The Old Countess; or, The Two Proposals

"Yes, there was money; but my son could not come. We had no power to bring her."

"Then Hope took her from you by force?" questioned the countess. "Where is your son, Yates? He was wrong to permit it!"

"With my young lady."

"Dead! Then you, also, are childless?"

Hannah Yates remembered how the news of her bereavement had reached her in that stone cell which was cold as a grave, and shuddered while the lady in her palace questioned her. Then the old prison-look fell upon her, and she sat motionless, with her eyes upon the floor, saying nothing. How could she explain to that proud lady the bondage in which she had been held?

"Ah! if you had come earlier," said the countess, "the child of my child might have been here! That man would not have dared to keep her! She would not have been taught to return my advances with insolence by his evil wife."

"I could not come before," repeated the old woman, humbly.

"And now it may be too late."

"God forbid!" said the old woman. "No! no! He will show me how to complete my task. It is for that I have been kept alive."

"Yates, you are brave and faithful. I was wrong to question you so. Forgive me, old servant."

Mrs. Yates took the child-like hand held out to her and pressed it to her lips.

"I have tried, dear mistress."

"Go, now, old friend, and let me have time to think. Only this is certain, we do not part again."

"Mistress, that cannot be. I have yet a task to perform. It may be many, many miles to travel. When that is done, I will come back and spend the few days left to me here. Oh, it seems like home—it seems like Heaven to sit within the sound of your voice once more! But I must depart at once."

"Where, old friend?"

"I do not know yet; but God will direct me."

"As I trust that He will direct me," answered the countess, lifting her eyes in momentary prayer. "Yates, you will never know what fearful suspicions have haunted me—how hard and bitter they have made me. Oh, had this letter come earlier!"

"I could not! I could not!"

"I know that, knowing you."

Hannah Yates lifted her grateful eyes for a moment, and dropped them again.

"Now that I am free from the weight of these," she said, lifting the casket in her hands, "the toil of my errand will be less."

The countess looked wistfully into the box, and shook her head.

"I have been unjust. I have accused that woman falsely. Until this moment, Yates, I have not hesitated to proclaim my belief that the woman they call Lady Hope had possessed herself of these diamonds as she had won my daughter's husband. This is a wrong which wounds me to the soul. It must be atoned for."

Hannah Yates moved toward the door, but heavily, and with the reluctance of a woman whose strength had been overtasked. The old countess sat gazing upon the jewels. How trivial and worthless they seemed to her now! Yet the retention of these very diamonds had been a great cause of offence against Lord Hope's second wife. How unjust, how cruel she had been in this! Was it possible that, in other things, she had been equally mistaken? She took up her daughter's letter and read it over. The first shock of its reception had passed away, and nothing but the quivering of the head remained of the fearful agitation that had shook her little form like a reed.

Hannah Yates stood near the curtain, regarding her with a look of yearning sympathy. How much she had suffered—how terribly she had struggled to save that delicate creature from deeper sorrow—no human being but herself would ever know; but the thought filled her heart with infinite tenderness. She stepped back to the couch, took the hand which lay in the lap of her old mistress, and kissed it.

The old lady lifted her eyes from the letter. They were full of tears—those painful, cold tears which come in such scant drops to the aged.

"Your hands are cold; you look tired. Ring for some wine and biscuit. That poor, white face is a reproach to your mistress, Yates."

"Yes, I will take some wine and bread before I go—it will make me strong; but not here! not here!"

Again the old countess turned to that letter, motioning with her hand that Yates should stay; but the old woman did not see that gentle motion of the hand—her eyes, also, were full of tears.

When the Countess of Carset had thrice perused her daughter's letter, she laid it down, and resting her hand tenderly upon it, fell into thought.

She was a proud but just woman, on whose haughty power old age had fallen like dew, softening all that was imperious, and shading down strong personal pride into thoughtful mercy.

But for some injustice that she had to repent of, this simple, affectionate letter, coming as it were from the grave, would have aroused nothing but tender grief. It contained no complaint of the man she had married—did not even mention the governess, who now filled her place; and the possibility that she had terribly wronged these two persons dawned steadily upon her.

She looked up at last, and spoke to Hannah Yates; but there was no answer. The old woman was on her road to the railroad station, burdened only with a secret she dared not reveal, and the gold which had been saved with the diamonds.

CHAPTER XV.

THE EARL'S RETURN.

"My dear, dear friend—

"For that you always will be, so long as I have a pulse in my heart or a purpose in my brain! It does not require an eternity for two young girls like us to become firm friends; but it will take more than that to destroy the faith and love we feel for each other. I know that you will believe every word that I say, though I may be compelled to seem cruel and faithless. I cannot come to see you. They tell me it might offend my father. I cannot ask you to his house, because it is his, and I have no authority in it. But the time will come when I shall have a house of my own, and then no guest shall be so honored. Why do I love you so? Is it that I remember something? Or has any person told me that you and I have slept in each other's arms, and breathed upon the same pillow, with an old woman bending over us—a noble-faced old woman, with gray hair, and a queenly way of carrying the head? Have you any remembrance of a woman like that? Do you remember a hot, red fire, streams of water gushing over it, a ladder, a crowd, and great pipes coiling like a tangle of huge snakes along a street full of people? I do—and this no one has ever told me.

"I want to ask all these things in person. You are from America. I was there once, and after that fire I remember the ocean and a great black ship, which sent banners of smoke over us day after day.

"Then Oakhurst. I was not four years old then, but my life began in America, so far as I know of it.

"I cannot help you now; but if you hate the stage so much, be firm, and madame cannot force you upon it. Besides, I am determined to redeem my pledge; so, if it can be done in no other way, I will just have an early time set for my marriage with Mr. Closs, and then you shall come to us if any one attempts to oppress you.

