The Old Countess; or, The Two Proposals

"Her picture."

"Was it that? Oh! was it only that?"

"It is there—her picture—life size; and so like that I would not look on it for the world."

"But what carried me there, Norton? On this night, too, when I have been honored, as your wife should be for the first time! when her mother has taken me by the hand and lifted the cloud from my name! Ah, Norton! Norton! it was glory to me when I saw your eyes kindle, and answer back to mine, as the noblest of the land crowded round to do me homage. Then I knew that the old love was perfect yet. Oh, Destiny is cruel, that it will not let me have one perfect day!"

"After all, it was but a picture. Why allow it to distress you so?"

Lord Hope took her hands in his. She did not shrink from his touch now, as she had in her abnormal sleep; but he felt her palms growing warm, and saw the light coming back to her eyes, where it had seemed frozen at first.

"And you love me? I was sure of it to-night. That was my chiefest glory. Lacking that, what would the homage of all the world be to Rachael Closs? I was thinking this, when that seemed to start up before me, and whispering to myself, 'He loves me! he loves me! he loves me!' like a young girl; for I have seemed very young to-night. Why not? A glorious life lies before us. You will now step more fearlessly forward, and take your place among the great men of the earth,—while I—I will be anything; charm stones, work miracles, to win popularity and lay it at your feet.

"Say that you love me once more, Norton, and then I will creep back to my pillow, the proudest and happiest woman on earth—for, after all, it was only a picture!"

Rachael Closs had hardly done speaking when a cry of distress rang through the neighboring corridor, the door of Lord Hope's chamber was flung open, and a pallid face looked in.

"Come—come at once! My lady is dying!"

Round to other rooms came that cry of terror, arousing those two girls—the one from her sleep, the other from her mournful vigil—and drawing the family together, in pale groups, into the tower-chamber.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

DEATH IN THE TOWER-CHAMBER.

The old countess was not dying, but dead. Hannah Yates, who had watched her faithfully, did not know when the last faint breath left her lips; but she became conscious of a solemn stillness which settled upon the room, and bending forward, saw that soft gray shadows had crept over that gentle face, up to the hair of silky snow, and down to the slender throat, till it was lost in the purple splendor of that festive robe.

There she lay, tranquil as a sleeping child, with a calm, holy smile breaking through the shadows, and her little hands meekly folded over the gossamer lace on her bosom.

Upon a marble table close by lay the jewels she had worn—a glittering and neglected heap of fire, which gave out more light than the shaded lamps that threw their beams brightly on them, and shed tender moonlight on that lovely old face.

The family were slowly gathering in that death-chamber, where Clara and Caroline were clinging together in bitter grief, and old Mrs. Yates was kneeling with her face buried in the purple of her mistress' robe.

Lord Hope came in at last, followed by Lady Hope, who, even in that solemn place, could not suppress her pride as her eyes fell on Lady Clara, whom she recognized as the heiress of all that gentle lady had left. But Lady Clara saw nothing of this. The poor girl was weeping out her passionate sorrow in the arms of her friend, who bent over her with such tender sympathy that her face was almost concealed.

As Lord Hope advanced toward the death-couch, old Mrs. Yates arose and stood before him. When he had last seen her she was an old woman, but in the prime of her strength; now her shoulders stooped, her hair was entirely white, and she faltered in her walk. He reached out his hand to her. She did not appear to observe it, but said to him, in a quiet voice:

"My lord, I am glad to find you here. God has so ordered it that I was too late for her. She could not hear what I had to say, but you must listen in her stead."

"At the proper time, Hannah; but we must not talk of worldly things in this presence."

Lord Hope bent his head reverently toward the pale form upon the couch, and the old woman also bowed down her face meekly, as she had learned to bow her head in prison; but she answered, with gentle firmness:

"No—that which I have to say must be told now, and in her dead presence. Since God has forbidden me to bring doubt and sorrow on her last moments I thank Him for it, but you must listen."

"Not now—not now," answered Hope, quickly. He was disturbed by the sight of this old woman, whom he had believed to be buried for life in an American prison; but he had learned the great art of self-control, and gave no indication of the shock her presence in that room gave him.

His first impulse was to get Lady Hope out of the apartment. She had never seen Mrs. Yates, but he was fearful that some mention of her name might renew the nervous agitation from which she had but just recovered.

