Clara put on her hat and wandered off into the park, as happy as a bird.
She had found the dearest old fairy godmother. She saw a glorious light breaking in upon the life of her stepmother, and out of all this generous conduct in the old countess sprang a vague hope that she might yet be won to sanction her marriage with the man of her choice.
She took no heed of the way, but wandered on, treading the earth like a sylph, and breaking into little snatches of song whenever the birds in the branches put her in mind of it. She was descending into a little, ferny hollow, with a brook creeping along the bottom, along which a narrow footpath ran, when the crackle of a broken branch, and the quick tread of a foot, made her pause and look at the opposite bank, down which a young man was coming, with more swiftness than he seemed to desire, for he only saved himself from a plunge in the brook by leaping over it, with a bound that brought him to Clara's side. It was Lord Hilton.
"Forgive me, if I came near running you down," he said, with laughter in his eyes, and taking off his hat; "it was neck or nothing with me, after I once got one downward plunge. I inquired for you at the castle, and they told me that you had just gone out of sight in this direction, so I followed and am here."
Clara held out her hand, with the sweet, joyous laugh of a pleased child. She was very happy, just then, and he saw it in her eyes.
"But you have been long in coming," she said. "I told grandmamma about our journey together, and she has been expecting you at Houghton every day."
"And you?"
"Of course, I have been dreadfully disappointed. Are you aware that it is more than a fortnight since you bought those peaches for me?"
"But you will approve my reasons for keeping away, when I tell you what they are."
"Perhaps—I doubt it; but tell me."
"You will not be angry?"
"No."
"Not if I tell you the plain truth like an honest man?"
"I love the truth. Why should it offend me?"
"Lady Clara, I have almost resolved to make a confidante of you."
Clara brushed some fallen leaves from a rock, near which they were standing, and sat down, motioning him to take the vacant place by her side.
"There—now let us begin."
"Do you guess why I did not come before, Lady Clara?"
"No—I have not the least idea. Perhaps you did not like me, or were shocked with my hat; poor thing, it is getting awfully shabby."
"Shall I tell you?"
"Of course; why not?"
"Because the old gentleman over yonder and my lady at Houghton, had set their hearts upon it."
"Set their hearts upon it. How?"
"They have decreed that I shall fall in love with you, and you with me, at first sight."
Clara stared at him a moment, with her widening blue eyes, and then broke into a laugh that set all the birds about her to singing in a joyous chorus.
"Exactly."
"But you have more sense. You could not be induced to oblige them. I feel quite sure."
"But why, pray? Am I so very stupid?"
"No; but you are so very kind, and would not do anything so cruel."
Lord Hilton laughed; he could not help it.
"But why would it be cruel?"
"Because—because it would get me into trouble. Grandmamma is a lovely old angel, and to oblige her I would fall in love with fifty men if it were possible, especially after what she has done to-day: but it is not possible."
"And the old gentleman at the opposite side of the valley is good as gold, and I should like to oblige him; and sometimes I feel as if it could be done, so far as I am concerned, but for one thing."
"And what is that?"
"Lady Clara, if I had not been fatally in love already, I should by this time have adored you."
The color came and went in the girl's face. She tore a handful of ferns from the rock, and dropped them into the water at her feet; then she lifted her eyes to the young man's face, with the innocent confidence of a child. Her voice was low and timid as she spoke again; but the ring of modest truth was there.
"Lord Hilton, I am very young; but in what you have said, I can see that you and I ought to understand each other. You love another person—I, too, am beloved."
A shade of disappointment swept the young man's features. He had not wished this fair girl to care for him, yet the thought that it was impossible brought a little annoyance with it.
"I have permitted a man to say he loved me, and did not rebuke him; because every word he spoke made my heart leap."
"But will the old countess consent?"
"I thought so—I hoped so, till you startled me with this idea about yourself. Oh! be firm, be firm in hating me. Don't leave the whole battle to a poor little girl."
"Perhaps I shall not feel all your earnestness, for there is no hope in the future for me, with or without consent. I can never turn back to the past, though I am not villain enough to lay a heart which contains the image of another at any woman's feet, without giving her a full knowledge of that which has gone before. The love which I confess to you, Lady Clara, was put resolutely behind me before we met."
Quick as thought a suspicion flashed through the girl's brain. She turned her eyes full upon the handsome head and face of the young man, and examined his features keenly. His hat was off; he was bending earnestly toward her.
"Lord Hilton, you sat in a box in the opera next to us on the night when that young American singer broke down. I remember your head now. You were leaning from the box when she fainted; her eyes were turned upon you as she fell. She is the woman you love."
"Say whom I loved, and Heaven knows I did love her; but she fled from me without a word, to expose herself upon that stage. I thought her the daughter of a respectable man, at least; when I am told in every club-house, she is the nameless child of that woman, Olympia. I would not believe it, till the actress confirmed the story with her own lips; then I learned that her home was with this woman, and that she, a creature I had believed innocent as the wild blossoms, had used her glorious voice for the entertainment of her mother's Sunday evening parties."
Lady Clara grew pale, and her eyes began to flash.
"You are doing great wrong to a noble and good young lady," she said, in a clear, ringing voice, from which all laughter had gone out. "You are unjust, cruel—wickedly cruel—both to yourself and her. I have no patience with you!"
"Do you know Caroline, then? But that is impossible."
"Impossible—what? That I should know the daughter of Olympia? But I do know her. There was a time, I honestly believe, when we were children together, cared for by the same nurse. This I can assure you, Lord Hilton: she was not brought up by the actress; never saw her, in truth, until she was over sixteen years old, when the woman, hearing of her genius and beauty, claimed her as a chattel rather than a child."
"Are you sure of this, Lady Clara?" inquired the young man, greatly disturbed.
"I know it. The poor young lady, brought up with such delicate care, educated as if she were one day to become a peeress of the land, took a terrible dislike to the stage, and, so long as she dared, protested against the life that ambitious actress had marked out for her. That night you saw her she was forced upon the stage after praying upon her knees to be spared. Her acting, from the first, was desperation. She saw you, and it became despair; and you could doubt her—you could leave her. Lord Hilton, I hate you!"
"I begin to hate myself," said the young man in a low voice; "but even now, what can I do? What power have I to wrest her from the influence of that woman?"
