CHAPTER XIX.
AFTER THE FAILURE.
When Caroline reached home, after that involuntary retreat from the theatre, she went to her own room with Eliza, and falling upon the bed, lay perfectly still, so exhausted and crushed, that she scarcely breathed. She had disgraced herself, and she had seen him.
Alas, alas! he had witnessed her defeat, her bitter humiliation!
Why had she not told him before, that her mother was an actress, a singer, of whose reputation he had heard; that her own destiny must be guided by this woman, and could hardly have a higher aim than she had already reached. He would think that she had deceived him, and she had, but with no premeditation. She had honestly intended to tell him everything, but the suddenness of their departure from Italy had rendered all explanation impossible. What could she do but hide herself forever from him and the whole world? She forgot the bursts of applause that had followed the first effort of her voice, and sank everything together in one sweep of bitter shame.
"My darling! my poor darling!"
It was Brown who had crept into her room, crest-fallen and drooping, like a man stunned by some heavy blow. Caroline started up.
"Oh! my friend! You are sorry for me, yet I have disappointed you so; my heart aches! my heart aches! but what can I do?"
"Never mind," answered the tender-hearted man. "It was the fright, stage fright—a terrible thing; but it seldom comes twice. Why, that woman, your mother I mean, broke down over and over again, but the parts were so small, no one observed it enough to clap or hiss, while you sang like an angel, up to the very minute you fainted. I never saw anything like it."
Caroline sank back to her pillow, moaning. She was still in her theatrical costume, and its glitter sickened her.
"Don't take on so," persisted the kind musician. "It was not a failure. No one will consider it so. On the contrary, it can be made to tell, and your next appearance will be an ovation."
Caroline started to her elbow again.
"My next appearance! and you say that! You! you! Oh! Mr. Brown, I did not think you would turn against me!"
"Turn against you, my child?" Tears trembled in the man's voice, and the words quivered on his lips as he added: "My poor darling. Do you not know that old Brown would die for you?"
"Then keep me from the stage; snatch me from a life that I loathe. I tell you, all this is against my nature. I have no genius to carry me forward, no ambition, no hope. Oh! that is gone, quite."
"But it is an honorable profession," faltered Brown, in his distress. "Think how many noble geniuses have found immortality on the stage."
"I know it, I know it well; but they were led that way, heart and soul, while I have no wish for fame or anything that it could bring. What does a woman want with immortality—above all, a poor young girl like me, whose very heart trembles in her bosom, when a crowd of strange eyes are turned upon her, as they were on me to-night?"
"But you will soon get over that."
"No. I never shall. This one night has broken up my life, and well nigh killed me. Let what may come, I will starve rather than tread that stage again."
"Hush! dear, hush! This passion will make you worse."
"But I mean it, Eliza, and I say it here and now, when you and Mr. Brown, the only friends I have on earth, are standing by. Think for me, Eliza, and you also, my kind, kind guardian!"
"Ah, if I had the power," said Brown, answering Eliza's appealing look with a mournful shake of the head; "but the madame will never give her up."
"She must," said Caroline, kindling with desperate opposition: "I am not her slave. God does not give up the soul and conscience of a child to her mother."
"Especially one who never did a thing for her child, but left her for others to bring up," broke in Eliza, uttering a bitter truth, in her angry pity for the girl. "Mr. Brown, all that I have got to say is this: you and I must stand by this young cretur, let her do what she will. She is more our child than hers. I stand by that. If she don't want to put on this splendiferous dress again, why it shall not come within a rod of her. If her heart is set against singing on the stage, we are not the people to see her dragged there against her will. You stand by me, I'll stand by you, and we'll roll ourselves like a rock in that woman's way, if she attempts to force our child into the theatre again."
"But how can we oppose her? She has the power. We have not, at this moment, five pounds among us."
Eliza's face fell as if it had been suddenly unlocked.
"No more we have, and in a strange country, too," she said, dolefully.
Here Caroline joined in.
"But I can teach. If I please all those people, surely I can teach."
"Sure enough!" said Eliza, brightening a little. "What do you say to that, Mr. Brown?"
"We must take time. Perhaps there will be no cause for trouble. When it comes in earnest, you shall not fight alone, Eliza. So comfort yourself, my child. The old man would rather beg for bread on the highway than see you forced to anything that is so distasteful. Now try and sleep."
Brown bent down and smoothed the girl's hair with his hand. Then he turned from her with tears in his eyes, and crept out of the room.
Caroline followed him with wistful eyes until the door closed. Then she turned to Eliza.
"Oh! Eliza, do this one thing for me, if you can. Let, let no one come in to-night. I can endure no more."
"They'll have to knock me down and trample on me if they do, that is all," answered the hand-maiden. "My gracious! How I wish we were in our own little house again up in Sing-Sing."
"Oh! if we were!" sighed the girl. "Why did we ever leave it?"
"Because we were a couple of born fools, that's why!" answered the maid. "Born fools! and I the biggest, the oldest, the most outrageous fool of all! Wasn't we independent? Couldn't you have took scholars, and I washing by the dozen? Hadn't we the sweetest little garden in that whole town? such cabbages, such onions, and lettuce headed like cabbage, and tender as—as flowers! Whenever I get sick over these French dishes, I think of that garden, and the cow, and the shoat that knew me when I came to the pen with corn in my apron, and gave a little grunt, as if I'd been his sister. Then my heart turns back to the old home, like a sunflower, and I say to myself, You perposterous old maid, you! what did you let that poor young thing come from under that honest roof for? You was old enough to know better, if she wasn't; but you had an idea of seeing the world, of dressing up and being a lady's maid, of hearing whole crowds of young men stamp and clap and whistle over that innocent young cretur. You didn't think that she might faint dead away, and—and be brought home heart-broken. Home, indeed! as if this box of gilding could be a home to any American woman! It's perposterous!"