"Come with me, Rachael," he said, in a low voice. "I will take you to our room, for this is a painful sight. Then I will return, alone, to hear what this person has to say."

Lady Hope was willing to leave a scene which filled her with gloom.

Whispering to Clara that she would come back and watch with her when the old woman was gone, she twisted a corner of the black lace shawl, which covered her head, around her throat, and went away, glad to escape that strange old woman, against whom she had taken one of those sudden antipathies which were common to her.

"Dear me! I look almost as deathly as she does, with all these shadows on my face," said Lady Hope, as she stood before the mirror in her dressing-room, and unwound the black lace from her head.

She was correct. What with fatigue, and the black shadows flung by her shawl, the best friends of this proud woman would have recognized her with difficulty.

She turned for her husband's answer, but found that he had left her at the door. All rest was broken up for her now; in fact, it was almost morning; so she began to pace the room to and fro, thinking, with exultation, of the honors and wealth that had poured in upon her family by that gentle old lady's death.

Meantime Lord Hope had gone back to the death-chamber, where Mrs. Yates and the two young ladies were waiting.

The old woman arose from her knees when he came in.

"That which I have to say, Lord Hope, relates to you, first of all, now that my dear old mistress is gone. When the first Lady Hope came to America, her little girl, then between two and three years of age, was placed in my son's family, and under my charge, as her mother had been when a child. She had reasons, which you will understand, for wishing the child to pass as the daughter of my son; so we gave her his name, and she was known everywhere as my grandchild.

"We had another little girl, about the same age, the daughter of Mrs. Brown, an actress; fair, like your child, and very pretty. This child, Caroline Brown, was almost given to us; for, after the first year, we never saw her mother, or received anything from her. One night I received a note asking me to come down to one of the theatres, and meet a person who had business with me. There was no name to the note; but I supposed it must be from Mrs. Brown, and went. But no person was there to meet me, and I went home disappointed. That night Lady Hope died."

Lord Hope, who had been anxious and restless, drew a deep breath; for he understood, by the slow caution of the old woman's speech, that she meant to reveal nothing which his anxious and listening daughter might not hear.

"My lady left a letter behind her, with some money, and the Carset diamonds, which she charged me to deliver, with my own hands, here at the castle.

"She had fears about her daughter—anxieties, which I need not explain—and besought me to keep the little girl; to educate her, and conceal her identity until she was eighteen years old, when I, or my son, should take her back to England, and allow her to choose her own way of life.

"I had talked this matter over with my lady, and gave her a solemn promise to protect her child, and the honor of her name, with my life, if that were needed. The very night of her death Lady Hope gave all the papers necessary to the recognition of her child to my son. He brought them home, and, while the children were asleep, we two pledged ourselves to protect your child from everything that her mother feared, and to secure for her all that she hoped.

"My lord, we kept our oaths. He died, broken-hearted, under the terrible burden which we took on ourselves that night. I lived, carrying it with me, till my shoulders are bowed, and my hair white with old age.

"The next day, while she lay dead, a fire broke out in the house where we lived. Our rooms were high up; the flames and smoke mounted so suddenly that it was impossible for us to escape by the stairs. The two little girls had crept into a corner of the room, and sat crying there, with the fire and smoke rolling toward them. I had secured the box, in which were Lady Hope's jewels and papers, and swung it over my shoulders, then snatched up your child."

Here the two girls, who stood, pale and trembling, by the window, uttered a simultaneous cry.

"I remember! I remember!" they said, each to the other, then clung together and listened.

The old woman scarcely heeded this interruption.

Lord Hope looked toward the window, so bewildered that he could neither see nor hear anything distinctly.

Mrs. Yates went on:

"I called on Daniel's wife to bring the other child. Firemen and citizens were climbing the ladders and leaping in at the windows. One man sprang into the room and out again, while I waited for my turn. He had something in his arms huddled up like a bundle—pushed me aside and took my place on the ladder. Then Daniel's wife came to me, wringing her hands and crying. She could not find the child.

"But I had the one most precious to me in my arms. The flames drove me forward, and I let myself down on the ladder. Your child was safe. I know now that the man who pushed me from the window saved little Caroline Brown and brought her to you. She has since been known as your daughter. I saw her in your arms on board the steamer. Last night she was recognized as grand-daughter of Lady Carset."