"What power? The power of honest and generous love. Ask her to marry you."
Lord Hilton answered with a faint, bitter laugh.
"Ask her to marry me, and, with that act, proclaim myself a beggar! I tell you, Lady Clara, there is not upon this earth a creature so dependent as a nobleman with nothing but expectations. Were I to follow your advice the doors of my home would be closed against me. I should have a title, by courtesy, to offer my wife, and nothing more. She would, perhaps, be compelled to go on the stage to support me—a poor substitute for these two vast estates which these old people hope to unite in us."
Lady Clara turned on the young nobleman with glowing anger.
"Lord Hilton," she said, "it is the land they are thinking of; but an earthquake may swallow it before I will sell a corner of my heart at their price. I am only a girl, Lord Hilton, and, perhaps, this ancestral grandeur seems less to me on that account; but the noblest possession that can be given to me is liberty—liberty of heart, limb and conscience—liberty to love and hate—though I do not hate any one very much—but to love that which is splendid and good without regard to anything else. The grandest thing upon the face of the earth, Lord Hilton, is to own oneself. If I were a man no one should own me but the woman I loved."
Was the girl inspired? You would have thought so from the sparkle that came into her eyes, like sunshine striking the dew in a violet—from the quick, generous curve of her lips, and the flush of color that rushed over her face.
Lord Hilton looked at her with such admiration as would, perhaps, have made obedience to the wishes of his family an easier thing than he dreamed of; but he knew something of the world, and had, more than once, searched the female hearts that came in his way, for the gratification of vanity alone. He read the one before him on the instant.
"The man you speak of is without these advantages," he said. "I understand—they are a wall between you and him."
"No. This morning my grandmother told me that I was to be her heiress; but I entreated her to take time. Before she decides, I wish her to judge of this man as he is, without prejudice or favor. Then she shall know all, and if she is willing to endow us with her wealth, there never was so grateful a girl as I shall be; but, if not, I will fall upon my knees, kiss her dear old hand, thank her for what she has done, and go away to America, where a man's talents and energies can work out something that will answer very well for a patent of nobility."
"And you will carry this out? give up the title?"
"The title! Ah, that may be of value in America," answered Clara, with a laugh full of good-natured scorn; "those things, they tell me, are at a premium out yonder."
"Brave girl! You shame me by this generous energy."
"Shame you? not at all; only I happen to know that there is something worth living for besides the things we hold so precious. A man, brave enough to work out his own career, has taught me that real greatness is not always hereditary. Ah! if you could only think so, too, Lord Hilton, you would understand that there is nothing on earth so sweet as the love for which we make sacrifices."
"What a strange girl you are, Lady Clara! Up to this time you have seemed to me only a very pretty and very capricious child—a charming child, truly, but—"
"There it is again," cried the girl falling back into her natural manner; "everybody will insist on treating me like a child. Oh! how I wish I was a little taller, like—like Caroline!"
Lord Hilton started, and a flood of recollections came back upon him—that soft Italian sky, a flight of vine-draped terraces, and, on the steps, that tall, beautiful girl watching for him. In this picture he forgot Olympia and everything that had repulsed him.
"I shall never think of you as a child again, but as her friend—her earnest, kind, noble friend!"
"And so I am. Oh! if I were a man, and loved her—"
"Well, what would you do in my place, supposing yourself a man, Lady Clara?"
"This is what I would do: The old gentleman over yonder has a generous heart, I dare say. I would first make my peace with that noble girl. It would not be easy, I can tell you, for she is proud as an empress; but she would be forgiving in the end, and for that I should adore her. Then I would take her by the hand, lead her up to that kind old nobleman over yonder—for I dare say, he is like my blessed grandmother, proud as Lucifer and kind as an angel—and I would just tell him the truth, lay the whole case before him, and either take his blessing on two bowed heads, or throw down my title, gather up all that honorably belonged to me, and carry my youth, my knowledge, and my energies into a country where no man would question whether my wife had Olympia's blood in her veins or not. This is what I would do, Lord Hilton."
Lord Hilton reached out his hand, smiling, but there was moisture in his eyes.
"And you will do it?"
"First, Lady Clara, I must have her forgiveness for doubting her—for being a coward. Where is she now? Can you tell me?"
"Ill, very ill, battling breathlessly with that woman, who still persists on her reappearance. You can save her from it. Will you?"
"No wonder you ask the question, Lady Clara, I have not deserved great confidence. But one thing; these are strange confessions that we have made to each other; let them rest inviolate between us. We shall be friends. Let the world think us more, if it likes."
"With all my heart. And now, good-by. I am going back to the castle."
When Clara reached the castle she found a letter waiting for her. It was from Margaret, who was still in London, at Olympia's house.
Clara read this letter with a very thoughtful face, and went at once to Lady Carset's room, with the letter in her pocket and painful anxiety in her heart.
Lady Carset had come out of her sleep, wonderfully refreshed and cheerful.
The effort which she had so generously made to make atonement for what she considered the one mistake of her life, gave to her own heart a feeling of exquisite rest. The company of her grandchild also had let a whole burst of sunshine into that princely old castle, and its mistress seemed to have grown young in its warmth and brightness. She had been thinking of the girl ever since the sleep left her eyelids, and now, when she came in, with her sweet face clouded, the idea that had been floating in her brain took form.
"You seem troubled, Clara," she said. "Did the great, wandering old park frighten you with its loneliness? Sit down, darling, and we will talk of something I have just been thinking of."
Clara sat down on the foot of the couch, and taking the small feet of her grandmother into her lap, began to smooth and caress them with her hand.
"I am an old, old woman, my darling, and not over strong, so it is impossible for me to make a companion to you."
"Oh, but I love you so much!"
"I know, dear; but would you not like a companion of your own age—some nice young lady, who could go with you into the park, share the pretty phaeton, and help drive the ponies I have ordered for you, when I am taking my rest here?"
"Oh, grandmamma, who told you what was in my mind? how could you have guessed it? Can I—may I? Grandmamma, I know the very person!"
"She must be well-educated and well-bred."
"She is a lady about my age, but handsomer."
"I will not believe that, Clara," said the old lady, smiling.
"But she is—taller, more queenly. You will like her so much! Besides, she is in such trouble. I will tell you all about it, grandmamma."