Here Eliza broke off with a half-uttered word on her lips, for her speech had brought the old home back so vividly to the heart-sick girl that she was sobbing upon her pillow like a child.
A little bustle down stairs, a knock at the door, and, as Eliza ran forward, Olympia pushed it open and came in.
She saw Caroline prostrate on the bed, with that delicate robe wrapped around and crushed under her, and the lace shawl falling from the pillow to the carpet, like a trail of frost.
The sight urged her into one of those quick passions that sometimes threw her whole household into consternation.
"Heavens! what extravagance!" she cried. "Does the creature know that lace like that is worth its weight in diamonds? A silk robe, too, which could not be purchased out of Paris, tumbled up in a wad, and one mass of wrinkles! I see! I see! the revenues of a duke would not meet such extravagance! Get up! Get up, I say! and if you must make a goose of yourself, do it at less cost!"
"Hush, madam! she's sick! She's broken-hearted!" retorted Eliza, turning fiercely red and planting herself before the shrinking girl.
"Well, she must break her heart in something less costly than a French dress worth thirty pounds, and point lace that cannot be got at any price! Just get up, my young lady, and do your crying in less expensive costume! The proper dress for tragedy is white muslin, but just now a night-gown will do."
Caroline arose without a word, and began to undress herself. She no longer shrank or trembled, for the indignant blood rushed to the surface, and pride gave her strength. Eliza took the robe as she cast it off, and folded it with an emphatic sweep of her hand.
"A pretty mess you have made of it," said Olympia, tossing the lace aside with her foot, and tearing it on the buckle of her shoe, "with your perverse obstinacy—broken up the most splendid debut I ever saw on any stage, and making yourself and your failure the town's talk! if the critics had not been my friends, the whole thing would have been utter ruination; and here you are, with cheeks like flame, looking as haughty as a duchess."
"I am not haughty or perverse," said Caroline, wiping the hot tears from her eyes, "but weary and ill."
"Ill! with that color?" sneered Olympia.
"It is fever," Eliza broke in. "Ten minutes ago she was white as the pillow. You are making her worse and worse, I can tell you that."
"And I can tell you that impudent tongue will lose you a good place within the next ten minutes, if it is not bridled and well curbed. I stand no nonsense from servants. Understand that!"
Caroline cast an imploring glance on her maid, who dashed both hands down upon the dress she was folding, and ground her teeth in silent rage, as Olympia finished the threat with a little snap of her slender fingers.
"What was the matter with you? I have had no chance to ask, with your countesses and duchesses swarming about, as if you had some acquaintances that your own mother could not reach! What came over you? I will know!"
"I was faint and frightened," said Caroline, in a low voice. "The whole thing broke me down."
"But there was something else. I will know it!"
Caroline was silent.
"Will you speak, miss?"
"I have nothing more to say. You could see how ill I was."
"But not the cause; it is that I wish to understand."
Caroline sat down on the side of her bed and remained silent, with her eyes on the floor. She had no answer to give.
"Will you tell the truth, or must I search it out? I was watching you; I saw your eyes and the man whose glance struck you down."
Caroline gave a start, and covered her face with both hands.
"What have you in common with young Lord Hilton?"
The hands dropped from that burning face, and two great, dilating eyes, in which the tears stood, were turned on the angry woman.
"Young Lord Hilton! I do not know him."
The words came faintly from the girl's lips—she was bewildered.
"Why did he drop his glass and bend over the box with that look in his face, then? Why did you start and trample back on your train? Why did you give him that piteous glance just as your eyes closed? The audience might not have seen it, but I did, I did."
"I—I do not understand," faltered the girl.
"Do not understand, miss!"
"How should I, not knowing the person you speak of?"
"Don't lie to me, girl! I am an old bird, and have had my own flights too often not to understand a look when I see it. You have met that man before—I don't know where or how, but you have."
"You speak of a person I never saw or heard of," answered the girl, trembling with inward doubt; "how can I tell you anything about him?"
Olympia almost believed her, and, for once, her acute penetration was baffled; but a doubt remained, and she turned to Eliza.
"If you know anything about this, tell me now; it will be better for her and for you."
"I haven't anything to tell, Mrs. Olympia; not a thing!"
"Was any one admitted to the house near Florence?"
"Yes, ma'am, there was."
"Well, a young gentleman?"
"Yes; one young un, and another, older."
"Who were they?"
"The man who taught her how to speak Italian and the music fellow."
"Only those two?"
"Not another soul came or went while we stayed in that house."
"And she conversed with no one on the way?"
"Not a soul."
Olympia turned to go out. She was not convinced; having no truth in herself she found no power of faith in others; but, for the time, the blunt honesty of the servant and proud sincerity of the girl silenced her, and she went out, muttering:
"I shall get at the bottom of it yet."
Then Caroline turned to Eliza:
"Can it be? I saw no other."
"I haven't a doubt of it," said Eliza. "I always mistrusted him for an Englishman."
CHAPTER XX.
LORD HILTON TAKES SUPPER WITH OLYMPIA.
She had fallen ill. The prima donna of a single hour was lying in Olympia's bijou of a house, struggling with a nervous fever. The whole town had been made aware of the mournful fact; for the manager had spread the news broadcast through the journals, thus displacing disappointment with such overwhelming sympathy as the distress of beauty and genius is sure to excite. For more than a week, now, the prevailing topic had been this young girl; first the promise of a brilliant debut, then the momentary triumph and sudden breakdown; now came the news of her illness, true, in so much that she was seriously ill, but exaggerated into a romance which gave her out as dying with a shock of a too sensitive nature.
Olympia sang gloriously to crowded houses. In the romance woven around this young girl her parentage had been hinted at, and the practiced woman of the stage had managed to turn the public rumor into popularity for herself.