"But the other—my own child?"

"I had no means of telling you the truth at the time, and, after that, would not do it. The child, I knew, would be a safeguard to little Clara. You would not inquire for her while supposing her in your own possession. But we took one precaution—that of giving her the name of Caroline, which was sure to prevent inquiry. After that she was known as Caroline Yates, and, until my son's death, thought herself his child. I never lived with them after that, but saw her from time to time, though she never noticed me or knew of the interest I took in her; but, year by year, I saw her grow up, until my son died. Then I lost all knowledge of her.

"One day I was free to look for this dear child, and went to the cottage where my son's will had secured her a home. It was empty. She had gone away with some singing woman and a person named Brown, who had been her music-teacher.

"The woman had claimed to be her mother, and was known on the stage as Olympia."

"Go on! go on!" exclaimed Lord Hope; "I am listening."

The two girls in the window were listening also. As they understood this story more and more clearly, their arms tightened around each other and a look of unutterable affection beamed upon their faces; but that of the girl known as Lady Clara glowed with a look of generous self-abnegation, while her companion was troubled, and almost sad.

"Go on! go on!"

"I left America at once on learning this, bringing Lady Hope's papers and Lady Carset's jewels with me. Olympia was in England, and, no doubt, your daughter was with her. First I came here, and gave up the trust that had become a heavy, heavy burden. Then I went in search of my young lady. The time had come when she might claim her title and her rights, without violating her mother's directions. After much search, I found Olympia's house, and inquired for the person known as her daughter. She told me herself, and with bitter anger, that she had no daughter. I knew the woman, and attempted to make her comprehend that I wished to find the young lady for her own good; but this flung her into a passion of rage, and she ordered me from the house. Then followed an attempt to bribe me. Still I kept up the search, and at last traced the girl they called Caroline Brown to this neighborhood."

"To this neighborhood!" exclaimed Lord Hope. "Where? where?"

"My lord, up to this time you have only the word of an old woman, who has suffered under great reproach for all this. I know that the identity of a nobleman's child and the transfer of a great inheritance cannot be so proven. But here is the letter, which Lady Hope gave to me, and another that she wrote to you on the day of her death. Poor, poor lady! She was very sad that morning, and would undertake the letter at once. God seemed to warn her of what would happen in the next twenty-four hours."

Lord Hope took the papers which the old woman handed to him, and there, in the presence of the dead, gathered a confirmation of all Mrs. Yates had told him.

The paper had grown yellow since it was blotted with the tears of a woman he had once loved. No wonder it shook his hand as he read.

"And this girl, my daughter, where is she?" he cried, with a passionate outburst of grief.

The girl known as Lady Clara came out from the shadows of the window curtains, and made an effort to draw Caroline with her; but she shrank back and stood alone, trembling violently.

"Papa!"

"Oh, my poor, poor child! How will you bear this?" cried Lord Hope.

"Trust me, dear, dear papa—for I will call you so. Nothing can break my heart, if you and mamma Rachael will love me yet; for the rest, I am glad, so glad, that I am no longer a lady, and am left without a guinea. This is to be really free!"

"Ah, poor child, how can we ever part with you?"

"Your own daughter will not begrudge me a little love; and, after all, I do belong to mamma Rachael more than she ever can. That is something. Besides, it is from me that you must take your daughter, for I brought her here. Ask her if I did not."

The young girl was smiling, but tears stood in her eyes, and her lips quivered as she spoke.

"Come with me, father, and I will give you to her. It is hard, but I will."

She led Lord Hope across the room, drew back the curtain, and let in the soft gray light of that early dawn upon the trembling young creature who stood there.

Lord Hope shook in all his limbs when he saw that face. The eyes full of tears seemed to reproach him as hers had on that fatal night.

He reached out his arms, with a convulsive heaving of the chest, and faltered out:

"Forgive me! forgive me! for I have bitterly repented."

He did not kiss her—he dared not even touch her forehead in that solemn presence; but he laid one hand on her head, rested his own upon it, asking that forgiveness of God which her heart gave, but could only express by pathetic silence.

Then the old woman came up to the window, and stood there, waiting.

When Lord Hope fell back against the window-frame, strengthless from excess of feeling, she laid a hand upon the girl's shoulder, and, turning her face gently to the light, gazed upon it with tender scrutiny. Then she said, talking to herself:

"It is her face! It is her face!"