Then Lady Clara told Caroline's story; how she had been brought up by a good man, believing herself his child, until he and his good wife died, and, just as she grew into womanhood was claimed by the actress Olympia, who was determined to force her upon the stage, from which she shrank with a loathing that had made her ill. Lady Clara did not mention the name of Daniel Yates, because it had made no impression upon her, if, indeed, she had heard it; but she succeeded in interesting the old countess, and it was decided that Caroline and the servant who had clung to her so faithfully should be sent for.
When Lady Clara left her grandmother's room, the face that had been so clouded was radiant, for, after having all her anxieties swept away, as it seemed by a miracle, she had ventured upon a positive request, which made her breath come short as she made it.
With some adroitness, and a talent that would have made her fortune on the stage, she brought the subject round to Lady Hope, and from her to the fact that she had an only brother, who had travelled in foreign parts for years, but had just come back to England, and had been at Oakhurst.
The old lady listened with gentle attention, but did not divine Clara's wishes by intuition as she had before.
"He is mamma Rachael's only relative, and she loves him dearly," said Clara. "I think she would always like to have him with her."
Even this gentle hint did not arouse the old lady, who was falling back into a pleasant lethargy, so common to aged persons.
"You would like him yourself, grandmamma," continued Clara, getting anxious; "he has seen so much, and talks so well; besides, he knows everything about horses, and taught me so many things about managing them."
"Indeed!" said Lady Carset, arousing herself, for she had been a splendid horsewoman in her time. "It would be a great comfort if we had some one besides the groom to advise with about the ponies. Then, we must have a couple of saddle horses for you and the American young lady. Would this young gentleman—Is he young, Clara?"
"Not very," answered Clara, blushing quietly, and drooping her head to hide the fact, as the old lady took up her sentence again.
"I suppose not. So, as your stepmother might be pleased, what objection would there be to inviting this gentleman to the castle? When Lady Hope comes, I would like to have as many of her friends here as possible. Houghton will seem more like home to her. As for you, Clara, it will always be your home, so we must try and make it pleasant. Write the letter for me, child, and invite the gentleman here."
It was this conversation that sent Lady Clara out of her grandmother's room with that radiant face.
"Take your choice, young lady, take your choice! Either consent to have your name on the bills for Monday night, or leave my house, bag and baggage, one and all of you! Either obey me or go! I wash my hands of the whole affair."
Here Olympia rubbed one soft white hand over the other, and shook them apart, as if she were already washing off the annoyance that proud girl had given her.
Caroline was deathly pale. She had grown thin and languid with the illness that still hung about her. Around her enlarged eyes lay faint, purplish shadows, that deepened their sad expression; but, with all her weakness, a look of settled resolution lay on her face.
"Be it so, then!" she said, with pathetic sadness. "If my own mother—"
"Mother? Hush that! I don't believe a word of it! Brown may talk, and swear that he never lost sight of you, but he needn't tell me! My daughter! why don't you glory in the stage, then? Why don't you go down on your knees and thank me for that voice? Don't dare to call me mother till you can learn how to obey me!"
"I cannot obey you in this. If you drive me out to perish in the street I will not!"
"Then into the street you go! Let Brown try his hand at earning a living for you. It is more his duty than mine."
Caroline turned a wild, wistful look on the woman as she said this; then she moved a step toward her, and the tones of her voice, as they came through her white lips, were mournful and stormy, like wind over snow.
"What do you mean, madam? What is it that you insinuate?"
"Only this," answered Olympia, with a malicious laugh. "As you are resolved—as you never will be anything to me again, and are determined to throw away all your advantages, I think the truth will bring down your pride a little, and so mean to give it just for once. I really do suppose that you are my daughter—else, where did you get the voice you are giving to the wind? But, if you are, that man Brown is your father, for he was my husband once."
Caroline stood looking at the woman, white and still, her large eyes widening, all her features in a tumult. Then she fell upon her knees, covered her face with both hands, and cried out:
"Oh, my God! is this good man my father? Are these the thrills of joy that a child knows for its parent?"
A man who had opened the door of Olympia's boudoir was arrested on the threshold by these words.
Olympia saw him and sank to a chair, laughing maliciously.
"Ask him," she said, pointing to the man; "ask him. Don't look so astonished, Brown. I have told her all about it, and you see how white it has made her. She does not seem to relish you for a father much more than she does the stage!"
Caroline dashed the tears from her eyes, and arose, with a smile breaking through the scattered moisture.
"Not like him! He has always been kind, good, generous. I did not need this to make me love him. Father, my father! how many times I have called you so, but this is real! Oh, God be thanked that you are my father!"
"Ask him how he intends to support you," broke in Olympia, washing her hands over again in dumb show, and drawing in her breath till it hissed through her white teeth, as if a snake had crept up from her bad heart.
"I will support her! God helping me, I will! Don't feel down-hearted, my poor child. You shall not be ashamed of me. For your sake I will do anything. I can go into an orchestra."
"What! I ashamed of you, my father? Why, it gives us to each other. I have something in this wide world to love!"
Brown's eyes filled with tears. He was trembling violently.
"Father, my dear father!" murmured Caroline, drawing close to him, with a feeling that he was all the friend she had in the world, "do not look so troubled. This gives me such joy that I cannot bear to see tears in your eyes, my father."
Brown did not speak; he had no power of voice, but stood, with her hands in his, looking into her face in pathetic silence.
Olympia arose.
"It is a pretty scene, and well acted," she said; "but I am tired of being sole audience. When you have settled upon anything, I shall have the pleasure of bidding you farewell. I must go to rehearsal now. When I come back, it will be convenient to have the house to myself. I give a little supper this evening, and I remember you do not exactly approve of my little suppers, and, for the world, would not shock the young lady! Good morning, Caroline. Good morning, Brown. You see our pretty experiment has failed, and we have got to part again. I think this time will be forever!"
Olympia swept out of the room and entered her carriage, looking like a baffled fury.
Then those two were left together, and for half an hour they sat, looking at each other with sad, wistful eyes, talking of the past in snatches, till slowly and sadly their minds turned to the future, and that looked blank enough to them. What could they do? Olympia had never been generous to her daughter or the agent. They had neither money nor valuables. How were they to live, even for a week?