"Pray do not suppose that any one here dislikes you. On the contrary, Lady Hope admits that you are charming. The trouble is that here, in England, there is so much prejudice against the stage. I cannot advise you, having broken down so miserably in my promises; but I shall not be helpless forever, and when I have power you shall share it.

"If she insists, if the worst comes to the worst, run away, and come down here—I mean into the neighborhood. I have plenty of pocket-money, and drive my ponies just where I please. Margaret will help us.

"I am sure you will forgive me that I cannot do all I promised. It does not grieve you more than it humiliates me. To think that I should offer so much and perform nothing! But it is not my fault, nor is it the fault of any one here.

"Believe in me, trust me, and love me, for I will deserve it all.

"Yours affectionately,

"CLARA."

Lady Clara wrote this letter on the very night of her return to Oakhurst. That much she insisted on doing. Less, she said, would be cruel treachery.

Neither Lady Hope nor her brother were disposed to interfere, and so the little missive went, carrying both hope and pain with it.

It was some days before Hepworth Closs was able to make his entire peace with the young lady. She could not find it in her heart to oppose her stepmother, whose sad, heavy eyes touched her sympathy; but it was pleasant to tyrannize over a man so much older than herself, whom love had made her slave.

With him quarreling was delicious, and she was in no haste to cut her enjoyment short. But even the pleasure of tormenting one's lover has its reaction; so one day, as the sun went down, pouring a flood of crimson into the bosom of that old cedar of Lebanon, Clara relented a little, and allowed Hepworth to kiss her hand. It was impossible to hold out longer, with all the leaves quivering in that soft air, and the little birds hiding away among them, chirping to each other, and setting a sweet example to the lovers.

Of course an ardent man, very much in love, is not likely to rest content with the touch of his lady-love's hand after he has been kept in quarantine four or five days. Hepworth was ardent, and desperately in love; so he took advantage of her soft relenting, and drew her close to his side, laid her head against his heart, and, with his cheek touching the thick waves of her hair, began to talk of the future, when they would be all in all to each other.

Clara shut her eyes, and allowed her head to rest so close to her lover's heart that it rose and fell with its strong beating. She loved the music of that full, warm pulse, and a smile parted her lips as she listened.

Thus they rested awhile in silence, she, carried into a dreamy elysium by the swell of those full heart-beats; he, calmed by the stir of the cedar-leaves, looking into her face, and wondering, in the humility of true affection, how that bright young creature had ever been won to love him. He bent his head down softly, and kissed the blue veins on her temple.

"Are you sure, very, very sure, that you love me, Clara?"

She reached up one arm, wound it about his neck, laid her cheek against his, and whispered:

"Don't you think so?"

"Lady Clara! Mr. Hepworth Closs!"

It was a man's voice, stern and clear as the clash of bells. Both the lover and the girl sprang to their feet.

"Father!"

"Lord Hope!"

For a moment the two men stood face to face. They had changed since their last parting; still that was but dimly seen in the light of a young moon, which was rising over the trees as the rich crimson faded away.

Hepworth saw that all the wild passion of those times had died out of that face, leaving it calm and hard; but other change was concealed by the silvery quiver of light that fell upon it through the leaves.

Hepworth was the first to speak.

"My lord, you have received my letter, I trust?"

"Yes—and came at once to answer it."

"By your tone, by your manner, I should fear—"

"While this young lady is by, we will not speak of your fears," said the earl, with a slow motion of the hand. "Clara, you will find your—Lady Hope. She will, perhaps, be glad to hear that I have returned."

"Not while you meet me and—and Hepworth in this fashion, papa. I don't like it. One would think you intended to make trouble."

"Foolish child! Go as I tell you."

"Not while you look at me like that. Do you know, papa, that you have forgotten to kiss me, or even shake hands; and that is a thing I never saw you guilty of before."

Clara drew close to the haughty man, and turning her mouth into a half-open apple-blossom, held it up to be kissed.

The earl put her aside gently, but with firmness.

"Go to Lady Hope, as I bade you," he said. "This is no hour for trifling."

Clara stood motionless. All the color had left her face, even to the lips.

"Papa, are you in earnest?"

"In earnest? Yes."

"And you mean to refuse this gentleman?"

"Undoubtedly I mean to refuse that gentleman."

There was an emphasis of fine irony laid on the last word, which Hepworth felt with a sting of indignation; but he controlled himself, in respect to Clara's presence, and stood aloof, pale and stern as the man before him.

"I will go," said Clara; "but, before I leave you, let me say one thing: I love this gentleman. But for that, he never would have spoken to me or written to you. It was not his fault, or of his seeking. He had not been here a day before I loved him without knowing it. Now, all the world may know it for aught I care, for I never will marry any other man!"

Lord Hope did not reply to her, but turned to Hepworth.

"You have done honorable work, and in a short time!" he said. "I was not aware that Lady Hope would entertain her relatives in my absence, and with this result."

Hepworth did not answer then, but turning to Lady Clara, reached out his hand.

"Let me lead you to the house," he said. "After that I can meet Lord Hope on more equal terms."

Clara took his arm; but her father interposed.

"I will take charge of the lady," he said, with haughty coldness, drawing her arm within his, and leading her to the terrace, where he left her and returned to the cedar.

"Now, sir, let us conclude this matter at once. You ask the hand of my daughter in marriage. I refuse it. You are here under my roof an unexpected and unbidden guest. From this hour you cease to be welcome."

"My lord, had I never known you in the past, never served you in an unlawful desire, you would not have dared to address me in this fashion. If you and I meet to bandy insults, it is because the past has left no mutual respect between us; but I have this advantage over you; the sins which have drawn on me even your contempt have been long since repented of, while yours, compared to which mine fade into innocence, seem but to have hardened into pride."

Lord Hope smiled.

"Of what crime does Mr. Hepworth Closs charge me?"

"I make no special charge, Lord Hope; but there is an old woman in America suffering the penalty of a crime which she never committed—which you know she never committed."