"And you are Daniel Yates' mother. How I shall love you! Oh, how I loved him!"

Then the old woman's face began to quiver, and her large gray eyes filled with the slow tears old age gives out with such pain.

"Yes, child, you must love me a little for your mother's sake."

"And for the sake of that good man, your son, who was a father to me. How often he has told me that, if there was anything grand or good in him, it came from the best mother that ever lived! 'Some day,' he once said, 'God may be merciful and let you know her. Then remember that she has nothing left but you.' I do remember it, and no child ever loved a grandmother better than I will love you."

The old woman lifted up her head from the gentle embrace thus offered her, and turned to her dead mistress.

A smile, soft as that hovering about that cold mouth, came to her lips and eyes.

"God is very good to me. Are the angels telling you of it, my old mistress, that you smile so?"

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE NEMESIS.

She had become restless beyond self-control in her own room, and came back to the death-chamber, wondering what detained her husband there so long. She had thrown the lace shawl from her head entirely; but it fell around her shoulders, shading her bare white arms and beautiful neck, which the amber-hued dress would otherwise have left uncovered. Framed in the doorway she made an imperial picture.

"My lord," she said, advancing to her husband, "what detains you here so long?"

Old Mrs. Yates stepped forward with a scared, wild look; a gleam of anger or fear, bright as fire, and fierce as a martyr's faith, shot into her eyes and broadened there. She came close to Lady Hope, facing her, and laid one hand heavily on her arm.

The haughty woman drew back, and would have shaken the hand from her arm, but it clung there with a grip of steel.

"Lord Hope, is this woman your wife?"

"His wife! Yes, old woman, I am his wife," cried Rachael, pale with indignation; "but who authorized you to ask?"

The old woman did not heed her scornfulness, but turned her eyes upon Lord Hope, whose face was already white with vague terror.

"Is she your wife—the woman who was called Rachael Closs?"

"It is Lady Hope, my wife. Why do you ask?"

"Because it was this woman who murdered your first wife, Lady Carset's daughter!"

More than the stillness of death settled upon that room. The two girls hushed their sobs, and clung closer together in awful silence. The man and the woman, on whom these words had fallen like a rock hurled from some great high stood living and human, but struck into marble by a single blow. The man could not move; the woman did not seem to breathe. Hannah Yates went on, her voice low, but ringing out clear and distinctly like a funeral knell:

"On the twenty-first of June, now more than fifteen years ago, I saw you, Lord Hope, come out of a house in Forty-third Street, in New York.

"You know the house, and can never forget who lived in it. That day I had carried your child to see its mother, and left word at home for my son, Daniel Yates, to go after her; for I had business with a woman at one of the theatres, and was not sure of coming back in time. The woman I expected to see was not there; but it took me a long time to walk back, and it was about ten o'clock when I reached the house in Forty-third Street. Thinking it possible that Daniel might not have come home from his work till late, I was crossing the street to go in and inquire about the child, when the front door opened, and you came down the steps, with a fierce, angry air, such as I had seen many a time on this side the water. I knew that your presence in that house could have no peaceful meaning, and went over. I had a latch-key, and did not need to ring.

"The hall was dark—everything was still below; but a sound of weeping and moans of distress came from my lady's chamber. I went up and found her in the dark, lying across her bed, trembling dreadfully. She shrieked when I bent over her, and it was not till I got a light that she would be satisfied that it was only me. Then she sat up, and, in a rapid way, told me that you had been there after the child, and would have it but that the little creature had crept away and could not be found anywhere in the house. She must have got into the street, and you would find her, or she might be lost. She begged me to go at once and look for the child, and wanted to go with me; but I would not let her do that. I took her arms from my neck—for, in her joy at seeing the old woman, she had flung them there—made her lie down on the bed, and went away, promising to come back if I did not find the child; but, if I did, it was to be carried to my own house, as she was afraid to trust it near her. With this understanding I left her to search for the little girl.

"She may have crept down to the basement door and be hiding under the steps, I thought. Of course, the little thing would be afraid to go out into the streets. So the first thing I did was to run down into the area. In my haste I had left the door ajar, and bethought myself to go back and shut it, but while I was searching the area a woman ran up the steps and, pushing the door open, went into the house.