"I can, perhaps, obtain a situation in some orchestra."
Poor Brown spoke under his breath, for he knew well enough that Olympia would never permit him to earn his bread in that way, so long as her influence in the theatres could prevent it; but it was the only hopeful idea he could think of, and so he suggested it with desponding hesitation. But, to the young girl, there was encouragement even in this.
"And I can take pupils. You remember the young lady that came to me that night in the dressing-room—Lord Hope's daughter?"
"Remember her!" exclaimed Brown, brightening all over, "I should think so! When she turned her face upon me and said, 'Don't be so anxious, sir. She is better now,' I longed to fall down on my knees and worship her!"
Tears came into Caroline's eyes. Her nature was noble and full of gratitude. She could endure wrong and cruelty without weeping, but generous and kind actions melted her heart.
"Ah, how good she was; we can trust her, my father."
How falteringly, and with what pathos she used this grand old word now! Before, she had done it in affectionate play, but now, a solemn feeling of tenderness thrilled the syllables, as "father" dropped from her lips, and made the heart swell in his bosom with a tremulous response.
"She will speak to Lady Hope, and they will recommend pupils to us. Oh, if we could only go back to Italy!"
As this exclamation was on her lips, the servant in blue and silver came through the door with a salver in his hand, on which lay a letter. The seal and monogram had struck his eye, and he brought the missive in with an excess of ceremony that would have been laughable at another time. He brought the letter to Caroline. She tore it open, and an eager, almost wild look of thankfulness swept over her face as she read it.
"Oh, father, father! See what the good God has done for us!"
The servant, who lingered in the room, was so astonished at hearing that sacred name used with thanksgiving or reverence in Olympia's house, that he dropped the silver tray and stood open-mouthed regarding the young lady.
"Read it! read it! Oh, this will be Heaven to us. Remark, please, you are to come with me and Eliza. Let us start by the very next train."
It was Lady Clara's letter, which, of course, contained an invitation from the old countess. Clara had added a little hospitality of her own, and suggested that Brown should come to Houghton for awhile, and give her music lessons—she was getting so out of practice. As usual, the girl had her way, and that letter was the result. But Brown's face grew thoughtful as he read.
"What is the matter?" inquired Caroline, anxiously.
"But how are we to get there?"
All the anxiety that made Brown's heart heavy under this good news, broke out in these words. Caroline's face clouded, and her voice faltered.
"Let me call Eliza and Margaret; perhaps they can point out something."
She rang the bell, and directly both the maids were informed of the dilemma they were in.
What was to be done? It was impossible to remain a day longer in Olympia's house. The thought was intolerable. Margaret and Eliza stood looking at each other in blank helplessness. What was to be done? All at once Margaret gave her head a fling and brightened all over.
"Never mind," she said, with one of her old coquettish gestures. "I may, I may—who knows?"
Without further explanation the girl went up-stairs, got out her most becoming hat and feather—for she had never been restricted, like an English servant, in such matters—wrapped a scarlet shawl over her flounced dress, and, after practising a little before the mirror, came down with a glittering parasol in her hand.
"Eliza, just come here and see if my pannier is looped properly," she said, giving that article a shake as she looked in at the door.
Eliza came out of the room, grim as ever, and gave the pannier a discontented jerk or two.
"Now what are you up to?" she inquired, curtly, for she was sometimes a little scandalized at her younger sister's coquettish airs.
"Never you mind, only tell me one thing, honest. Look at me. Ain't I about as good looking as I ever was? If I am, tell them to wait till I come back."
"Don't ask me!" was the curt answer. "Of course they'll wait, because they can't help it."
Margaret Casey called a cab, and ordering it to drive to Morley's, Trafalgar Square, betook herself to rearranging her toilet. She re-clasped a pair of heavy gold bracelets around her wrists—at any rate there was enough of gold in them to make a dashing display—and settled a splendid shawl pin to her own infinite content, then she shook out the folds of her dress, and settled down to serious meditation.
Certainly she did not appear much older than when her good looks had been a temptation to Matthew Stacy, which came very near depriving Harriet, the cook, of her pompous husband. Excitement had brought back the youthful color to her face, and a spirit of benevolent mischief kindled all the old coquettish fire in her eyes. Indeed, take her altogether, the air of refinement, which she had obtained as a lady's maid, and a certain style that she had, might well have made Mrs. Matthew Stacy look about her when Margaret came out in force, such as marked the dashing lady who descended from that cab, just lifting her dress enough to reveal glimpses of a high-heeled boot, and an ankle that Matthew Stacy recognized in an instant, for nothing so trim and dainty had ever helped make a footprint in his matrimonial path, you may be sure. He was standing on the steps at Morley's, with a white vest on and his heavy chain glittering over it like a golden rivulet.
"What! No! yes! On my soul I believe it is Miss Maggie!" cried the ex-alderman, stepping forward and reaching out his hand. "Miss Casey, I am in ecstasies of—of—in short, I am glad to see you."
Maggie bent till her pannier took the high Grecian curve as she opened her parasol, then she gave him the tip end of her gloved fingers, and said, with the sweetest lisp possible:
"How do you do, Mr. Stacy? It is ages and ages since I have had the honor of meeting you. How is Mrs. Stacy and the—and the—"
"Thank you a thousand times, Miss Casey; but—but—in short, Mrs. Stacy is the only person about whom you need inquire. There was another—forgive the outburst of a father's feelings—but a little grave in Greenwood, that long, tells the mournful story."
Here Alderman Stacy measured off a half yard or so of space with his fat hands, but found the effort too much for him, and drew forth his pocket handkerchief.
"Forgive me, but may you never know the feelings of a father who—who—"
"How distressing!" said Margaret, waving her head to and fro, until her eyes settled on a window of the hotel.
"But do control yourself. I think that is Harriet—I beg pardon—Mrs. Stacy, at the window, and your grief may remind her of her loss."
"Mrs. Stacy! Mrs. Stacy!" faltered Matthew. "Miss Maggie, would you have any objection to stepping a little this way? It is so unpleasant for a young lady of your refinement to stand directly in front of a hotel filled with gentlemen. Beauty like yours is sure to bring them to the windows in swarms, as one may observe, and I—I have enough of the old feeling left to be jealous, miserably jealous when any man dares to look upon you."