"The law decided otherwise, if I remember rightly," answered the earl, in a quiet, calm voice. "But even if it did not, does that relate to the question in hand?"

"No, no, and I am to blame in mentioning it—Heaven knows I wish to think the best! I admit, my lord, your prejudices against me would have been just when we knew each other so well; but I was very young then and can fairly claim to have worked out an honorable redemption from the faults of my youth. Believe me, I have won more than a respectable position among men; have wealth from my own exertions enough to satisfy even your wishes. True, I have not the rank to match yours; but there was a time when you thought it no disgrace to mate with my family."

Lord Hope was moved out of his proud calm now. He lifted his hand with a suddenness that was threatening, and cried out:

"Peace, sir! I have heard enough of this!"

"But I must remind you again that Lady Hope is my only sister, and in these insults you degrade her."

"Degrade her, when she is my wife!"

These words were drawn out with proud emphasis that stung Hepworth like a wasp.

"My lord," he said, "I will bear much from you, because I once loved you, but more from the fact that you are my sister's husband and her father; but I warn you not even by a tone to cast reproach or slur upon your wife. She became such against my wishes and in spite of my protest. That lady has all the elements of greatness within herself."

"What right had you to wish or protest?"

"The self-same right that you have to drive me from your daughter. You did not heed my wishes, why expect me to prove more delicate?"

"Because I can enforce what I wish, and you could not."

"How?"

"By asking Mr. Hepworth Closs to leave Oakhurst at once, and by providing against all chance of his coming here again."

Closs turned very white, and his hand clenched and unclenched itself with passionate force.

"My lord, this is a cruel insult, which I have not deserved!"

All at once the earl turned, with some show of feeling, and looked Hepworth steadily in the face.

"Hepworth Closs, listen to me. If I seem cruel and unmanly, it is because I wish to be kind. The hand which sweeps a moth from its circling around a candle, must seem very cruel to the poor insect. I tell you, fairly, Hepworth Closs, it is not so much pride of birth or personal dislike that prompts me to deny my daughter to you. But she is heiress in entail to the Carset title and Houghton Castle, a noble title, without support, unless the old countess makes her heiress, by will, of her personal estates. By marrying your sister, I mortally offended this old lady. Rachael has been, from first to last, the special object of her dislike. Lady Clara has added to this by refusing to visit Houghton unless her stepmother is received there also. This quarrel may throw one of the richest inheritances in England out of my family, and all from my unfortunate marriage."

"Your unfortunate marriage!" exclaimed Closs, hotly.

"How could it be otherwise?" answered Lord Hope, sadly.

There was something in Hope's voice that touched Hepworth Closs with feelings akin to those he had felt for the proud young man years ago.

"This was the language I used to my sister the night before she became your wife," he said.

"Oh, my God! if she had but listened—if she had but listened!"

"Lord Hope! do I understand? Has your marriage with Rachael Closs come to this?"

"Hepworth, we will not discuss this subject. It is one which belongs exclusively to Lady Hope and myself."

"But she is my sister!"

"Between a husband and wife no relative has claims."

"Lord Hope, I was once your friend."

"I have not forgotten it. Unfortunately for us both, you were. I do not say this ungratefully. On the contrary, I am about to appeal to that old friendship once more. You ask for my daughter. To give her to a brother of Rachael Closs would be the bitterest insult I could offer the old lady at Houghton. It would close our last hopes of a reconciliation. The estates, in doubt now, would be eternally lost. I cannot afford this. Oakhurst is strictly entailed; I am heavily in debt, so heavily, that we are compelled to practise the most harassing economy. From me Clara will inherit nothing; from her grandmother worse than nothing if she dies offended with us. I am told that she is relenting—that she has been heard to speak kindly of Clara. Can you ask me to insult her over again, knowing all the wrong I have done her, all the ruin it would bring on my child?"

"What can I do?" exclaimed Closs, who felt the reason of this appeal. "How can I act generously to you—fairly to her?"

"Go away. She is young, volatile, capricious, but generous as the day. Be open with her; tell her why you leave Oakhurst and how impossible it is to return."

"But there is one wild hope for me—the possibility of gaining this old lady's consent."

Lord Hope smiled in pity of the forlorn idea.

"You may as well ask the stars of heaven to fall."

"But it may chance that I can plead my cause with her."

"Then your best argument will be that I have driven you ignominiously from Oakhurst," said Lord Hope, with fine irony in his smile. "She will forgive much to any man I am known to dislike."

"My lord, I love your daughter so entirely, that it is impossible for me to give up all hope. Leave me this one gleam, or, failing in that, give me such chances as time may bring."

Again Lord Hope answered with that keen smile.

"I withhold nothing from you but my consent."

"But, if Lady Carset gives hers?"

"Then I can safely promise mine."

Again the smile came, and pierced Hepworth like an arrow.

"Now I will intrude here no longer," he said, taking his hat from the ground where it had been lying.

"It is better so, inhospitable as you may think me for saying it. Lady Hope will be grieved, I know."

"I am her only relative," said Closs, with deep feeling.

"I know it; but we are all making sacrifices. I am, certainly, in wishing you farewell."

Hope reached out his hand. It was clear he wished Closs to go without further leave-taking. Closs understood the motion.

"I will not pain my sister with a farewell. Explain this as you please, or say that I will write—unless that is prohibited. As for the young lady, I shall never seek her again under your roof; but the time may come when I shall assert the right which every man has to choose for himself, and win the lady of his love, if he can. Meantime, Lady Clara is free as air. Tell her so."

With these words Hepworth Closs turned resolutely from the house in which he had tasted pure happiness for the first time in his life, and went away.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE WIFE AND THE DAUGHTER.

The words were harsh, but Rachael's voice faltered in uttering them, and the gloom of a hidden doubt broke into those great black eyes. Clara saw the look, and her heart ached with sympathy.

"Then why does he stay from us so long?"

"Ah, why!" answered Rachael, and the two plaintive words sank deep into that young heart.

"And why does he treat Hepworth, your own brother, so cruelly?"

"Has he done that? Oh, no, no!"

"Yes, mamma Rachael. We both love him so much; but he is very hard with us just now. I thought he would love Hepworth for your sake."

"Ah! I thought so too. It was my last dream."

"And my first," said Clara, with girlish tears in her eyes. "He was very angry—they were both angry. I think he meant to insult Hepworth and drive him away, knowing how proud he is, and he will do it. Oh, mamma Rachael, I am so miserable!"

"Miserable!" cried Rachael, looking gloomily into that fair young face. "Poor child! you have no idea what misery is. God forbid that you ever should!"

"Is not this misery? Papa against me, Hepworth looking so proud and stormy. You. Oh! mamma, I feel for you so much. Indeed, you look more unhappy than I am; but it is hard."

"Hush, dear! That is your father's voice."

"Yes, how low and cutting. I cannot stand it. He is coming this way. I will go to my room."

For the first time in her life, Lady Clara shrank from meeting her father.

"Do not leave me yet," said Rachael, passing swiftly toward the window. "They are together still. I cannot see their faces, but they both stand up sternly in the moonlight. What can they be saying?"

"Something harsh, I know. Lord Hope, when he came up so still and stern, did not seem like my father. His face looked like marble. He would not kiss me, and—and put me aside, when I offered, as if I had done something terribly wrong, in just getting naturally in love with the most splendid fellow that ever lived. I should think he might remember when he fell so desperately in love with you himself, and have some mercy on a poor little girl." Here Clara seemed to catch a restless infection from Rachael, and joined her in a quick, unequal walk up and down the room, pausing now and then to dash the tears from her eyes, or gaze in wonder at Lady Hope's face, which bore an expression she had never seen in all its gloominess till then.

All at once Rachael paused in her walk, and taking Clara in her arms, looked at her with such earnest tenderness, that the girl hushed her sobs to listen.

"My darling, do you love him so much?"

"Better than my father; better than you. Oh! forgive me, but it is so—better than my own life. I think it is worship, not love, dearest mamma."

"Great heavens! what trouble I have brought upon us all! Oh why, why did he come here!" cried Rachael, beginning to pace the floor again, clasping her hands and tearing them apart, as if angry with herself. "They were such friends once, and loved each other like brothers. How could I think it would turn out like this? I so needed him—this one brother; had such hope in his influence, but it is all over."

"What is all over? You will not permit it? You will not let him be sent away?"

"How can I help it? What power or influence is left to me?" answered Rachael, desperately.

"Oh, mamma Rachael, will you fail me? You!"

"Hush! he is coming. I hear his step on the terrace."

How that dusky face lighted up. That woman trembled all over under the sound of that man's tread. He was coming to her, there in the room, in which they had once been so happy; coming to her, perhaps in anger. That was nothing. Anger itself would be Heaven, compared to the cold politeness that had sometimes almost frozen her to death. She turned to Clara.

"Go, my child. I will see your father alone."

Clara went to her room. Through the window which looked out upon the lawn, she saw Hepworth Closs come out from the shadow of the cedar, and walk swiftly toward the avenue. By the proud lift of his head, and those quick steps, that seemed to spurn the earth he trod upon, she knew that he had parted from her father in anger, and threw up the window.

"Hepworth! Hepworth! Stop! Stop! and tell me where you are going!"

He did not hear her, the storm in his heart was too violent. He had been driven forth from his sister's roof with a cool politeness that was insulting. The commonest courtesies of life had been denied to him, by the man who had once been his friend. He scarcely thought of Clara, then, a sense of burning indignation swept everything else from his mind.

Clara leaned from the window, trembling with sudden apprehension. Was he really going? Had her father treated him with indignity? Was he giving her up without a struggle or a word of farewell?

While she asked herself these questions, Closs disappeared among the trees in the park, and was swallowed up in the black shadows.

"He shall not go!" cried the girl, in wild excitement. "He shall not be driven away by papa, or any one else! Where is my jacket? What has that girl done with my hat? Ah! here, and here!"

She huddled the shawl around her, tossed the little sailor's hat to her head, and, opening the chamber door so swiftly that it made no noise, darted down stairs, and, avoiding the principal entrance, reached the lawn by leaping from one of the drawing-room windows, where she paused a moment to draw breath. But no time was to be lost. At the rate Hepworth was walking, he must now be well on his way to the lodge. The avenue swept away from the house in a grand curve. She knew of a path through the trees which would lead her straight to old Badger's lodge. It was shadowy and lonesome, but what did she care for that? No deer ever bounded down that path more lightly than Clara went. She did not stop to think of propriety, or of her own object. Her heart told her that Hepworth had been driven from the house, perhaps thinking that she would sanction the outrage; for it was an outrage, even if her own father had done it. He should not go away, believing it possible for her to prove so base.

On she went, eager, breathless, with the streamers floating out from her hat, and her white sacque flying open, fairly racing through the moonlight, like a frightened fairy.

As she came in sight of the lodge, the clang of an iron gate falling into position, brought a cry of dismay from her lips. He had reached the highway. Dared she follow him there?

Clara came out into the avenue, panting for breath. She could hear his quick steps upon the road. How terribly fast he was walking toward the village. Yes, he was surely going that way.

Old Badger stood in the lodge door, shaded by a trailing drapery of ivy, and saw the young lady standing there in the moonlight, wringing her hands and absolutely crying. In his astonishment he addressed Jules confidentially, as she lay on the stepping stone at his feet.

"It is the young lady as sure as you live, old girl, and she's a following that handsome fellow as just left a golden sovereign in my hand, Jules. Something has happened up yonder, Jules. The master has come back and found out what you and I knew all the time. If that handsome brother of my lady hasn't got a ticket-of-leave, I lose my guess; but what are we to do with the young lady, old girl? That is what is a puzzling me just now."

Jules arose, stretched herself, and threw out one paw as she settled down again, when Badger broke out in a glow of admiration.

"Right, Jules. In a matter where the sects are concerned, you are true as a clock. I'll show myself; I'll help her."

Jules gave a faint yelp, which brought Clara to the door.

"Oh, Badger, you here! Go and call him back. Here is some money; run like a deer; tell him I want to speak with him—must speak with him. It's about Lady Hope; but no matter. Why don't you start, Badger? It's half an hour since I first told you."

But Badger did not start. He stood a little way from the door, examining the money she had given him, by the moonlight, and muttering to himself; when the impatient girl broke out again.

"A shilling! Was it only a shilling I gave you? How provoking! I thought it was gold. Well, start! start! and I'll make it a sovereign—two, three—only bring him back!"

Old Badger went off with a rush now. Ordering Jules to stay with the young mistress and mind the gate, he made swift progress down the road.

"I say, sir! I say! Halloo! I say!"

Hepworth checked his rapid walk, and looked back. Badger came up with a run, feeling that some extra exertion was necessary, when so much gold lay in the question.

"There is a person—well, a lady—a young lady—who wishes to have you turn back, sir. She is waiting at the lodge, sir; and I promised to bring you back, dead or alive, sir—dead or alive!"

Hepworth felt his heart give a great leap. Was it possible that Clara could have followed him? or was it Lady Hope?

"A lady!" he said, "and at the lodge?"

"A young lady—such as isn't commonly seen following young gents by moonlight; but come, sir, she is waiting."

Hepworth turned at once, and retraced his steps. Clara saw him approaching the gate, and swinging it back, ran to meet him, with tears still quivering on her anxious face.

She passed Badger, who was resolved to earn his money at least by discretion, and moved in great haste toward the lodge, never once looking back, as in honor bound, he told Jules in his next confidential conversation.

"Oh, Hepworth, how cruel! how wicked! Tell me truly, were you going without a word?"

Clara had clasped both hands over her lover's arm, and was slowly leading him back, with her face uplifted in sweet reproachfulness to his, and drawing deep, long sighs of thanksgiving that she had him there, chained by her linked hands.

"I do not know. How can I tell? Your father has dismissed me from his house."

"He has? I thought as much; and thinking so, came after you—but only to say that I love you dearly—ten times more since this has happened—and nothing on earth shall ever make me marry any other person."

Hepworth looked down into that generous face, and his own took a softer expression in the moonlight.

"Your father is against us," he said. "I think it must be open defiance, or separation—at any rate, for a time."

Clara's face clouded. She loved her father, and was a little afraid of him as well; but that was nothing to the passionate attachment she felt for Hepworth Closs. She would have defied the whole world rather than give him up; but open disobedience was a terrible thing to her. All at once she brightened.

"Some day, you know, I shall be my own mistress. We can wait. I am so young. When I am Countess of Carset, come and claim me. No one can stand between us then."

She spoke firmly, and with the dignity of deep feeling, standing upright and looking bravely into his face, as if she were a peeress already, and was ready to pledge all the honor of a long race of ancestors for the faith that was in her.

"Ah, if you were only the bright, handsome girl you seem, with no dignity to keep up, no belongings but your own sweet self, how grateful I should be! From this night, Clara, we would never part."

"Oh, if it were! If I hadn't anything to expect! But, no! My old grandmother will be sure to leave me everything she has, just out of spite, when all I want on earth is my liberty, and the love that belongs to me. How I should like to—"

"To what, Clara?"

"Nothing—only I was thinking how jolly it would be just to tie on my hat, button my jacket, and go off with you to America, where people can't die and leave you titles and things; but it is of no use thinking of such a thing. It would break mamma Rachael's heart; and she needs me so much."

Hepworth caught his breath. The thought had been in his mind. But for his sister, I think he would have proposed it.

"Do not tempt me, darling. We cannot abandon her."

"Oh, no," answered Clara, pouting a little, "I didn't mean anything of the kind. Of course, we have got to part now; I know that."

She clung to his arm more closely, and made him walk slower. Both their faces grew pale and sad in the moonlight. She could not speak because of the sobs that came swelling into her throat. He was silent from a bitter sense of bereavement. After those few weeks of entire happiness, was he to be driven into the cold world again, leaving the angel of his paradise behind?

They were drawing near the gate now. Hepworth would not pass into the boundaries of a man who had wounded him so grievously, so he paused by the park-wall, snatched her to his bosom, kissed her lips, her eyes, her hair, blessing her with his soul, promising to find her again, to be faithful, begging her to love him and no one else, until he broke away from her and fled down the highway, dashing the tears from his eyes as he went.

She called after him. She ran a few paces with her arms extended, entreating him to come back; but he would not hear. All his brave manhood had been taxed to its utmost. He knew well enough that to go back was to take the girl with him, and he was not selfish enough for that.

So poor Lady Clara watched him, till he passed quite away into the shadows, with her back against the wall, and her hands hanging down loose, as they had fallen after her last cry. Then she crept slowly back through the gate, which Badger had left open, and away into the depths of the park, crying as if her heart would break.

Badger saw her through the diamond-shaped panes of the lodge-window, and muttered:

"Poor thing, she has forgot the gold; but never mind, it will come."

CHAPTER XVII.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

No—after a moment's hesitation, the steps advanced. The very certainty of his approach suffocated her. She had not deemed herself so weak. All the strength left her frame.

She sank down upon a couch near the window. The moonlight fell over her like a veil of silver tissue, and through it she looked like the Rachael Closs of New York.

Lord Hope tore away the silvery veil with his presence, for the shadow of his tall person fell across it, throwing the woman back into darkness.

But the light which he took from her slanted across his face, and softened it back to youth. Rachael reached forth her arms.

"Oh, Norton! have you come back again?"