"At first I thought it was one of the servants, for they all appeared to be out, but she had on a striped India shawl, such as ladies wore in travelling, and a straw bonnet, from which the veil had blown back. These were not things worn by servants; besides, her air and walk convinced me that this woman was of another class. As she entered the door I saw her face for a single moment, but long enough to show me that I had never seen it before.

"The child was not in the area. I rang the basement bell, meaning to question the servants, but no one answered it. Then I hesitated where to go next, and as I stood in the shadow of the steps thinking the matter over, this same woman came through the door, shut it without noise, and ran down to the pavement. I saw her face clearly then, for the street lamp was bright. It was that of the woman by your side, Lord Hope."

Rachael Closs turned a pallid face upon her husband.

"Will you permit this woman to go on? Is this hideous lie a thing for my husband to encourage by his silence? Who is this audacious woman?"

Lord Hope attempted to speak, but his white lips seemed frozen together.

"I am Hannah Yates, the nurse of that murdered lady; the woman who has given fourteen years of her life, rather than have scandal fall on the husband her foster-child loved, or the awful truth reach her dear old mistress, who died, thank God, without knowing it."

"And you listen, my lord, to this woman, a confessed murderer, and, no doubt, an escaped convict?"

"He must listen, and he must believe! How did I know that he was in my lady's house that night, and the moment of his leaving it? How did I know the very words he used in attempting to force the child from her? No human being but himself and the poor lady, whose lips were cold within an hour, knew of anything that passed between the husband and wife the last time they ever met on earth."

"But you might have overheard—no doubt were listening—if my lord was indeed in that place at all. This is no evidence, even if a woman, convicted by her own confession of a crime she now seeks to cast upon another, could bear witness."

Rachael Closs spoke out clearly now, and her eyes, shining with the ferocity of a wild animal at bay, turned full upon the old woman who accused her.

The old woman put a hand into her bosom and drew out a small poniard. Rachael Closs gave a sharp gasp, and snatched at the poniard, but the old woman held it firmly.

"Lord Hope, this has been in your hands a hundred times. When did you part with it? To what person did you give it? Your crest is on the handle; her blood rusts the blade."

Lord Hope lifted both hands to conceal the horror that was on his face, to shut out the weapon from his sight.

"Oh! my God! my God! spare me more of this!"

The proud noble was shaking from head to foot. The veins swelled purple on his forehead. The sight of that slender weapon swept away his last doubt. Lady Hope shrank back from his side, but watched him keenly in her agony of guilt and dread. Her proud figure withered down, her features were locked and hard, but out of their pallor her great eyes shone with terrible brilliancy. Her husband's hands dropped at last, and he turned a look of such despairing anguish upon her that a cry broke from her lips.

"You—you condemn me?"

Lord Hope turned from her, shuddering.

"You know! you know!"

He remembered giving her this poniard on the very day of her crime. He had been in the habit of carrying it with him when travelling, and though sharp as a viper's tongue, it, with the daintily enamelled sheath, was a pretty table ornament, and she had begged it of him for a paper cutter. He had seen the sheath since, but never the poniard, and now the sight of it was a blow through the heart.

"I picked it up by her bed that morning, after the murder. There is a person in the castle who saw me take it from the place where it had fallen. If any one here doubts me, let them ask a person called Margaret Casey—let them ask her."

That moment the door of the room opened, and Hepworth Closs stood on the threshold. He had been informed of Lady Carset's illness, just as he was leaving the castle, and came back only to hear that she was gone. The scene upon which he looked was something worse than a death-chamber.

"Ask him if he did not see this poniard in her room while she lay unburied in the house."

Rachael turned her eyes upon her brother—those great, pleading eyes, which were fast taking an expression of pathetic agony, like those of a hunted doe.

"And you—and you!" she said, with a cry of pain that thrilled the heart of her wretched husband. "Has all the world turned against me? Old woman, what have I ever done to you that you should hunt me down so?"

Hepworth Closs came forward and threw an arm around his sister's waist.

"What is it, Rachael? Who is hunting you down?" he said, tenderly. "No one shall hurt you while I am near."

She turned, threw her arms around his neck, and covered his face with passionate kisses. Then she turned to Lord Hope, held out her pale hands imploringly; and cried out in pathetic anguish:

"Oh, do not believe it! Do not believe it!"

But Lord Hope stepped back, and turned away his face. She knew that this motion was her doom.