She had taken up the opera where Caroline had sunk down, and carried it triumphantly forward, filling the world with admiration of herself and sympathy for the girl.
On the morning when Caroline's illness was made public, some young men were seated in the window of a club-house, and one of them threw down the Times with an impatient movement.
"So we are not to have this new singer again to-morrow night or the next," he said. "Here is Olympia's name in the bills, while the other is ill with something on the brain or nerves."
"All a sham, to enhance the public interest, I dare say," answered another, taking up the journal. "There is nothing these musical people will not do for popularity. But it really was not needed here; the girl has beauty enough to carry her forward, even without her glorious voice. For my part, I am all in a fever to see her again."
A young man sat in this circle, apparently occupied by the panorama drifting through the streets. As the conversation went on, the color came and went in his face, and his eyes began to burn; but he said nothing, while the others went on:
"Who is the girl? what is her real name? Some say she is an American; others, that she is Olympia's own daughter, to whom all names are alike; but, then, where was the woman Olympia born? Now and then a word drops from the pretty lips which is purely American; but then she has been all over the world, and has gathered something from all nations, so that one can never make a true guess about her."
"Does this girl look like her?" inquired one of the young men, who had not been at the opera last night.
"No, not exactly," was the answer. "She is taller, more queenly, in fact; quite a different style. This new girl is superb."
"While Olympia is simply bewildering, changeable as the sky, erratic as a comet. We all understand Olympia."
The young man, who had kept silent till now, joined in the conversation, but his voice was constrained, and a little husky.
"Who is this woman, Olympia?"
The other young men laughed at the question.
"Who is Olympia? Why, the most bewitching, unprincipled, delightful bit of wickedness that has been thrown on the world for years. Don't tell us that you are to learn anything of Olympia at this time."
"I have heard of her, and seen her too, but only as a singer. What I ask is about her life, her principles, her character as a woman."
"And you ask that of us, my dear fellow? What nonsense! Have we not said that she is an actress?"
"Well, what then? An actress may be well-principled, honest, honorable, and modest, too, as any woman living. I asked if this woman, Olympia, the patroness, mother, or what you will, of this new singer, is one of these?"
"Don't ask any of us to endorse or condemn Olympia. We know that she gives the most delicious little suppers in the world, sings like a siren, smiles like an angel, and gets more and more fascinating as she grows older, as fruit ripens with age. No one ever thinks of asking her how old she is, or where she was born. It is enough that her beauty is in its summer, her voice perfect, and that she, who perhaps reigned over our fathers, holds us as her slaves. As for honor, dignity, principle, and all that, my dear fellow, who ever expects such things in a woman like our Olympia?"
"Yet she has had the training of this new singer."
"Training? Why it is said that the girl is really her own daughter."
"I heard you say as much," answered the young man, drily.
Then another voice broke in.
"You seem so much interested in these people, Hilton,—why not go and see for yourself? I will introduce you."
"When?"
"To-night. The Olympia has a little supper after the opera."
"But I thought the young lady was ill."
"Oh! that will make no difference. Olympia is a woman to enjoy herself, if Death sat next door. She will be certain to have her little supper. Will you go? Is it an engagement? If so, I will send her a note."
"Yes, I will go."
That night Olympia held high festival at her pretty house, which overlooked one of the loveliest parks in London. Among her guests was young Lord Hilton, the grandson of one of the proudest old earls in the kingdom.
Olympia was delighted at the presence of this man, who had never before been lured into her circle.
She had another reason for her satisfaction. The look which had disturbed her still preyed on her mind. She had a keen desire to learn how far it had relation to the young girl who lay ill up-stairs. In order, if possible, to inform herself, she selected the young man to sit next her at table, and artfully led the conversation to the night of Caroline's failure.
"You were present," she said, "that night. Was ever success more perfect, or failure more complete? It drove me wild!"
"I was present," said Hilton, very quietly, for he felt her eyes upon him with that slow, sidelong glance that has so much cunning in it, and this put him on his guard.
"She was coming out so magnificently," said Olympia, still vigilant, but with the white lids drooping over her eyes, "when, all of a sudden, her voice broke, and she fell. It must have been something in the audience."
"Perhaps," said the young man; "but what? I was looking at her all the time, and saw nothing. In fact, the house was very still. I have seldom seen a crowd so breathless."
Olympia turned one long glance on that face, and saw it was immovable in all the strong, but finely-cut features. Her suspicions grew weaker now, and she gave her attention more generally to the guests, who were becoming a little impatient of the exclusive attention paid to Lord Hilton; but the craft of this woman was as deep as her feelings were superficial. She could not quite throw off the idea that, in some way, this very person had been the cause of her defeat, and that his visit to her house that night would end in some effort to obtain an interview with the young creature who lay so ill up-stairs.
But she was mistaken. Hilton asked no questions, made no effort to draw her out, but drifted into the general conversation pleasantly enough, until the supper was near its close, and the wines had begun to do their work.
Then the entertainment swept into an orgie; tongues were loosened, eyes brightened and swam in moisture.
Snatches of bacchanalian songs broke from the laughing lips of Olympia.
She had been in a little awe of her new guest; but now her real nature broke out. Her wit sparkled like the champagne with which her red lips were continually moist; her eyes shone under the droop of those long white lids. She grew confidential with the young noble, and was easily led by the cool, versatile man, into conversation that she would have stubbornly avoided earlier in the evening. In one of her bold snatches of song she rounded off with a rollicking impromptu, which carried all the richness and force of her voice with it. This threw the whole company into a tumult of applause, but Hilton sat quietly and looked on, with a smile of supreme contempt quivering about his lips.
"Ha," said Olympia, filling his glass with her own hands, "you neither drink nor care for my singing. It is only the youth and beauty of my daughter that can move Lord Hilton."