"But I come to call on your wife, Mr. Stacy."
"She is not at home, I do assure you. She has been shopping since—since day before yesterday."
Margaret's eyes twinkled.
"Then, perhaps, I had better go up, and wait for her?"
Margaret was bright, but even here her old lover proved equal to the occasion.
"My dear Maggie—excuse me, Miss Casey—I do assure you my lady has taken the parlor-key with her. She will be so disappointed at not seeing you!"
"It is unfortunate," said Maggie, playing with her parasol; "because I was in hopes of having a few words with you, and that would be improper, I fear, without her."
"My dear Miss Maggie, not at all—not at all. You have no idea of the quantities of women that prefer to see me alone. Indeed, sometimes I think Mrs. Stacy is a little in the way. Just walk quietly along, miss—not before the windows. Excuse my infirmity, but there are some feelings that one never can throw off. Hold that elegant parasol before that lovely face, and I will be with you in a twinkling. The park is not far off. One moment, while I run up for my cane."
Margaret allowed herself to be persuaded, for the last thing in her mind had been to see Mrs. Stacy. Like those other ladies Matthew had boasted of, she very much preferred to see him alone, and would have been greatly annoyed had Harriet, in fact, appeared at the window.
So, making a merit of her own wishes, she slanted her parasol toward the house and sauntered down the street, while Matthew ran up-stairs, panting for breath, and, entering his parlor, looked anxiously toward the window.
"Matthew, dear, is that you?"
Matthew's foreboding heart revived. That mumbling term of endearment, coming, as it were, through a mouthful of cotton wool, reassured him. He stepped to the sleeping-room door, and found Mrs. Stacy, with her head buried in the pillows and her feet thumping restlessly on the quilt.
"What is the matter, my love?"
"Oh, Stacy, dear, such a sudden take-down! My old neuralgia. Matthew! Matthew! don't leave me! I feel as if I was just a goin'!"
"Oh, nonsense, dear. All you want is plenty of quiet. A good, long sleep would bring you around in no time. Just snuggle down in the pillows, and take yourself off to sleep till I come back."
"Are you going? and me like this? Oh, Matthew!"
"You can't feel it more than I do, Harriet, dear; but I must go down to the bankers with this bill of exchange. Ten thousand dollars isn't to be carried round in a man's pocket safely. Besides, there is a special messenger just come up from the bank; so I must go, you see. But it breaks my heart to leave you so—indeed it does!"
"Oh, if it's about money, I do not mind. That is a thing which must be attended to. But Stacy, dear, don't let them keep you long; but go at onst, and right back."
"The moment those rich old fellows will let me off—the very moment, dear!" cried the model husband, waving his hand airily toward the bed, and taking up both hat and cane; "so try and sleep."
Mrs. Stacy, thus reminded of her own needs, began to moan softly among her pillows, and called out to the walls and windows that she wished, if that pain was going to keep on so, that she never had been born. If it wasn't that she had the very best husband that ever drew breath, she would just give up, and want to die; but for his sake she would try and worry through.
Stacy was far out of reach both of the moans and this conjugal tribute to his goodness, for he had hastened to join that bank messenger who, somehow, took the form of his old sweetheart, and shaded him now and then with a coquettish bend of her parasol.
"Found your cane," observed Maggie, glancing at the ponderous gold-headed affair in the hand of her old lover.
"Oh, yes; no trouble; had just stood it up in a corner of the parlor."
Maggie laughed a little under the cover of her parasol, but kept a discreet silence about the locked door until she was snugly seated in the park, with Stacy crowded close to her side.
"Ah," he said, heaving a sigh that lifted the white vest like a snow-bank, "this is something like happiness! If you could only know what your haughtiness has driven me to—but it is no use trying to make you understand! Look at me, Miss Maggie! Am I the same man that adored you so? Don't answer. I am, I am, for—Harriet, forgive me, I love you yet—I love you yet!"
"But you left me, Mr. Stacy."
"Rather say the furies driv me. I wasn't myself. It was another fellow that woman married: the true man staid with you, and here he is, just the same as ever, if you would only believe it—but you won't, you won't!"
"How can I believe it, Mr. Stacy, after abandoning me so?"
"But not till you driv me to it—not till you had slapped my face with that precious little hand."
"Mr. Stacy, I—I'm glad you care for me a little, because I want a great favor of you."
Stacy sat upright in the iron seat, and pulled down his white vest with a couple of jerks.
"A favor, did you say?"
"Yes, a great favor."
"And what may its nature be, Miss Maggie?"
"Mr. Stacy, you are a rich man."
Stacy was troubled. To deny his wealth was a terrible sacrifice of vanity—to admit it might be exposing himself to depredation.
"Well, yes," he said at last, "I am rich. No one in New York would doubt that; but over here one has such trouble in getting funds, you understand. It was only this morning Mrs. Stacy wanted money for a little shopping, as she called it; but I couldn't give it to her—upon my soul I couldn't."
"Then, it would be of no use to ask you for a loan of twenty-five pounds, as I thought of doing."
"A loan of twenty-five pounds, my dear Maggie! Five hundred pounds would not be too much, if I were only in New York; but here in London, where Alderman Stacy is not known, I could not raise even the miserable sum you want—I could not, indeed."
Maggie's eyes began to flash, for she understood the meanness of this man, and despised it; but she thought of that anxious group in Olympia's parlor, and resolved to have the money.
"Still, considering everything, I think you will try to oblige me."
"Don't ask me. It wounds my manhood to refuse; but let us talk of something else—those dear old times—"
"No," said Margaret, unlocking one of her bracelets, and closing it with a vicious snap. "If you cannot let me have it, I will go to your wife."
"My wife? You go to my wife! Why, she hates you like pison!"
"And I am not very fond of her; but I want this money, and she will have to give it me."
Stacy pulled down his vest again, and broke into a mellow laugh.
"Well, I should like to see you try it on! What would you say to her, Maggie?"
"I would say: Mrs. Matthew Stacy, you and I were fellow-servants together in New York, where the lady was murdered; and for some days, you and I, and the person you have married, were left in charge of all the valuable property that house had in it. One of those nights I went away, leaving everything in its place. When I came back again the wardrobes had been plundered, the bureaus broken open, the wine-cellar pillaged."