"Let me look at the poniard," she said, with unnatural gentleness. "I have a right to examine the proofs brought against me."

Hannah Yates gave her the dagger. She looked at it earnestly a moment, laid one hand upon her heart, as if its beating stifled her, then lifted the other and struck.

"Now, my husband, will you kiss me? I have given them blood for blood, life for life!"

She fell in a heap at her husband's feet, and while death glazed over her eyes, reached up her arms to him.

He fell upon his knees, forgetting everything but the one dreadful fact that she was his wife, and dying. His face drooped to hers, for the lips were moving, and her eyes turned upon him with pathetic anxiety.

"It was love for you that led me to it—only that—Oh, believe—beli—"

"I do! I do!" he cried out, in fearful anguish. "God forgive me, and have mercy on you!"

She struggled, lifted up her arms, drew his lips close to hers, and over them floated the last icy breath that Rachael Closs ever drew.

Then the young girl, who had loved this woman better than anything on earth, sank to the floor, and took that pale head in her lap, moaning over it piteously.

"My poor mamma! my darling mother! Speak to me! Open your eyes! It is Clara—your own, own child! Her eyelids close—her lips are falling apart! Oh! my God, is she dead?"

She looked piteously in the face of Hepworth Closs, who had knelt by her side, and asked this question over and over again:

"Is she dead? Oh, tell me, is she dead?"

Hepworth Closs bent down, and touched his lips to the cold forehead of his sister; then he lifted Clara from the floor, and half led her, half carried her, from the room.

Then Lord Hope stood up and turned, with a shudder, to the old woman, who had been to him and his a fearful Nemesis.

"Hannah Yates," he said, "you have suffered much, concealed much, and, from your own confession, are not without sin."

"True, true," murmured the old woman. "I have sinned grievously."

"Therefore, you should have shown more mercy to this unhappy woman. But the suffering and the wrong was done to shield this girl from what you thought an evil influence, and save from reproach two noble houses, to which she belongs—for her face tells me that your story is true. Spare the memory of this most unfortunate, if sinful woman. Spare the high name and noble pride of the old countess, who beseeches you—her very face seems to change as I speak—for silence and forgetfulness. That which you have done in love, continue in mercy. Let this miserable scene, with all that led to it, rest in sacred silence among us. The persons who have suffered most are now before a tribunal where no evidence of yours is wanted. Look on your old mistress," he continued, pointing toward the death couch, "and let her sweet face plead with you. Had she lived—"

"Had she lived," said the old woman, "I should not have spoken. Death itself would not have wrung from me one word of what her daughter suffered. But the woman who murdered her came suddenly before me. It was a power beyond my poor will that made me speak; but hereafter no word of this shall ever pass my lips. No evil story of suffering or bloodshed shall ever go forth about a lady of Houghton while I can prevent it."

Lord Hope bent his head, and made an effort to thank her, but he could not speak.

"Leave me now," said the old woman. "Let no servants come near these apartments, save two that can be trusted here with me. Some one send Margaret Casey and Eliza, her sister, here. Now leave me, Lord Hope, and you, Lady Carset. You can trust the old woman alone with these two."

Before noon, that day, it was known in all the country around that the old countess, Lady Carset, lay in funeral state in the royal guest-chamber at Houghton Castle, for the long red flag was floating half-way down its staff, and a hatchment hung in mournful gorgeousness over the principal entrance between those two massive towers.

But farther than the flag could be seen, and swift as the wind that stirred it, went the strange story that the beautiful Lady Hope had been seized with a violent hemorrhage of the lungs while standing by the death couch of the old countess, and had died before help could be obtained.

After this, another wild rumor took wing. The young lady who had been some weeks at the castle was only an adopted daughter of Lord Hope, and, consequently could not become heiress of Houghton under the will or by entail. The daughter and heiress was at the castle, stricken down with grief at the double loss that had fallen upon her since her arrival from abroad, where she had been educated. With a feeling of delicacy that did her honor she had declined to appear as the acknowledged heiress at the festival given to Lady Hope, feeling that it might interfere with her grandmother's independent action with regard to the vast property at her disposal, if she allowed herself to be proclaimed thus early as the chosen heiress, which she now undoubtedly was. The will had been read, and, with the exception of a considerable legacy to Caroline Brown, the adopted daughter, and provisions for the servants, young Lady Carset came in for everything.