Her daughter! The face of the young man turned white, and his lips closed sharply. He looked at the woman by his side, the flushed cheeks, the soft, slumbrous eyes, with absolute repulsion. He hated the very thought that the young creature he had found, like a bird, in that sweet Italian home, could belong in anything to a woman like that. Still, she had, in her reckless inadvertency, called her daughter, and though the very idea drove the blood to his heart, it was only by a cold pallor that the shock this one word had given to him was visible.
"Your daughter is very beautiful," he said, in a low voice.
"Did I call Caroline my daughter? Oh, well, it is no matter—the truth will out sometime, though I would rather wait till her success is assured. When she becomes famous, I shall glory in claiming her; but let me warn you, it is a secret as yet. You will understand. One does not care to own a girl as tall as that while the gloss is on one's hair. Nothing but the most wonderful success will induce me to acknowledge her before the world."
"But if she is your child—"
"I have said that she is my child; but it is a secret, and I did not mean to talk about it. Tell me, now, did you discover no likeness?"
"I did not observe."
"Still, they think her so beautiful."
Lord Hilton made no answer. The conversation had become irksome to him; but some person at the table took the last word from Olympia's lips and repeated it aloud.
"Beautiful! You must be speaking of our new prima donna. In my opinion she is perfect; but you, Lord Hilton, have only seen her from the stage—can form no idea of her loveliness, or of her voice either. There was nothing, the other night, that could compare with her singing at our little supper here. Besides, her beauty, to be appreciated, must be seen close. There is not a fault in her face or form, I can assure you."
Lord Hilton's face flushed angrily, then a slow whiteness crept over it again, and he bent his head, unable to speak. The task he had imposed on himself had become terribly painful.
Olympia was not particularly pleased with this high praise of another, though all her ambitious hopes lay in the success of the person on whom these encomiums were lavished. She began to shake up the sparkles in her wine by swaying the glass to and fro with her hand, and a sullen frown crept over her face.
"She is obstinate as a mule," she muttered; "tall and proud as Lucifer—not at all like me. But they will rave about her beauty, just as if she were more likely to live than to die."
"What did you say?" cried Lord Hilton, sharply; "die! die! Is there any danger? Is she so ill?"
Olympia lifted her sleepy eyelids and flashed a suspicious glance at him.
"Ah!" she exclaimed; "are you there! I thought so."
"You are not answering me," was the cold reply.
"You asked if there existed any danger, and I answer, yes. Did you think we were practicing stage effects in the journals? My poor Caroline is ill—very ill."
"And what made her ill?"
"What made her break down, after such glorious promise? Why, after she sang before my friends here, as fresh as a lark, and drove them all so wild that I, Olympia, was almost overlooked? There never were such expectations; but see how it ended—a total failure, and brain fever."
"Did you say brain fever?"
The young man scarcely spoke above a breath.
"Yes, it is on the brain, or the nerves, I am not quite sure which; but the doctors look terribly grave when I ask them about her, and speak as if she would die."
"Would to God she might die!" exclaimed the young man, trembling from head to foot with a burst of agitation that would not be suppressed longer.
"What—What?" exclaimed Olympia, starting back in affright. The glass fell from her hold, and a rivulet of amber-hued wine flashed along the snow of the table-cloth while she sat gazing upon the young lord.
"Excuse me; I was thinking of something else," he said, with a strong effort of self-control. "May I presume on your favor, and steal away, now? The rest will not miss me, I think."
Olympia nodded her head hastily. The spilled wine was dripping on her dress, so she started up, and Lord Hilton withdrew while she was shaking the drops from its silken folds, and creating general confusion by her laughing outcries.
Lord Hilton looked back as he crossed the passage, and shuddered at the picture of riotous luxury that supper-table presented.
"And she was among them, in a scene like that," he said, as the door closed after him.
CHAPTER XXI.
ON THE WAY TO HOUGHTON CASTLE.
At the junction of the railroad where Margaret changed cars for London, a young man, who had just arrived by the train, took the seat left vacant, and arranged himself comfortably for a protracted journey. Lady Clara watched him with some interest, and more than once caught a glance from his fine eyes as they wandered from the pages of his novel and dwelt upon her own bright face. Clara had been left to her own devices while preparing for her journey, and the antique attendant who had been sent to protect her was grievously scandalized by the jaunty little sailor's hat and double-breasted jacket which she had selected for her travelling costume. But the woman had been bred to almost abject subservience, and had no idea of venturing upon spoken criticism or advice. She was greatly troubled, however, about the impression this singular costume might produce on her old mistress, and felt really shocked when she saw the half-puzzled, half-amused expression of their fellow-passenger's face, as his eyes first encountered the future countess.
By-and-by the old woman fell into deeper consternation, for she began to remember that handsome face, in spite of the brown beard that curved like a bow over the upper lip, and swept down toward his bosom in soft, silken waves that a child would long to bury its little hands in.
"It is Lord Hilton, the grandson of the old earl," she muttered, in silent consternation; "and to see her like this, after all the mistress has been planning, is terrible to think of."
The young man had been so much occupied with the younger and prettier face that any regard for that of the old servant was impossible; but after a while his eyes fell on those hard outlines, and he gave a start of recognition which made the old lady move restlessly in her seat.
"Why, Mrs. Judson, is it possible that I find you so far from home!" he exclaimed. "What can possibly have come over the old lady that she is willing to part with you for a journey long or short?"
"My lady is not so well as we were when you left this neighborhood for foreign parts, my lord. Indeed, I am much afraid you will find her greatly altered. She is now almost entirely confined to her room."
"I am sorry to hear that. Lady Carset is, after all, an aged woman; but it would be mournful to see her broken down. Let me think. She is quite as old, if not older, than my grandfather, is she not?"
"There is not a year between them, I have heard my father say," answered Judson, with a prim consciousness of the delicate subject they had trenched upon; "not that I know of myself."