Matthew Stacy had been growing crimson while Maggie spoke. He put up a hand to his throat, as if something were choking him, and tore open a button or two of his vest; then he gasped out:
"Miss Maggie, Miss Maggie, do you mean to insinuate that I or my wife Harriet—"
"I don't mean to insinuate anything, because what I say I know. You and your wife took these things. I knew it at the time; I can prove it now."
"Prove it fourteen years after?"
"Some things do not wear out—jewelry and India shawls, for instance. I was at the Opera not long since. My sister, who used to come and visit me so often, is a little in that line, and I used to show her all the shawls and splendid dresses our mistress used to have. Well, that night at the Opera we both saw your wife, sitting by you, with the best shawl the madam had, on her own shoulders. We knew it at a glimpse. There isn't another just like it to be found in England or America. That shawl, Matthew Stacy, is worth thousands of dollars, and your wife, Harriet Long, the cook, was wearing it."
"Margaret! Margaret Casey, you had better take care."
"I have taken care. This woman had a gold-mounted opera-glass in her hand that we both can swear to. Besides that, she had a little watch at her side, set thick with diamonds. That watch she took to a jeweller to be mended. It is in his hands yet. When I leave this seat, it will be my first business to make sure that she never gets the watch again."
"But it is fourteen years—time enough for anything to be outlawed."
"I have asked about that. Crimes are not like debts—they cannot be outlawed, Mr. Stacy."
"And you could find it in your heart to hunt down an old sweetheart like that, providing all you say is true? I wouldn't a believed it of you, Maggie."
"It seems to me that sweetheart just now refused to lend me twenty-five pounds."
"Refused! No, he did not refuse."
Matthew caught his breath, and changed his wheedling tone all at once. A new idea had struck him.
"But, supposing what you say is true, there isn't any one in England to prosecute—"
"Yes, there is the lady's agent. He sat by you when we first saw the shawl. Mr. Hepworth Closs."
Matthew Stacy sprang to his feet, perfectly aghast.
"And you have told him?"
"Not yet; but I mean to!"
"You mean to—"
"Yes, I do!"
"That is it—that is it—the self-same cretur that left the print of her fingers on my cheek, and of herself on my heart. It is her who wishes to cast me to the earth, and have me stamped on by the law. Oh, Maggie Casey, Maggie Casey, I wouldn't have believed it of you!"
"And I wouldn't have believed you capable of refusing me fifty pounds!"
"Fifty pounds! It was twenty-five, Miss Margaret."
"Yes; but I've changed my mind. One does not want to be refused a miserable sum like that. I've doubled it."
"But I did not refuse; I only wanted to put the subject off till we had talked of old times—I didn't refuse you by any manner of means. You hadn't told me anything about yourself—how you came here, and what you were doing, or anything that an old lover's heart was panting to know."
"Well, I will tell you now. I have been, ever since that time, in the family of a nobleman, as a sort of half servant, half companion to his daughter."
"You don't say so! Then what on earth can you want of twenty-five pounds?"
"Fifty."
"Well, fifty it is, then. Between us, that was all I hesitated about; twenty-five pounds was such a pitiful sum for you to ask of me. You didn't understand this noble feeling, and almost threatened me; but not quite, and I'm glad of it, for Matthew Stacy is the last man on earth to give up to a threat. I hope you will believe that, Miss Margaret."
"Fifty pounds!" said Margaret, lifting a tuft of grass by the roots with the point of her parasol.
"Did I dispute its being fifty? Certainly not. Now just say how you will take it—in gold or Bank of England notes?"
"Notes will do."
"I'm glad you said that, because I happen to have the notes about me," answered the alderman, drawing out a plethoric note-case, and counting the money with terrible reluctance. "Here we are; just the sum. Now tell me, were you really in earnest about its being fifty?"
"Just fifty," answered Margaret, counting the money on her lap; "just fifty."
Matthew heaved a grievous sigh, and stood up.
"Now I suppose that little affair is settled forever?" he said, working both hands about the head of his cane, while he eyed the girl askance.
"I said fifty pounds, and fifty pounds it is," answered Margaret. "Now let us be going."
"But you mean to act fair?"
"I mean to act fair, and return your money."
"Oh, I don't mean that, I don't want that! It was the other affair; you could not do anything so cruel."
Margaret turned short round and faced the stout man, who was trembling, abjectly, from head to foot.
"Mr. Stacy, I have kept silent fifteen years and rather over. If I have not spoken before, you may be certain I never shall. I wanted this money very much, indeed, and shall repay it with less thankfulness because of the mean way in which I forced it from you. Your wife may wear her shawl and watch to the end, for any harm I mean her. Good morning, Mr. Stacy."
Stacy stood just as she left him, thrusting his cane into the turf.
"And she wouldn't have done it after all. What a confounded fool I have made of myself! Two hundred and fifty dollars, and gold up to one-forty at home, which makes another clean hundred. What a mercy it is she didn't ask a thousand, though! She took the starch out of me, through and through. I should have handed over anything she asked."
As Stacy was walking from the park, now and then giving a punch to the turf with his cane, in discontented abstraction, he nearly ran against a man who had just passed the gate, and, looking up angrily, saw Hepworth Closs. The poor craven turned white as he saw that face; but Hepworth was in haste, and took no heed of his agitation.
"You are just the man I most wanted," he said.
"What—what—me? Is it me you wanted?" stammered Stacy, smitten with abject terror.
"Yes; you are an American, and will understand the value of American bonds."
"American bonds! Surely, Mr. Closs, you will at least give me a chance of bail? I tell you it is all false! That creature isn't to be believed under oath."
"I have no idea what you mean," said Closs, a good deal puzzled; "but you evidently do not understand me. I am about to leave England, and have a monied trust to settle before I go. There is a reason why it is inexpedient for me to act in person. I wish to pay the money, but give no explanation. Will you act as my agent in this?"
"Is—is it—that estate you are just settling up?" asked Stacy, below his breath, for he felt as if the earth were about to swallow him. "Is it that?"
"I can give you no explanation. This money came into my hands years ago. I invested it carefully—doubled it over and over again; but now I wish to give up my trust. I have it here in American bonds, fifty thousand dollars."