Her voice vibrated between passion and pathos. Her trembling limbs rustled the silken garments around her.

He stood looking at her, not sternly, but with grave sadness. It was nearly two months since they had met, but he did not advance, or even reach out his hand. Then she cried out, in a burst of bitter anguish:

"Oh, Norton, will you not speak to me?"

"Yes, Rachael," he said, very gently. "I came to speak with you."

Lord Hope advanced through the window. No lights were burning, for in her sadness Rachael had thought the moonbeams enough.

She moved upon the couch, looking in his face with pathetic entreaty.

He sat down after a moment's hesitation, and took her hand in his.

Awhile before that hand had been cold as ice, but now a glow of feverish joy warmed it, and her slender fingers clung around his with nervous force. She was afraid to loosen her clasp, lest he should leave her again.

"Ah, Norton! you have been away so long, so long!"

"Has that made you more unhappy, Rachael?"

"More unhappy? God help me! have I any happiness beyond your presence?"

"I sometimes think that we two might be less—"

Lord Hope paused. The hand in his seemed turning to marble.

"In mercy, do not say that, Norton! Surely you cannot return love like mine with hate so cruel!"

"We will not talk of hate, Rachael. It is an unseemly word."

"But you are angry with me?"

"No, the time has gone by when I can be angry with you, Rachael."

"Oh! have some mercy upon me, Norton, and tell me how I have lost your love—for you did love me."

"God only knows how well!" answered the man, with a throe of bitter passion breaking up the calm he had maintained.

"Tell me, then—tell me again! It is so long since I have had a happy thought! I will not be put off so! Now that you are here, in this room, with my hand in yours, I will not let you go! Tell me, Norton—oh, tell me why it is that you have changed so completely? This question haunts me. I dream of it in the night; I think of it all day long. Answer me. Though the truth cleave my heart, I would rather hear it! Why have you ceased to love me? Why is it that you can leave me so?"

"Rachael, I will answer you so far as this: I have not ceased to love you."

The woman uttered a cry, and fell down upon her knees at her husband's feet, in a storm of wild and happy tears. He raised her up, bent forward as if to kiss her, but drew back with a heavy sigh. She felt him recoil, and the shudder which chilled him reached her also.

"You love me, and yet shrink from my touch! Ah, me! what has dug this gulf between us?"

"It is the work of our own hands," he said, with strong emotion. "It is your curse and mine that we must love each other, Rachael—love each other, and yet be apart."

"Apart! Oh! will there be no end—no season—"

"Yes, Rachael, when we can both repent that we ever did love each other. Then, perhaps, a merciful God may forgive us the great sin which has been our happiness and our torment."

"But you love me? You do love me?"

"A thousand times better than my own miserable life!"

"And you speak of torment! Who shall ever dare say that word again to Rachael Closs? When they do, I will answer, 'He loves me! he loves me!'"

The woman sprang up, exulting. Her hands were clasped, her face was radiant. It seemed impossible that unhappiness should ever visit her again.

"Poor woman! Poor, unhappy woman!"

Hope took her hand in his, and drew her down to his side. She was shaking like a leaf in the wind. For the moment, her joy seemed complete.

"I cannot believe it! Say again, 'Rachael, I love you.'"

"Have I not said that it is your curse and mine?"

"Oh, Norton! how cruel, with that sweet word sinking into my heart, after pining and waiting for it so long! Do not withhold it from me, or think of it as a curse."

"Hush, Rachael! You are only exulting over Dead Sea fruit. It is all ashes, ashes. Words that, up to this time, I had forbidden to my lips, have been said, because of a terrible danger that threatens us. Rachael, did you know of the letter Hepworth sent me?"

Rachael was a brave woman, even in her faults, and would not deny anything.

"Yes, he wrote the letter here," she said.

"And you sanctioned his pursuit of my daughter?"

"Yes, Norton. I loved him; he was my only relative. That he might live near me was the last forlorn hope of my life. Before you condemn me, remember how few people exist in this world for me to love. I have no friends. I was so cold, so dreary! There was nothing left to me but your child and this one brother. How could I part with either of them? That was to be utterly alone!"

Lord Hope checked this pathetic plea. It shook his resolution, and that with a vigor she could not understand. He looked her steadily in the face.

"Rachael Closs, could you have given up my child to that man?"

Rachael fixed her wild eyes on the face turned upon her so sternly.

"Why, why?"

"Had you no thought of the ruin it would bring upon her?"

"Ruin? Did you say ruin?"

"Could you see that innocent girl's hand in his without thrills of painful recollection?"

"Why, he loves her; she loves him."

"So much the more painful."

"What do you mean?"

Her lips were white now, and the teeth gleamed and chattered between them.

"Have you no dread that he will bring that one event perpetually before us?"

Rachael shook her head.

"Does nothing tell you that he was mixed up in that tragedy?"

"What should tell me of that? It was the crime of a miserable old woman."

"Still you understand nothing of that which is a continual pain to me."

A burst of hysterical laughter answered him. The nerves of that woman were undoubtedly giving way.

"You are mocking me. It is only fiends who torment their victims. You are my husband, and should know better!"

"Rachael Closs, control yourself!"

"I am not Rachael Closs!" cried the woman, fiercely. "You would not have treated her so. It is Lady Hope you are putting to torture. Oh, Norton! what have I done to you? What have I done to you that you should mock me so?"

"I wish to save my child—to save myself."

"Well, is that all? She shall never speak to Hepworth again. Yes, what is my brother, or anybody in the world, compared to one smile from my husband?"

"And you will help me to reconcile Clara to that which must be?"

"I will do anything, everything that you wish, only do not leave me again."

"But I must sometimes go out."

"And I cannot go with you. Rachael Closs is not good enough for your high-born friends. Lady Carset has put her ban on your wife, and the nobility of England accept it. But for this I might have been the companion of your visits, the helpmate of your greatness—for I have the power. I could have done so much, so much in this great world of yours, but that old woman would not let me. It is cruel! it is cruel! You would have loved me now as you did at first, but for her."

Lord Hope took Rachael's hand in his.

"Ah, Rachael!" he said, "if you could but understand the love which can neither be cherished nor cast away, which pervades a whole life, only to disturb it! Between you and me must ever come the shadow of a woman we cannot talk of, but who stands eternally between us two. Even in the first days of our passionate delirium I felt this viperous truth creeping under the roses with which we madly hoped to smother it. The thought grew and grew, like a parasite upon the heart. It clung to mine, bound it down, made it powerless. Oh, would to God the memory of that one night could be lifted from my soul! The presence of your brother here has brought it back upon me with terrible force. But, thank God, he is gone!"

"Gone! What, my brother? Am I never to see him again?"

"Not unless you wish to drive your husband from his own house. I will not be reminded, by any one connected with that night, that it was the mad passion of our love which drove that most unhappy woman from her home, her country, and, at last, into her grave!"

Rachael sat with her glittering eyes fastened on his face. She longed to ask a question; but it seemed to freeze upon her lips. But, at last, she spoke:

"Do you repent that love, then?"

"No! no! Would to God I had the power to repent! but I cannot, Rachael, with you by me!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE STORMY NIGHT AND SUNSHINY MORNING.

Lady Hope took no heed, but arose slowly from the bed, and, going to a dressing-table, poured some water from a ewer that stood there, and began to wash her hands.

Clara could see her in the moonlight, and sat up in the bed, afraid and wondering.

"Mamma, mamma Rachael," she faltered, terrified by the sound of her voice, "why are you staying out in the cold like that?"

Lady Hope shook the drops from her fingers, and leaving the table, began to pace the floor. At last Clara sprang from the bed and took hold of her.

Every nerve in the woman's body seemed to quiver under that touch; she uttered a shrill cry, and clung to the girl to save herself from falling.

"Come to the bed with me, mamma. Your hand is cold; it touches mine like snow. That is right; put your arms around me. Poor, poor mamma! how your heart struggles! There, there; the chill is going off. We will get each other warm; for we love each other, you and I, mamma Rachael; nothing on this earth can change that!"

Rachael allowed herself to be taken to the bed; but she trembled violently.

"You are troubled about Hepworth; but I have promised—I do promise. Papa, nor all the world to help him, could change me. Besides, there is another thing; we both love him; that would make us cling together, if nothing else," said Clara.

"Ah, there it is—there it is! Hepworth is gone, and neither you nor I must ever see him again!" answered Rachael.

"But we will! He loves us. I will marry him some day, if I live."

"Oh, no, no! That can never be! Never! never!"

Rachael was fearfully agitated. Clara tore her form from those clinging arms.

"What! you?—you turned against us—you!" she exclaimed, pushing Rachael back from her pillow, and sitting up in the moonlight. "Has my father driven us all crazy?"

"Hush, child, hush! I have been thinking of that. It seems to me that I am mad already. Be kind; oh, be kind! Do not urge me on. To-night I have had such thoughts!"

The girl was frightened; for Rachael was bending over, and the fire of her great black eyes seemed hot as it was terrible.

"Great Heavens!" she cried, "what has my father done to you?"

Rachael had exhausted herself. She lay down, panting for breath; her lips were apart; the edges of her teeth were visible; she did not answer.

Clara forgot her own cause of offence, and laid her hand over those wide-open, burning eyes.

"Poor mamma Rachael! now try and sleep. I never saw you so nervous before. Did you know it? you were walking in your sleep."

The cool touch of that hand soothed the woman. Clara felt the eyelids close under her palm; but a heavy pulse was beating in the temples, which resisted all her gentle mesmerism for a long time; but, after a while, the worn frame seemed to rest, and Clara sank down in weary sleepiness by her side.

When she awoke again Lady Hope was gone. It was the dark hour of the morning; the moon had disappeared from the heavens; the shadows, in diffusing themselves, spread out into general darkness.

"Ah, I have had a weary dream," she murmured; "I have heard of such things, but never had anything dark upon my sleep before. How real it was! My father home, Hepworth gone, my mother in this bed, trembling, moaning, and, worst of all, against me and him. Ah, it was a terrible dream!"

She turned upon her pillow, full of sleepy thankfulness, and the next instant had deluded herself into a tranquil sleep.

A rapid fall of hoofs upon the avenue shook the stillness. Nearer and nearer they came; then a clang of the great bronze knocker at the principal entrance awoke her thoroughly.

The girl listened; her dream was fast taking shape, and she knew that it was a reality. Had this untimely arrival anything to do with it? A knock at her chamber-door, and her father's voice answered the question.

She was to get up, and prepare for a journey at once; her maid was packing already.

What was it? What had happened? Lord Hope forgot that he had not told her. The old Countess of Carset had sent for her. She must prepare to start at once for Houghton.

Clara sprang up, ready to offer battle to the old countess a second time in behalf of her stepmother.

While she was being dressed, Lord Hope stood in the corridor without, reading the delicate, upright characters in which the old countess clothed her thoughts.

"My Lord:—Circumstances have happened of late which convince me that I have been hasty and unjust to your wife, and have taken offense too readily from the independence exhibited by your child, my grand-daughter. It is my desire to atone for this, as the men and women of our house have ever atoned for injustice. The infirmities of old age, and more than ordinary ill-health forbid me to visit Oakhurst, which might, perhaps, be properly expected of one who admits herself to have been in the wrong; but, perhaps you and Lady Hope will permit Lady Clara to come to me here a few weeks, in which time, I trust, she will learn to know and love her grandmother.

"Presuming upon your generosity, I have sent my steward and my own maid, that she may have proper protection on her journey. After my grand-daughter has been at Houghton long enough to feel that it is to be her home in the future, I shall expect the pleasure of a visit from you and Lady Hope.