"Certainly not. But my grandfather—it is some weeks since I heard of him."
"The earl is quite well, my lord. He was at the castle only last week, and spent a long morning with my lady."
"Indeed!" muttered the young man. "That probably accounts for my summons home."
"She had been uncommonly anxious for a long time, and at last sent for him to come and see her."
"Very natural. They are old friends."
"Then, my lord, she sent me on this journey—not that I came alone. The steward is on the train. My lady would not permit her grand-daughter to travel with but one attendant."
"I beg pardon, my lord, but this young lady is Lord Hope's daughter."
Hilton lifted his hat and met Lady Clara's look of smiling surprise with a courteous bend of the head, but her quick eye caught the sudden glow that swept his face, and wondered at it. She wondered still more when a grave expression followed the blush; and, instead of making himself agreeable, he opened the novel that lay on the seat, and seemed to be occupied by its pages, though she remarked, with an inward chuckle, that he never turned a page.
After a while the young man laid down his book, wearily, and Clara saw his chest heave slowly as he breathed a long, deep, but unconscious sigh.
"He is in trouble, like me," was her quick thought. "Perhaps his grandfather is a hard, cruel old man, and drives everything he loves out of doors, without caring how he may feel about it, or perhaps—"
Clara might have gone on conjecturing all sorts of possibilities; but that moment the train stopped at a small town, and close by the station she saw an old woman, with a pile of crimson-cheeked peaches and some pears on a table beside her. An exclamation broke from her, and she leaned eagerly forward just as the carriage-door was unlocked.
"Oh, how splendid! such peaches! such pears!" she exclaimed, feeling in the pocket of her sacque for some loose money, which she usually carried there. "Oh! Margaret—"
Here she turned to the woman next her, and blushed with vexation when she remembered that Margaret was no longer there to take her commands.
"Dear me! I forgot. No matter. Oh, mercy! what have I done?"
She had done nothing but what was most likely to obtain her object, for Lord Hilton had pushed open the door, leaped out, and in a minute or two returned with his hands full of the peaches and pears she had craved so. She was blushing scarlet when he came back and dropped the luscious fruit into her lap, as if they had been acquainted fifty years.
"Oh, you are too kind! I did not mean—I did not expect; but please eat some yourself. Here is a splendid one. Mrs. Judson, take pears or peaches, just as you like—delicious!"
The mellow sound of this last word was uttered as her white teeth sank into the crimson side of a peach, and for the next minute she said nothing, but gave herself up to a child-like ecstasy of enjoyment, for the road was dusty, and this luxurious way of quenching her thirst was far too sweet for words. Besides, her companions were just as pleasantly employed. She saw the young man wiping a drop of amber juice from his beard, and wondered where the Abigail found her self-command as she watched her slowly peeling one of the finest pears with a silver fruit-knife which she took from her traveling satchel.
"Splendid, aint they?" she said, at length, leaning forward and tossing a peach-stone out of the window, while she searched the golden and crimson heap with her disengaged hand for another peach, mellow and juicy as the last. "I had no idea anything on earth could be so delightful. We had breakfast so early, and I do believe I was almost hungry. Oh, how pleasant it must be when one is really famished!"
Here Clara cast another peach-stone through the window, and began to trifle with a pear, just as Judson cut a dainty slice from the fruit she had been preparing. Clara laughed, and reached a handful of fruit over to the gentleman who had made her a gift of the whole. He received it cheerfully—in fact, it was quite impossible for any man under thirty to have spent a half hour in that young girl's society without feeling the heart in his bosom grow softer and warmer.
"What a lovely day it is!" she said, tossing off her hat, and leaning forward, that the wind might blow on her face, which at the moment had all the sweet blooming freshness of a child's. "I wonder if the country is as green and fresh as this, where we are going?"
"Ah, I can answer you. It is far more beautiful. Houghton Castle is among the hills. The park is like a forest, and in the valley you can see a river, winding in and out like gleams of quicksilver. A grand old place is Houghton Castle, let me answer you, Lady Clara."
Clara shook her head, and drew back in her seat.
"I wish, from the bottom of my heart, that the dear old lady could just take the title and the castle with her."
She seemed very much in earnest, and pulled the sailor's hat down over her eyes, to conceal the tears, that were filling them with moisture.
Lord Hilton was surprised. He had certainly intended to interest the young lady by a description of the noble place that would some day be hers.
"Ah, wait till you have seen Houghton. It is one of the finest old strongholds in the kingdom. The only wonder is that Cromwell, that magnificent old hypocrite, happened to spare it. When Lady Carset stands upon her own battlements, she can scarcely see the extent of her lands. A very wealthy lady is the old countess."
Clara all at once began to wonder how it happened that the man was giving her so much knowledge about her own near relative. How did he know that her information did not equal his own?
"You live near Houghton, I suppose?" she said.
"Yes; when the flag is up, we can see it plainly enough from my grandfather's place."
Clara brightened out of her momentary depression. If she were compelled to stay long at Houghton, it would be pleasant to meet this handsome and pleasant young man. How kind he had been about the fruit. With what genial sunshine his eyes dwelt upon her, as he sought to interest her about the place to which she was going. Judson was not so well pleased. She had some doubts of the propriety of permitting these young persons to drop into such familiar conversation, with no more impressive introduction than the chance courtesies of a railroad car.
True, she had known the young man when he was quite a child, and liked him, as well as her prim habits and narrow channel of thought would permit; but nothing in her experience had taught her how to act in an emergency like that.
The young people had given her no opportunity for reflection, but plunged into an acquaintance at once. The whole thing troubled her greatly, but what could she do?
There they sat, face to face, eating peaches together, talking of the scenery, laughing now and then, again and again half quarreling, as if a dozen years had ripened the acquaintance between them. It quite took away her appetite for the fruit, and she clasped her little silver knife, with a helpless sigh, and dropping both hands into her lap, wondered what on earth she could do, and of course did nothing.