"Fifty thousand!"
"Just that. I wish you to take this to the young lady, to whom it rightfully belongs, and place it in her own hands, with the simple statement that it is hers. Will you oblige me in this?"
"First tell me who the young lady is."
"Lady Clara, the daughter of Lord Hope, of Oakhurst."
"The daughter of a lord! My dear sir, I shall be too happy!"
"But there is a condition. I do not wish the lady to guess where this money comes from. You must be understood as the agent, who has invested and increased it from a small property left in New York by a relative. This will work you no harm, but, on the contrary, win for you favor and gratitude from as noble a lady as ever lived."
"Will it get an invitation to Oakhurst for myself and Mrs. Stacy? That is a thing I should like to mention incidentally, to the Board of Aldermen when they give me a public reception in the Governor's Room. Will it bring about something of that kind?"
"That I cannot tell. The young lady is not now at Oakhurst, but with her grandmother, at Houghton Castle. It is there you will find her."
"Houghton Castle! Why, that's the place I saw mentioned in the Court Journal. There is to be tremendous doings at Houghton Castle before long; a grand entertainment, to which all the grandees, far and near, are invited. What if this fifty thousand dollars should get me and Mrs. S. an invite? That would be a crusher."
"It is possible," said Closs, controlling the fierce beating of his heart. "Come to my hotel in the morning, early. I am anxious to get this trust off my mind."
Stacy promised, and the two men parted, the one elated, the other doubtful, harassed, and painfully disappointed; but the very next day after Matthew Stacy left London for Houghton, Hepworth Closs received a letter, which put all ideas of a voyage to America out of his mind.
Olympia stood, panic-stricken, in her fantastic little boudoir, when she reached home and found a note from Caroline, bidding her farewell, and stating that, not being able to comply with her wishes, she had accepted the other alternative, and left her house forever, in company with her father and the old servant, who had been so faithful to her. The note breathed of sadness and sorrow at the manner of her leaving, and, if firm, was entirely respectful; but it said nothing of her plans, nor told where she was going.
Now, Olympia thought that she had provided against the possibility of a choice between her cruel commands, by depriving both Caroline and her father of all means by which they could leave her. She had gone out, certain of the girl's forced submission, and came back to find her gone. She crushed the note in her hand, flung it down and stamped upon it furiously; for it seemed as if half a million of gold had melted down into the bit of paper, which she could only trample under her feet in impotent wrath.
"The viper! the ingrate! the thing made of iron! Oh, if it were her! if it were her! I would trample her through the floor! Where did she get the money? He had nothing—she had nothing. I thought I had chained them to me by their poverty; then I came home, so exhilarated by this great offer from the manager—and she is gone! So beautiful! and such a voice! Gone! gone! Oh, what a loss!"
Here Olympia, who had never known what self-control was, flung herself on a low, silken couch, heaped with cushions, like a divan, and began to pound them with her little fists, and spurn them with the soiled white satin slippers, in which she had been to rehearsal. This burst of hysterical fury would have brought down the house had she plunged into such naturalness on the stage. But she started up, and after snatching a mosaic card-receiver from her footman, and dashing it against a marble statuette of Venus coming from the bath, thus demolishing what little drapery the poor thing was trying to make the most of, came partially to herself and demanded what the fellow wanted.
The footman, shivering under his blue and silver, pointed to a card which lay on the carpet.
"Why don't you pick it up?" cried Olympia, stamping her satin slipper into a cluster of roses, that seemed to disappear from the carpet.
The man took up the card and handed it to her, with a reverence so humble that she longed to trample him down with the mock roses, and get him out of her sight; but, as he towered above her a foot or two, the process seemed difficult, so she ordered him out of the room, and looked at the card.
"Lord Hilton! Dear me!"
Olympia made a dash through the silken curtains, ran into the hall, just as Lord Hilton was leaving the door-step, and called him back.
He followed her into the boudoir, telling her the reason of his visit as he went.
This inflamed her anew, and she turned upon him savagely, but with some attempt at self-restraint.
"You wished to see Caroline? the ingrate! the viper! the raven with a nightingale's voice! You wish to see her? Why? This is singular. I thought she was a stranger to you. No! Then, where did you meet?"
"I have seen the young lady frequently in Italy. Will you please to have her informed that I am here?"
"Informed—I! Well, my lord, this is droll! No such person is in my house. I could no longer tolerate her. She is gone."
"What! Your daughter?"
"My daughter! Did I ever say that? Ah, I remember—it was after one of our little suppers, when one gets liberal! But this ingrate was no daughter of mine, but my protege—something to fasten the heart on, as one loves a Skye terrier. Her father was a poor man—very poor, almost degraded, you understand—so, in my unfortunate munificence, I lifted her out of her poverty, gave her some of my own genius, and took her to my bosom, as Cleopatra took the asp; and she stung me, just in the same way, villainous ingrate! This girl has treated me shamefully. I had made such an engagement for her—such concessions—carriage for herself, dressing-maid always in attendance, a boudoir for her retirement, private box, everything that a princess might ask; bills almost made out, and when I come home, she is gone. Read that note, my lord; it lies there at your feet. Read it, and tell me if you ever heard of such base ingratitude."
Lord Hilton took up the crumpled and trodden paper. His eyes eagerly ran over its contents, and brightened as they read; while Olympia prowled around her boudoir, like a newly-caged leopardess.
"Read! read!" she said, "and then say if anything so ungrateful ever lived. No, no, my lord, she is no child of mine. I wash my hands of her—I wash my hands of her!"
Here Olympia laved her white hands in the air, and went through a process of dry washing in the heat of her promenade up and down the room.
"And have you no idea where the young lady has gone?"
"An idea! How should I have ideas? You have read her letter. Well, that is all."
Lord Hilton folded the note, and softly closed his hand over it.
"Then I will no longer trouble you, madam," he said, holding back the curtain, while he bowed himself through the entrance.
Olympia watched the crimson curtains close over him, standing, with some effort at self-control, in the middle of the room. Then she broke into a fresh paroxysm, shattered a few more ornaments by way of appeasing her appetite for destruction, and plunged down among her cushions in a fit of shrieking hysterics that brought the whole household around her.