"Louisa, Countess of Carset."

Never, since the day in which he brought the first Lady Hope home, a bride, had such intense satisfaction filled the earl's heart as this letter brought him.

Involved, as he was, with pecuniary difficulties, harassed about his daughter, humiliated by the silent rejection by which the nobility in the neighborhood had repudiated his wife for so many years, this concession so nobly made by the old countess, was an opening of good fortune which promised a solution of all these difficulties. It had, in truth, lifted a heavy burden from his life.

With the letter in his hand Lord Hope went to his wife's dressing-room, where he found her, hollow-eyed, and so nervous that a faint cry broke from her as he entered the room.

She felt the loss of her brother terribly, notwithstanding what seemed to be a ready concession to the harsh treatment he received, and her sleep, as we know, had been restless and broken in the night.

She was cold and shivering, though the weather was warm, and had wrapped a shawl, full of richly-tinted colors, over her morning-dress, and sat cowering under it like some newly-caught animal.

Lord Hope felt that his inhospitable expulsion of her brother, and the cruel conversation that had followed it, was the cause of this nervous depression, and his heart smote him. With the letter open in his hand he went up to her chair, and bending over it, kissed Rachael on the forehead.

A smile broke over those gloomy features; the heavy eyes lighted up; she lifted her face to his.

"Oh, you do love me—you do love me!"

"My poor Rachael! how can you permit words that sprang out of the gloomy memories which Hepworth brought to trouble you so? Come, smile again, for I have good news for you—for us all."

"Good news! Is Hepworth coming back?"

"Forget Hepworth just now, and read that."

Lady Hope took the letter and read it through. When she gave it back, her face was radiant.

"At last—at last!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Norton, this will lift me to my proper place by your side. Now, now I will make you proud of me! These patricians shall learn that all great gifts do not spring from birth—that genius has a nobility which can match that given by kings."

Rachael started up in her excitement, flung the shawl away, and stood a priestess where she had just cowered like a wounded animal.

"Now we shall be all the world to each other, and walk through this proud life of yours, fairly mated. Great Heavens! after a night like the last, who could have expected such a morning? But Clara, you will let her go?"

"She is preparing to go now."

"My girl—my bright, beautiful girl! She has always been the angel in my path. But for her, this might never have come. But we cannot give her up—not entirely. You will not consent to that?"

"If we do, it will be only for a time, Rachael. The countess is very old."

"Yes, it will not be for long, and we can trust Clara. I will go to her now. She will need my help, and every minute she stays under this roof is a grain of gold which I must not lose. Oh! Norton, this is glorious news that you have brought me! What can have wrought this change in the old countess? I am going to Clara now."

As Lady Hope opened the door, Clara stood upon the threshold, ready for her journey. She knew that this letter was the first that her father had received from Lady Carset for years, and was curious to know its meaning. She could not remember when Lady Carset's name had been spoken in that house without bitterness, and was astonished to hear the cheerful animation with which it was spoken now.

"Am I really to go, papa? Do you wish it? Is mamma Rachael willing? Let me read the letter, please."

Lord Hope gave her the letter, and replied as she was reading it:

"Yes, my child, it is but right. The old lady is your nearest female relative."

Here Clara reached out her hand to Lady Hope, but kept her eyes on the letter, reading and listening at the same time.

"And you think it best, mamma?" inquired Clara, folding the letter. "What a delicate, stately hand the old lady writes! You don't object?"

"Object, Clara! No, no. I long to part with you, for the first time in my life."

"In some things," said Lord Hope, "the old lady has been cruelly dealt by. Say this from me, Clara. The concessions must not rest all on one side."

"Of course, papa; I will tell her, if you desire it. But why did she not ask you and mamma at once? It is awful lonesome going to that grim old castle by myself."

"It is only for a few weeks," answered Rachael, hastily. "But, dear child, you must not let this old lady stand between you and us. She may have more to give, but no one on earth can ever love you like us."

"Don't I know it? Is that the carriage? Dear me, how things are rushed forward this morning! Am I all right, mamma Rachael? Kiss me once more. What! tears in your eyes? I won't go a step if you don't stop crying! What do I care for Lady Carset, a cross old thing, and old as the hills!"

"Clara, I hear the carriage."

"So do I, papa; but what's the use of hurrying?"

"I wish your grandmother to know that I hold no enmity by my promptness in sending you."

"Oh, is that it? Well, good-bye, mamma Rachael. One more kiss—again—again! Now, good-bye in earnest."

Lady Hope left the room to hide her tears. Clara followed her father to the carriage.

"Poor, poor mamma! How pale and ill she was last night! Oh, papa, do kiss her good-bye for me just once again, when you go back."

Lord Hope turned a smiling look upon the girl, and she added, half in excuse:

"It breaks my heart to leave her so."

Lord Hope did not answer, but folded a cloak around his daughter, helped her into the carriage, and took a seat himself.

Margaret was already seated by the coachman.

"I understand well enough that I am not to travel with my young lady on her journey," she said; "but, so far as her way lies toward London, I am going. My sister wants me there, and I do just as lief be in a tomb as stay at Oakhurst when Lady Clara is away. So, as she is willing, I shall just leave her at the junction, and go up to London. That I can do in spite of the crabbed old thing at Houghton, who wants her at first all to herself."

This was said in confidence to the coachman, who muttered something under his breath about feeling uncommonly lonesome when Mistress Margaret was away from Oakhurst.

Directly after this the carriage drew up at the station, where a grim-looking woman of fifty stood ready to receive the young lady from the hands of her father.

It was not often that Lord Hope was known to exhibit any violent emotion; but Clara felt that he gave way a little when she threw her arms around his neck in parting—and Badger, after he opened the gate to let his master pass through, observed to Jules that something out of the common must be going on up yonder, for all night people had been going in and out like ghosts, and the master seemed like another man.