The young people forgot all about the prim Abigail, and went on with their conversation; but after awhile a shade of sadness crept over both those young faces. Their hearts wandered off into serious reveries, and for a time they became unconscious of each other's presence.
Clara was thinking of that night, which now seemed far, far away, but was, in fact, scarcely twenty-four hours back in her life—of the words that were spoken, the promises given, and sealed with kisses, which seemed burning on her lips even yet.
Oh! where was he now, the man whom she loved so entirely, and whose humiliation made her heart ache, and burn with sorrow and wrath every time she thought of it? Would he hold to his faith with her, after such scornful treatment from her father? Where would he go? Where was he now? He had been a wanderer always, and had found himself sufficient to himself.
After he saw her the first idea of rest and a permanent home had opened new vistas of hope to him. He had found the one thing that had hitherto been denied to his existence—found it only to be driven from the light that had dawned upon him, like a trespassing dog.
Clara's heart swelled as she thought of all this, and all at once the prim Abigail was astonished out of all propriety by a burst of sobs from the corner in which Clara had retreated.
The young man looked up and came out of his own melancholy thoughts, just as Mrs. Judson had drawn forth her smelling-bottle and was pressing it upon the girl, who averted her face and sobbed out, piteously:
"Oh! let me alone—please let me alone!"
Judson retreated backward to her place in the opposite corner, while the young man motioned her to remain quiet, and let the pretty creature sob out her grief unmolested.
At last Clara had wept her sudden burst of sorrow away, and became conscious of her own strange conduct. She pushed back her hat, drew the soft gauze streamers across her eyes, and burst into a sobbing laugh, exquisitely childlike, but which Judson could not in the least understand.
"I'm afraid I am getting homesick," she said. "I never was so far from Oakhurst before, and, until this morning, you know, I had never seen either of your faces, but all that need not make such an absurd baby of me."
Mrs. Judson unfolded a fine pocket handkerchief and held it toward the girl, with the most anxious look possible to imagine.
"Wipe your eyes, dear young lady, wipe your eyes. We are coming to Houghton, and I would not have you seen with that face for the world."
"Yes," said the young man, looking out, "yonder is Houghton Castle."
CHAPTER XXII.
THE OLD COUNTESS.
"I will see her now, Judson." The old lady of Houghton came out from her dressing-room as she said this.
She had a little cap of gossamer lace and silver ribbon on that shaking head, and tied a girdle of silken cord around the floating folds of her cashmere morning robe, which would better have concealed the attenuated figure underneath, had it been permitted to float loose, as it had done. But the dainty old lady still felt a stir of feminine pride in her toilet, and though the exertion took away all her strength, she had made these pretty additions to her dress, rather than meet her grandchild, for the first time, in the disarray of an invalid.
She repeated this, panting for breath, as she sank down to the couch in her favorite tower-chamber, and took the delicate handkerchief of lace and cambric, on which Judson had just dropped some pungent perfume.
Judson left the room; directly the red curtain parted again, and behind the grim waiting-maid came a young girl, flushed with excitement and rosy with perfect health, but so strangely dressed that the old countess uttered a little exclamation of surprise, mingled perhaps with a little displeasure. The jaunty hat with its blue streamers, the double-breasted jacket, glittering with buttons, took away her breath.
Lady Clara hesitated a moment, took off her hat hurriedly, like a naughty boy, and came forward with an easy step, as if she had been in a forest, and the high heels of her pretty boots trampling down wood moss, instead of the tangle of flowers in that sumptuous carpet.
The old lady sat gazing on her full half a minute. The girl flushed crimson under the steady look of those brown eyes, turned around and gave her hat a toss to Judson, who let it fall in her astonishment at the audacious act, and came forward, half-indignant, half-crying.
"Grandmother!"
As that fresh, young voice fell upon her, the old countess reached forth her hand.
"My child!"
The old voice was faint, but kind. Lovely as that young creature was, she brought sadness and disappointment with her. The prejudice of years is not easily swept away from the mind of an aged woman, whatever her strength of character may be. This girl was the step-daughter of the governess she had so long detested, and she seemed to bring the atmosphere of a hated place with her. Perhaps she had expected a more stately bearing in her daughter's child.
A chair had been drawn up to the couch by the thoughtful Judson, and the countess made a gentle motion that her grand-daughter should occupy it.
Clara sat down, feeling nervous and very miserable; for those eyes followed her with mournful curiosity, which the high-spirited girl mistook for criticism.
"I dare say that I am not so handsome or so good as my poor mother was, but she loved me dearly, everybody says that, and for her sake you might be glad I am here, grandmother, especially as you sent for me."
As Clara said this, tears swelled from those blue eyes that had been slowly filling, and dropped to her cheeks like rain upon damask roses. This appeal, so childlike in its passion, lifted the old countess out of her seeming apathy. She arose, laid her hands on that young head and kissed the flushed forehead.
The moment Clara felt the touch of those tender lips, she threw both arms around the shadowy old woman, and broke forth.
"Oh, grandmother, grandmother, don't stop to think about it, but let me love you! I want to so much, for without that I shall be awfully homesick."
The old lady's heart beat as it had not done for years. Never, since her only child went forth from those proud walls a bride, had any one dared to claim her love, or speak to her as one free soul speaks to another. In the haughty isolation of her rank, she had almost forgotten that equality could ever be claimed of her. The very audacity of this cry for affection stirred the old lady's pride like a trumpet.
"There speaks the Carset blood," she said, appealing to the grim hand-maiden who stood by; "always ready to give and bold to claim just rights. My grandchild is of the true stock, you see. God bless her and love her as I will!"
"There, now, that is very kind of you, grandmamma, and you are just the dearest, sweetest and queenliest lady that ever made a poor girl happy, when she was, in fact, homesick as death. The truth is, mamma Rachael spoils me so completely with her great love, and—but, oh! I forgot you can't bear mamma Rachael. Dear me! I am always getting into scrapes. Does that belong to the Carset blood, I wonder?"
The waiting-maid stood petrified when the old countess broke into a soft, pleasant laugh, at what she deemed the insolent familiarity of this speech. "Did you hear that?" she exclaimed, wiping the moisture from her eyes, and increasing the vibrations of her head.
"Who but a Carset would dare ask such questions? Getting into scrapes, child; why there never was a family so reckless or so independent. That is, I speak of the males, remember! the ladies of the house—but you will see in the picture gallery, and judge for yourself. No commonplace women can be found among the Carset ladies. Some of them, my child, have intermarried with Royalty itself. You are the last of the line, Lady Clara."
Clara turned pale. She thought of Hepworth Closs, and how far he was removed from royalty; but with no thought of faithlessness in her heart. She was very sure that the next Lord of Houghton would wear neither crown or coronet—but, like a wise girl, she sat still and said nothing.
The old countess was very feeble. Notwithstanding the excitement, which left a tremulous pink on her withered cheeks, the strength began to fail from her limbs. Gathering up her feet upon the couch, she closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, Lady Clara was bending toward her with a look of tender anxiety that went to the old lady's heart. A soft smile stole over her lips, and she held out her hand.
"Go to your room, my child."
Clara stooped down and kissed that delicate mouth with her own blooming lips.
"Sleep well, grandmother," she whispered; "I will come back again by-and-by, after I have seen the other ladies in the picture-gallery."
Clara picked up her hat, and was going out on tip-toe, when Judson laid a long, lean hand on her arm, and addressed her in one of those shrill whispers, which penetrate more surely than words.
"Don't wear that thing into my lady's presence again," she said. "Did you see her eyes, when they first fell upon it?"
"What, my poor little hat? Has grandmamma really taken a dislike to that? I am so sorry."
The old countess opened her eyes, and rose on one elbow among her cushions.
"Let the child alone, Judson. The hat is well enough, and she looked very pretty in it."
"Nobby, isn't it, grandmamma?" said Clara, tossing the hat to her head, and shaking down the blue streamers; "and I'm so fond of it."
"Judson," said the old countess, "do not attempt to judge for your mistress at this time of day. No one but a Carset could wear a thing like that, without looking vulgar; but you saw what an air she gave it."
Judson was astounded. She had absolutely trembled, when that round hat came into the room, in defiance of the faint protest which she had ventured to make.
"I was afraid, my lady, that a dress like that might set you against the young lady."
"Set me against my own grandchild, and she so unmistakably a Carset! I am surprised, Judson."
"I am sure there was no idea in my mind of giving offense. She is a pretty young lady enough."
"Pretty! Are you speaking of that charming young creature, with the air of a duchess and the heart of a child, only to say that she is pretty?"
"Did I say pretty, my lady, when I think her so beautiful?"
"All the more beautiful, Judson, for not being so tall as some of the ladies of our house. She owes nothing to size. Perhaps you have remarked, Judson, that those of the purest Carset blood have never been large women."
A sweet, complacent smile quivered around those old lips, as the countess settled back among her cushions. She, a petite creature, had Carset blood in her veins from both parents, and in her youth she had been distinguished among the most beautiful women of England. She was thinking of those days, when those withered eyelids closed again, and they followed her softly into her sleep, which the grim maid watched with the faithfulness of a slave.
Meantime Clara went into the long picture gallery, and there among a crowd of statues, and deeply-toned pictures by the old masters, made the acquaintance of her stately ancestors, and of the ladies who had one and all been peeresses in their own right—an access of rank, prized almost like a heritage of royalty by the old lady in the tower-chamber.
No one had gone with the young heiress into the gallery, for, with her childish wilfulness, she had preferred to go alone, and single out the Carset ladies by their resemblance to the old countess.
All at once she stopped before the picture of a lady, whose face struck her with a sudden sense of recognition. She looked at it earnestly—the golden brown hair, the downcast eyes, the flowing white dress. Across the mind of that wondering girl, came the shadow of another woman upon a white bed, with hair and eyes like those; but wide open, and to her lips came two words, "My Mother!"
CHAPTER XXIII.
EXPLANATIONS AND CONCESSIONS.
It often happens that a proud, austere person, so grounded in opinions and prejudices as to be considered above and beyond ordinary influences, will all at once, give heart and reason up to passionate or capricious fondness for some individual—often a very child—and yield everything to persuasion when reason is utterly rejected.
Indeed, few people like to be convinced; but the strongest mind ever bestowed on man or woman finds something gratifying to self-love in the persuasive enticements of affection.
This singular moral phenomenon astonished the neighbors and household of Lady Carset when she gave herself up, with the abandon of a child, to the caressing young creature, who had, it seemed, appeared in her home to win her back from the very brink of the grave, and make the sunset of her long life brighter with love than the dawn had been.
There was nothing in the young girl which did not seem beautiful to the old relative. Her originality, which made the well-trained servants stare, seemed the perfection of piquant grace to one whose fastidious tastes had been an example to the whole neighborhood. In her estimation Lady Clara could do nothing which was not in itself loveliest and best. The old lady had been so long without an object of affection, that her love of this girl became almost a monomania.
"I have an atonement to make," she would say to herself in excuse for this extraordinary and most pleasant subjugation; "for years and years I have driven this young creature from me because of what, I am almost convinced, were unfounded suspicions against her father and that woman. It is but just that I should accept my grandchild with generous confidence; and she deserves it—she deserves it."
After reasoning in this fashion awhile the repentant old lady would rack her brain for some new device by which this bright creature, who had come like a sunbeam into her house, might be persuaded never to leave it again. It was not altogether the selfishness of affection that actuated this honorable woman. It was hard to believe that a Carset could have acted unjustly, or even be mistaken; but, once convinced of that, her very pride insisted on a generous atonement. Never in her life had she been so humiliated as when the sight of those diamonds convinced her of the cruel charge which she had maintained for years against a person innocent of the offence imputed to her. She remembered, with compunction, how much harm she had done this woman, whose greatest fault now seemed to be that Lord Hope had married her.
Her own example had sufficed to exclude Lady Hope from the society to which her husband's rank entitled her, and her open expressions of dislike had cast a ban upon the stepmother, which had, to an extent, reacted on her own grandchild.
These thoughts troubled the proud old peeress a long time before she gave them expression; but, one day, Clara sat by her, looking a little sad, for, now that the excitement of her first coming was over, she began to think of Hepworth Closs—to wonder where he was, and yearn for some news of him to a degree that clouded her whole bright being like a feeling of homesickness.
"Poor child!" thought the old lady, while her soft, brown eyes dwelt upon that downcast face, as it bent over a piece of embroidery in which a cactus-flower formed the chief central glory; "how weary and troubled she looks! No wonder, poor thing! half her time is spent here with a stupid old woman, shut up so long from the world that she is but dull company for any one. I wonder if the thing which is upon my mind would really make her happy?"
"Clara."
The girl started. She had been so lost in thought that those bright eyes had been watching her some minutes, while she unconsciously pursued her work, and indulged in a reverie which was shadowed upon her features.
"Clara, you have not told me much about your stepmother."
"But I think of her; I was thinking of her then. Indeed, indeed, grandmamma, I always must love mamma Rachael, for she has been everything that is good and kind to me—I only wish you could understand how kind. If I know anything it is because she taught me."
"Among other things, perhaps she taught you to hate that cruel old Lady Carset," said the countess, a little suspiciously.
"No, grandmamma, no. She never said anything to make me dislike you; but I did—it was terribly wicked; but how could I help it, loving her so, and knowing that it was you that stood in the way of all she most desired in life? Remember, grandmamma, I had never seen you, and I loved her dearly. It was hard to see her overlooked and put down by people who were not fit to buckle her shoes, all because you would not like her."
"And you will always love her better than the cruel old lady?"
"Cruel! How can you? There never was a sweeter, kinder, or more lovely old darling in the world than you are! but then she is good, too, and so unhappy at times, it almost breaks my heart to look in her face."
"And you think I have made her so?"
"I think you might make her very happy, if you only would, grandmamma."
"Would that make you happy, little one?"
The old lady reached out her little, withered hand, and patted Clara's fingers, as they paused in her work, while she spoke. The girl's face brightened. She seized the little hand between her rosy palms, and pressed it to her lips.
"Oh, grandmamma! can you mean it?"
"I always mean to be just, Clara."
"Then you will be very, very kind to her?"
"Does your father love this woman?"
"Love her? Oh, yes! but this thing has come a little between them. She has grown shy of going out, while he must be in the world; and all her life seems to vanish when he is away. Sometimes it makes my heart ache to think how much she loves him."
"But he loves you?"
"Almost as much as mamma Rachael does. He was never cross to me but once."
"And then?"
Clara turned pale, and took up her needle.
"I would rather not talk about that just now. You might be more angry than my father was."
"It would be very difficult for me to get angry with you, little one."
"But you would, if I were to be very obstinate, and insist on having my own way about—about something—that—that—"
The old lady's face grew very serious. She understood, these signs, and they troubled her; but she was feeble, and shrank from any knowledge that would bring excitement with it.
"Some day we will talk of all that," she said, with a little weary closing of the eyes.
Clara drew a deep breath. See had been on the verge of making a confidante of the old lady, and felt a sense of relief when the subject was thus evaded.
The countess opened her eyes again.
"Clara," she said, "bring my writing-table here. We will not trouble ourselves to ring for Judson."
Clara dropped her embroidery, and brought the sofa-table, with all its exquisite appointments for writing. The old lady sat upright on her couch, took the pen, and began to write on the creamy note-paper her grandchild had placed before her. Clara watched that slender hand as it glided across the paper, leaving delicate, upright letters perfect as an engraving, as it moved. When the paper was covered, she folded the missive with dainty precision, selected an envelope, on which her coronet was entangled in a monogram, and was about to seal it with a ring, which she took from her finger; but recollecting herself, she drew the letter out, and handed it to Clara, with a smile that kindled her whole face.
Clara read the letter, threw her arms around the old lady, and covered her faces with kisses.
"Oh, grandmamma, you are too good! Do you—do you really mean it? Ah, this is happiness!"
"You shall help me make out the invitations. There was a time when Houghton had no empty chambers. It will go hard, my dear, if we cannot find entertainment for your father and the lady he has married. On that day, Clara, I will present you to the world as my grandchild and heiress."
"Not yet! oh, not yet! Wait till you know more of me."
"Hush! hush! This is not my only object. If I have wronged your stepmother, or neglected your father, the whole country shall see that a Carset knows how to make reparation. Lady Hope, too, shall be presented to my friends as an honored guest. This entertainment will be my last, but they shall find that the old countess knows how to receive her guests."
"Grandmother, you are an—an—. You are just the sweetest old lady that ever drew breath! If you were to live a thousand years, I should love you better and better every day! To see you and Lady Hope together will be splendid! And they are to stay at Houghton a month. By that time you will love each other dearly."
Clara took up her work again, but the needle flashed like a thread of lightning in her unsteady fingers. She could not work after this glorious news.
The old lady smiled blandly, and sank down among her cushions, exhausted.
"Go out and take a walk in the park," she said, observing that Clara was fluttering over her embroidery like a bird in its cage. "It will do you good, and I will try to sleep a little."