A knock at the door—another visitor—brought Olympia out of her fit, and turned her general rage into spite.
"Show them in—show everybody in! If they want to see how I bear it, let the whole world come!" she cried, spreading her hands abroad.
The man who went to the door obeyed her, and brought in an old woman, whose anxious, tired face might have won sympathy from a stone. She entered that glittering room without excitement or any appearance of curiosity, and when Olympia, in coarse and spiteful irony, bade her sit down in one of the easy-chairs, she took it quietly.
"There is a young lady staying with you, madam, that I wish to see. I think she is known by the name of Brown."
"Brown? Brown? There is no such person here. How dare you come troubling me about her, the ingrate, the asp, the—the—"
"It may be that the young lady may still be called Yates. She bore that name once."
"Yates? Brown? Brown? Yates? I know nothing about them. Don't go on in that fashion, questioning; for I won't hear it! Who are you that dares come here with such names? I do not keep a lodging-house. I am Olympia!"
"But there was a young lady here—the one I wish to see," said the old woman, with calm persistence.
"Well, and if there was?"
"I have very urgent reasons for wishing to find her."
"Well, perhaps you will, who knows? Needles have been found in haymows, but I wasn't the person to pick them up, and it strikes me that you won't be more fortunate."
"But I must see this lady!"
"If you can find her, certainly; but she is not here, and never is likely to be again—the wretch—the viper!"
"When did she leave here, madam?"
"When—when? What is that to you? Am I come to the pass that I cannot turn a viper into the street without being questioned by every old tramp that prowls about? I tell you the creature you call Brown—"
"Caroline Brown," said the old lady, gently.
"Well, the creature you call Caroline Brown, then, has gone from my house forever. I neither know nor care what has become of her."
The old woman arose, and walked close to Olympia.
"You have forgotten me, Olive Brown. It is a long time since you brought that helpless little child to me."
Olympia turned white, and, turning, fiercely ordered the servants from the room.
"Who are you? What are you?" she faltered. "What tempted you to call me by that name, and they standing by?"
"I am named Yates. Years ago you brought a child for me to care for."
"Oh, it is the child again! I tell you, on my honor, she has left my house, I do not know where she has gone."
"Are you certain, madam?"
"Certain! Yes—yes. She left my house only this morning."
"Then I will go in search of her. Will this never end?" sighed Hannah Yates.
"Stop! stop!" cried Olympia. "Promise to say nothing of that name. Promise!"
"I am only wanting to find the young lady—not to harm any one."
"But it would harm me if you told that. Brown! Brown! Think of Brown for a stage name! Can't you understand that it would be death to me? Half my popularity lies in the fact that no one can tell who or what I am. Now, do be silent, that is a good old soul, if it is only for her sake; for you know, in spite of the way she has served me, everything I have or make will go to my child in the end. I am ready to make it worth your while to be quiet."
Here Olympia took out a portemonnaie and unclasped it. The old woman put the glittering thing aside with her hand.
"I do not take money," she said. "All I want is to find her. If she is gone, I must search farther."
Then, with a meek bend of the head, Mrs. Yates left the room and the house.
Lord Hilton went out of that house, relieved by the denial of Olympia that Caroline was her daughter, but in other respects cruelly disappointed. The greatest and most generous wish of his life was to find the young girl, and atone for the cowardice which had made him avoid her for a time. He had resolved that the fact that she was Olympia's child should not prevent him acting this manly part; but when that degradation was lifted from her by the woman's own words, his heart was set free from an intolerable weight, and went back to its old love with a happy rebound. He remained in London some days, spending the time in vain efforts to learn something of the beautiful fugitive, and then started back to the neighborhood of Houghton Castle, bitterly disappointed.
For some distance, after he entered the railroad carriage, Lord Hilton was alone; but at the junction, where he had formerly met Lady Clara and her maid, a gentleman and lady entered the carriage, and sat down opposite him. There was something singular about the lady; her large, black eyes illumined the whole face with a glow of proud triumph that seemed to have uplifted her whole being. It was this brilliant seeming of happiness which at first baffled Lord Hilton; for after the lady had been seated awhile, she probably began to feel the restraints of a stranger's presence, for a fit of thoughtful lassitude crept over her, and her eyelids began to droop.
He remembered the face, now. One night he had seen it at the opera, leaning against the crimson lining of the box, paler by far than now; but the beautiful outlines were the same, though that face had been still and passive, while this was irradiated even in its rest.
Turning his face from the lady, Lord Hilton encountered a face that he knew in the tall and distinguished-looking man who accompanied her.
"Lord Hope, this is a pleasure," he said, holding out his hand. "The last I heard of you was in Scotland."
"Yes, we found the shooting good, and staid longer than usual; but I fancied you were down at the old place."
"And so I was, but these railways send a man from one end of the universe to another so rapidly that one does not know where to date from. I have been up to London for a day or two, and am on my way back again."
Here Lady Hope lifted her slumberous eyelids, and was introduced.
The sweet, alluring smile that we have seen on the face of Rachael Closs had come back to it now.
"I should almost have known Lord Hilton," she said, "from Lady Clara's description. She was indeed fortunate in chancing upon you for a travelling companion."
"I have that great kindness to thank you for, Hilton," said Lord Hope. "Clara's letters were full of your adventures on the road and at Houghton. I did not know that you had left the neighborhood, though."
"I think myself more than fortunate," said Hilton, addressing Lady Hope, "in having the honor of introducing two such ladies to the castle, for I take it you are going to Houghton."
"Oh, yes, of course; it was impossible to refuse Lady Carset. We shall be at the castle some time, I am glad to say."
How her magnificent eyes flashed. The very bend of her head was regal, as she thus announced a triumph she had been toiling for ever since she had become Lord Hope's wife.
The scorn of that old woman at Houghton, had been the bane of her existence. Like an interdict of the Pope in olden times, it had kept her apart from the people of her own rank, as an excommunication would have done in past ages. But all this was removed. As it would seem by a miracle, the bitter prejudices of that old lady had given way, and through the broad doors of Houghton Castle, she was invited to take her place among the peeresses of the land.
This had brought back the fire and bloom into Lady Hope's life, and when Lord Hilton leaned out, as he had done with Lady Clara, and exclaimed, "There is Houghton," a glorious smile broke over her features.