sit down. You are trembling, poor old soul! The world must have gone hard with you when the touch of my hand makes you shiver so. Sit down. We are both old women now, and may rest ourselves together."

So the woman, whose last home had been a convict's cell, and the lady whose head had always been sheltered beneath the roofs of a palace, sat down and looked, with sad timidity, at each other. Still the feeling of caste was strong in the servant. She had drawn an ottoman up to the couch, and placed herself on that; but not until she had taken the shawl from the carpet, and placed it around her mistress, did she thus sit down, as it were, at her feet.

"Where did you come from, Hannah Yates?"

"From America. I came from the ship three days ago."

At the word America the old countess shrank back, and held out her hands, as if to avoid a blow. After a little she spoke again, but it was now with a voice sharp with pain.

"Yates, did you in America ever know anything of my child?"

The anguish in that voice startled Hannah Yates, and her old face whitened. How much did the mistress know? If little, perfect candor might kill her. She had not come there to wound an old woman with the horrors that had darkened her life; so she answered, cautiously:

"Yes, I saw Lady Hope more than once after she came to America."

"Thank God!" exclaimed the countess. "I may now learn how and when she died."

"I was not with her when she died," answered the servant, in a low voice.

"But you saw her before?"

"Yes, I saw her often."

"And the child?"

"Yes; the child was with me a good deal."

"Yates, was my child happy in that strange land?"

"How can I answer that, my lady?"

"Did you see Hope there?"

"Once, only once, and that for a moment."

"And you can tell me no particulars. You have no information to give me with regard to the woman who is Lord Hope's wife?"

"Of her I know but little. Remember, my lady, I am but a servant."

"You were my child's nurse. I never looked on you as a common servant, but rather as a faithful friend. So did my poor child. When I learned she was in the same country with you and her foster-brother, my heart was somewhat at rest. But her letters were so studied, so unsatisfactory; yet there was nothing in them of sadness or complaint. Only this, Yates, she never mentioned her husband, not once! I should hardly have known that he was with her but for the letter in which he told me that I was a childless old woman."

Mrs. Yates drew a long, heavy sigh. She understood now that the secret of that awful tragedy in New York had been kept from her old mistress, and resolved that it never should reach her—never while her will could keep back the horrible truth.

"My lady," she said, with an effort, "there is one thing which our—which my young mistress bade me bring to you if—if she should not live to place them in your own hands herself. It is this which brought me across the ocean."

As she spoke, Mrs. Yates took up the leathern satchel, which lay against her feet, and opened its rusty clasp with her trembling hands. She drew forth a casket from the scant garments it contained, and, still kneeling on the floor, opened it. A blaze of diamonds broke up from the box. The old countess uttered a feeble cry, and clasped two quivering hands over her eyes.

"She was troubled about bringing them out of England, and sent them to her foster-mother with this letter."

"Is there a letter? Yates, give it to me!"

Mrs. Yates reached forth the letter, which had begun to turn yellow with age.

The countess took it, and attempted to open her glasses; but those little hands trembled so fearfully that she could not loosen the gold which clasped them in.

"Read it for me. I cannot! I cannot!"

Two great tears trembled out of the pain in that aged heart, and fell upon her cheeks like frost upon the white leaves of a withered rose.

Hannah Yates read the letter—a sweet, touching epistle, full of mournful affection, which that murdered lady had written only a few days before her death, when some presentiment of coming evil was no doubt upon her. The diamonds were her mother's, she wrote, and had only crossed the ocean with her because of the haste with which the voyage to America had been arranged. Fearing for their safety, she was about to intrust them to her foster-mother, who had promised to bring them back to England with her own hands, if any evil should fall upon her, or if her sojourn in America was protracted.

"The jewels which belong to the Carset estate, and the child, which will inherit them, I entrust to my dear foster-mother, when I am gone, and I sometimes think that we may never meet again, my mother. This good woman will bring the diamonds, which I will not have endangered, and will tell you about the child, dearer to me than my own life, nay, than my own soul! Tell Lord Hope, if he should seek to take her, that it was the dying wish of his wife that her child should pass at once into the protection of her own most beloved mother, when Hannah Yates brings her to England. I think he will not deny this to a woman who has loved him better, oh! how much better! than herself—who would die, if she could, rather than be in the way of his happiness. Give him this letter. I think he will not deny the last request I may ever make of him. I will not say farewell, my mother, because the gloom that is upon me in this strange land may be only the homesickness of a heart separated from those it loves. But, if this is given to you by my foster-mother, know that a cloud of gloom has settled down upon me forever."

This much fell upon the ears of the countess as she held her breath and listened.

When Hannah Yates folded the letter, she felt that a gleam of angry fire broke into the eyes bent upon her.

"Yates," said the countess, sharply, "read the date of that letter."

The old servant read the date.

"Fourteen years and more! Why was that letter kept from me so long?"

"I could not bring it."

"I know you were not young even then, Yates; but your son, my own protege! Surely, when my poor child gave you this charge, she gave money also? Why was the child kept from me and sent to that man?"