Alderman Stacy took this story back to America, and described his reception at Houghton Castle with such glowing colors—when the assembled board were at supper one night, in a pleasant, social way—that one of the fathers proposed forthwith to draw up a resolution of thanks to young Lady Carset for the hospitality extended to their illustrious compeer, and forward it, with "the liberty of the city, under the great seal of New York." At the next meeting of the board this resolution was carried unanimously—in fact, with acclamation.

Months went by, twelve or more, and then the trees around that grand old stronghold blazed out with lights again. Two fountains shot their liquid brightness over the stone terrace, at which the people from far and near came to drink. One sent up crystal, and rained down diamonds, as it had done that night when the old countess died. The other, being of wine, shot up a column of luminous red into the air, and came down in a storm of rubies.

The people, who caught the red drops on their lips, and dipped the sparkling liquid up with silver ladles, knew that a double wedding was going on in the castle, and clamored loudly for a sight of their lady and her bridegroom.

After a little, the windows along the façade of the building were thrown back, and a gay throng poured itself into a broad balcony, that projected a little over the stone terrace, where the wine was flowing, and the eager people crowding forward for the first look.

Foremost came Lord Hilton, leading Clara—Lady Carset—by the hand. Then Hepworth Closs stepped forth, and on his arm a bright, sparkling little figure, in a cloud of gauzy silk, and crowned with white roses, who smiled and kissed her hand to the crowd, while her little feet kept time, and almost danced, to the music, which broke from terrace and covert as the bridal party appeared.

Standing a little back, near one of the windows, stood two gentlemen, one very old and stricken in years, who leaned heavily on his cane, and looked smilingly down upon the multitude swaying in front of the castle; and well he might, for two of the finest estates in England had been joined that day, and from horizon to horizon stretched the united lands which the children of his grandson would inherit.

The other gentleman, standing there with the sad, worn face was Lord Hope, who leaned heavily against the window-frame, and looked afar off over the heads of the multitude wearily, wearily, as if the days of marrying and giving in marriage were all a blank to him. When the young bride, who had given up her name, title and fortune willingly to another, came up to him at the window, she laid her hand tenderly on his arm, whispering:

"Farewell, father, farewell! I am not the less your child because of the blue blood, for she cannot love you better than I do. Will you not shake hands with my husband, father?"

Lord Hope lifted his heavy eyes to Hepworth Closs, saw the features of another, whom no one ever mentioned now, in that face, flung both arms about the bridegroom, shaking from head to foot with tearless sobs.

A little while after a carriage drove from Houghton to the station, and in two days a steamer sailed with Hepworth Closs and his wife, with that kind and faithful man, her father, for New York.

Just as they were about to sail, an old woman came quietly into the second-class cabin, paid her passage, and rested there, never coming on deck till the steamer landed. Then she gathered up her effects in a carpet-bag and went ashore.

That night a fire blazed on the hearth at Cedar Cottage, and the dilapidated furniture in the various rooms was arranged in the kitchen.

About six months after, this old woman was found dead upon an iron bedstead up-stairs, and the neighbors held a consultation about burying her at the expense of the town; but, on searching the rooms, plenty of English gold was found to have kept her comfortable for years. Then some one remembered that a convict, discharged from the prison not many years ago, was said to be the mother of Daniel Yates, a good man and excellent citizen, and they decided to bury the poor old convict by his side.

There is a very prosperous firm in New York, which has stood the shock of gold corners, and railway crashes, with the firm resistance of heavy capital and business integrity. It is the firm of Closs & Brown.

The younger member is an active, shrewd, generous man, full of resources, and capable of wonderful combinations.

The other superintends the in-door business, and makes himself very useful, in a quiet sort of way, in keeping things straight—no unimportant position in a business house, let me assure you.

As for Caroline—Mrs. Hepworth Closs—you may see her, any fine day, dashing faster than the law allows, along the avenues of Central Park, holding a pair of white ponies well in hand, while she chats and laughs with her husband, glorying in him, and exulting in the freedom which she gained in losing a grand title and estate.

THE END.

MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS' WORKS.

Each Work is complete in one volume, 12mo.

Price of each, $1.75 in Cloth; or $1.50 in Paper Cover.

Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or all of the above books will be sent to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, on receipt of their price by the Publishers,

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa.