The train which took Caroline and her party down to Houghton, reached their destination just as the sun was setting over the glorious old trees of the park, and trembling in golden brightness in the ivy that clung to those twin towers.
Scarcely had they left the train, when a basket-carriage came dashing up to the platform, and a young lady sprang out, tossing her reins to a dainty little tiger, who sat behind, erect and decorous, knowing himself to be an object of general attention.
"So you are really here. I am so glad to find you! All right, this way—jump in; don't be afraid, the ponies are gentle as gentle can be. Here we are, never mind the others. There is a carriage on the way for them; but, of course, I got here first; always do. Give me the reins, Joe—now for it."
The little carriage wheeled around, and Lady Clara looked back, nodding to Brown, as her ponies took the road in full speed.
"Nice old fellow, isn't he? I am so glad to get him here, for I am going back on my music terribly."
"Did you know he is my father?" said Caroline, in a gentle voice.
"No!"
"He is, indeed. I never learned it till yesterday; but it does not seem strange, for no father was ever more gentle or kind than he has been since the first day I knew him."
"And Olympia—she is your mother, no doubt?"
"Yes; she is my mother."
"All right, we needn't talk of her! it isn't of the least consequence. You must not speak so sadly. I dare say she is a good enough person; but you don't know how to manage her. For my part, I rather like her; but the old gentleman is just lovely! I am glad he is your father; because he can take care of us so properly, and grandmamma will like it, I know. I have got you a chamber next to mine. Our dressing-rooms open into each other, and they are both near grandmamma's apartments. Dear old lady, she is just the kindest, sweetest, loveliest mite of a woman you ever saw; like a darling old fairy. Won't you love her?"
They drove along now for some distance in silence; but as they mounted to the uplands, where Houghton stood, Caroline began to take a lively interest in the scenery, which was both grand and beautiful in that region. Away toward the horizon, at the upper end of the valley, was some large building, whose gray walls and oriel windows were just now burning in the golden fires of a magnificent sunset.
"What place is that?" said Clara, repeating the question her companion had asked, "Oh, that is Keath Hall, and may some day belong to Lord Hilton, a friend of ours."
Caroline felt her breath taken away, she had no power to speak, while Lady Clara sat smiling pleasantly to herself. The poor girl felt like springing out of the carriage, and fleeing to the uttermost parts of the earth, rather than be in the neighborhood with a man who had scorned her so.
"Lord Hilton is not there now," said Clara, with the innocent quietness of a kitten; "something has taken him to London or Italy, I believe; but he is very pleasant, and I like him well enough to be sorry about his going."
Caroline breathed again; but her face was very sorrowful and her heart heavy, during the rest of the drive.
The size and splendor of that vast building almost terrified the girl, who had been brought up in that little cedar cottage. She gave no indication of this in her manner, but walked by the side of her friend through that spacious hall, with its bronze statues, suits of armor and bossed shields, as if no meaner roof had ever sheltered her.
"Come," said Clara, as the young traveller took off her tiny hat, and began to smooth the hair back from her temples. "I am so impatient to have grandmamma see you. That will do—that will do. Come, now."
The two girls went out together, Clara leading the way, and directly stood in the dim light of Lady Carset's chamber.
"Grandmamma, I have brought my friend to pay her respects," said Clara; "only to pay her respects, for, of course, she is famished; but I felt how glad you would be, and brought her directly up here."
The old countess arose from her chair, and came forward holding out her hand. She did, indeed, seem like a fairy godmother, with that soft lace quivering over her snow-white hair, and those great diamonds blazing on her tiny hands.
"I am glad to see you, Miss—Miss—"
"Miss Brown, grandmamma."
"Oh, indeed! well, I am very glad to welcome you, Miss Brown. They tell me you have a fine voice. I should like to hear it some day, when you are not tired."
"If my voice will give you pleasure, lady, I shall, for the first time in my life, be grateful for it," said Caroline, so impressed by this sweet old lady's kindness, that she longed to throw both arms about her.
"What, what? I did not hear distinctly. Oh, it is the voice they tell me of, which thrills the heart with its sweetness; was not that what you said of it, Clara? No wonder people like it. I do."
The old lady still held Caroline's hand—her delicate fingers clung to it, with the loving tenacity of a child. She looked up to the beautiful face with eager, wistful curiosity; but the light always came dimly into that chamber, and its rich draperies of lace and brocade threw their shadows over Caroline; besides, those old eyes were dim with age, or she might have been troubled that such dangerous beauty should come into her house in the form of a dependant. As it was, she allowed the two girls to depart, without dreaming that a more beautiful woman than her grandchild had almost been put upon a level with her.
Two or three days after this, Lord and Lady Hope arrived at the castle, and the old countess, for the first time, saw the woman who wore the coronet which had once belonged to her child. It was beautiful to see that proud lady—for now you could decide that she had been very proud—preparing herself to receive this woman, whom she had hated and wronged so grievously. She stood up in her tower-room when Rachael entered it, her black satin dress trailing far out upon the floor, the yellow old lace fastened over her bosom with a cluster of diamonds, and a handkerchief of delicate lace in her hand.
There was a little more motion of the head than usual, and that was all the evidence she gave of extraordinary emotion.
Lady Hope came to the door, leaning on the arm of her husband; but, on the threshold, she abandoned his support, and came forward by his side, apparently calm and self-possessed; but a proud fire shone in those black eyes, which would not be quenched.
"I have sent for you, Lady Hope, because I thought that the most open and honorable way of acknowledging the wrong I have done you, and of asking your forgiveness."
The old countess folded her arms over her bosom, and bent, in her proud humility, before that beautiful woman whom she could never, never love.
Rachael Closs forced back the triumph that swelled haughtily in her bosom, for the old lady's acknowledgment fired her heart like burning incense; but she bowed her head, as if she had committed the fault, and turning to her husband, appealed to him:
"I cannot—I have no language in which to say how this kindness overwhelms me. Pray tell her from this hour I forget that she has not always thought so kindly of me as I have deserved."
Lord Hope was greatly agitated. The keen eyes of that old lady, as they turned upon his face, troubled him. His very lips were white as he attempted to open them, not to utter the elegant speech suggested by his wife, for his heart seemed to break forth in a single sentence:
"Countess, have the justice to blame me if any wrong has been done to you or yours. As for this lady, no more devoted mother ever lived than she has been to your daughter's child!"
A burst of sobs arose from the other side of the room, and Lady Clara came forward, her face wet with tears, her mouth quivering.
"Indeed, indeed she has! Oh, grandmamma, do love her, because she has been so good to me and everybody else!"
Lady Carset reached forth her hand gently, and with delicate cordiality; but there was no yearning of the heart there, such as had marked her reception of that young girl.
Lady Hope cared very little for this. She had attained the great aim of her life in this recognition; anything like warmth of affection would have been as irksome to her as it was impossible to the old countess. She took the little hand, pressed her lips upon it, and retreated from the room, keeping her face toward the old lady, as if she were retiring from the presence of a queen.
The old countess stood up bravely, and bent her delicate person with the exquisite grace of a lady of the olden time, as her guests disappeared. The moment they were gone she turned to seek her couch; but her limbs lost their strength, her feet became entangled in the satin train, and she would have fallen to the carpet but for Lady Clara, who sprang forward and held her up.
"Dear me, how you tremble! Oh, grandmamma, don't! I never saw you cry before. It breaks my heart!"
The poor old lady was trembling in all her limbs, and crying like a child. It had been a hard cross for her feebleness to take up when she admitted that man and woman to her presence. It seemed as if her own dead child had stood between them, and with shadowy arms striven to push them apart.
"I have done no more than my duty," she said, with a piteous smile. "It was hard, very hard. Still a Carset must not allow any wrong to go unatoned for, and about those diamonds I did wrong her."
Clara did not speak. She was frightened by the agitation into which this scene had thrown the old lady, and only besought her to rest; but strong, nervous excitement is not so easily pacified. The countess conquered her tears, but the couch shook under her nervous trembling. Then Clara ran to her own apartments, and came back to an adjoining room with Caroline, whose voice had a power of soothing which even excitement could not resist.
"Begin to sing—something low and sweet," she whispered. "I will leave the door ajar."
Then Clara stole back to her grandmother, and directly a soft strain of music stole into the room, almost unnoticed at first, like the perfume of flowers, but growing into harmonies so full and swelling, that the whole atmosphere seemed flooded with it.
The old countess listened; the faint breath paused upon her lips, her eyelids began to quiver, and her little withered hands stole up to her bosom and rested there in a tremulous clasp.
"It is a heavenly voice. My child is not angry with me. Oh! how sweetly she tells me so! how sweet—how sweet!"
And so she fell asleep after awhile—all the trembling gone, all the pain swept from those delicate features. Then Caroline came in and sat down by Lady Clara, smiling over the gentle work she had done. The old lady opened her eyes once, and, reaching out her hand to Caroline, who sat nearest, murmured:
"You are not offended with me, child?"
"She takes you for me," whispered Clara, "and is dreaming, I think. Let us be very still."
So the two girls sat together, and guarded the gentle slumber into which the old countess had fallen, with loving solicitude. She seemed to feel their loving presence even in sleep, for a heavenly smile stole over her face, and occasionally she whispered as if answering some pleasant voice that came stealing through her dreams.
Lady Carset had extended numerous invitations to her old friends, and it was understood that Lady Hope would represent the head of the house and do the honors. This compliment was partly in atonement for the wrong that had been done Rachael Closs, and partly from the infirmities of extreme old age, which rendered it even dangerous for the old countess to entertain her guests in person.
For the first time in her life, Lady Hope was in her true element. The weight of an intolerable restraint had been lifted from her. She was mistress of one of the most splendid establishments in all England, not even for a time, for would it not descend unbroken to a step-daughter who worshipped her? Was not the will which settled this already made, and she as good as mistress there during her whole life? She had thought Oakhurst a noble possession, but it dwindled into insignificance when compared with the splendor of Houghton Castle. Very seldom in the world had the ambition of an aspiring woman been so suddenly and completely gratified. It had been all like a dream to her, but now she felt the reality, with an exultation of spirit that took ten years from her person, and a weird burden from her heart. This great happiness sprang out of two grand passions—love and ambition.
The first was gratified in this—Lord Hope was a changed man—a shadow had been swept from his path—hidden shame had changed to unchecked pride. The woman he had married, because of an overpowering love, was now in a position to fascinate society with her beauty, and win its homage with her genius. They had come out from the shadow and were in the broad sunshine.
All his old fondness returned; she could tell it by the elasticity of his step, by the proud uplifting of his head, by the very tones of his voice.
She had thirsted for greatness, and it was hers. She had pined for the old love, and it had come back to her. No wonder the carriage of this woman was lofty, and her voice full of music. No wonder that the rich coloring of her youth returned, and her eyes took back their velvety softness.
At this period Rachael Closs was at the pinnacle of her hopes. She could scarcely understand that this lofty position had not always belonged to her. To dispense almost regal hospitality came to her as the most natural thing on earth, and as each day brought some noble guest to the castle, she received them with more finished grace and a deeper consciousness of power.
Of course, at this time, Lady Clara was most frequently with her stepmother, for the old countess would have it so, and Caroline took her place very frequently in the tower room, where she felt herself to be more than welcome. Indeed, the old lady seemed almost as fond of her as she was of the bright, generous heiress. Caroline would not consent to mingle with the gay crowd which kept up a brilliant carnival all day long in the park, in the vast drawing-room, everywhere, except in that one old tower where the countess spent her quiet life. At the grand festival she had resolved to come forth and do the honors of her own castle, but until then she contented herself by receiving her guests, and then pleasantly turning them over to the splendid woman who filled her place with such consummate ability.
This arrangement threw Caroline almost constantly into the seclusion of the tower apartments, and it so chanced that she had not once met Lady Hope, who was, in fact, unconscious of her presence in the castle.
Clara remembered, with some trepidation, the rebuke which had been given her, regarding her liking for this girl, and, not caring to provoke a repetition, did not mention the fact of her residence at Houghton. Thus it chanced that neither Lord Hope or his wife knew of the independent step their daughter had taken.
Lady Clara had evidently something on her mind one day, for she gave up a ride to the hunt, a thing she had set her heart upon, and came after Caroline to take a long walk in the park with her. Caroline went gladly, for her heart was aching under its broken hopes, and as the excitement connected with her new home died out, a sense of bereavement and desolation came back. She was, indeed, very wretched, and Lady Clara saw it. Perhaps this was the reason she took her protege out for that pleasant walk in the park.
When the two girls reached that hollow through which the brook ran, and where the ferns grew, Clara became suddenly conscious that Caroline must be tired.
Perhaps she was. Caroline, in her listlessness, did not care to ask herself about it, but sat down on a fragment of rock, as Clara directed her, and fell to watching the brook with her sad eyes, as it crept through the ferns and gurgled over the pebbles at her feet.
Meantime Clara had wandered quietly up the hollow, and disappeared in search of something which grew a little way off, she said. So Caroline was not to move till she came back, unless she wished to be lost utterly.
Caroline liked the solitude, and the cool ripple of the brook soothed her. She was rather sorry when a footstep on the forest turf heralded the return of her friend; but she looked up with a welcoming smile, and saw Lord Hilton, her Italian teacher—the man who had told her more than once that he loved her better than his own life!
She did not cry out, or rise from her hard seat, but sat still, looking at him in mournful quietness. What was he, what could he ever be, to her? A nobleman of the realm, and the Olympia's daughter!
He came down the bank and seated himself by her side.
"Caroline, have you no welcome to give me?"
She looked at him with a gleam of excitement in the sadness of her eyes.
"You know who I am, and I, alas! know that you are Lord Hilton," she said, with a touch of pathetic pride. "How can I welcome you?"
"Have you, then, ceased to love me, Caroline?"
Her pale face flushed, her eyes kindled.
"Is this a question to ask me?"
"Yes—because I have never ceased to love you, and never shall."
"Not when you are certain that I am the daughter of—of—an actress?"
"Not if you were the daughter of fifty actresses, Caroline! I have been searching for you, in London, everywhere. More than once I inquired at Olympia's door."
"You!"
"Indeed I did; but she would give me no information."
"She could not. I left no word."
"And now that I have found you, Caroline?"
"My name is Brown, Lord Hilton. I am, in truth, the daughter of that good man whom you supposed my father."
"And of Olympia?"
"Yes, they were married and—and divorced before she became celebrated and took the name of Olympia."
Caroline said all this with a feeling of self-torture that took all the color from her face. The love of Lord Hilton seemed an impossibility to her, and she gave him the hard truth, under which her heart was writhing, without a reservation of pride or delicacy.
"It is of very little consequence whose daughter you are," said the young man, tenderly, "so long as I love you, and am, with God's blessing, resolved to make you my wife."
"Resolved to make me your wife!"
The words came one by one from her lips, in measured sadness. She knew the thing to be impossible, and uttered the words as if she had buried some beloved object, and was mourning over it.
"I repeat it, Caroline. There is no change in my love—no change in my determination. All that I felt for you in our sweet Italian life lives with me yet."
Caroline turned her eyes full upon him. An expression of pain broke through their mournfulness.
"It was impossible!"
That was all she said; but he knew how much agony the words had cost by the whiteness of her lips.
"But why," he pleaded, "if we love each other, for you love me yet?"
"Yes, I love you!"
Hilton threw his arms around her, and kissed her cold face in a transport of thankfulness.
"Then, why not? We were betrothed in Italy, when I believed you Mr. Brown's daughter, as I do now."
"But I did not know that you were an English nobleman, and heir to a large estate."
"Is that a crime, Caroline? Besides, you need not trouble yourself about the estate. When I ask you in marriage, that is given up."
She turned to him suddenly, and held out her hands.
"Are you, indeed, ready to give up so much for me?"
"I am ready to give up everything but my honor," was his reply.
"I am only a poor girl, with no honor to hold but my own; but you shall not find me less generous than you are."
He kissed her hands in passionate gratitude.
"Ah, darling, I knew—I knew that it must end so."
She forced her hands from his clasp.
"You misunderstand me. I love you better than myself! better than my life! Do believe it! And for that reason we part, now and forever! I could not live through another hour like this!"
"Caroline!"
"I know it is hard; my own heart is pleading against it. But there is something which forbids me to listen."
"Caroline, I will not permit this! It is unnatural, cruel!"
"I know it! I know it! Still it is our destiny. Nothing that has been said, or can be said, will change the fact of your birth and mine. Do not, I implore you, press this matter farther. It is hard to fight against my own heart and you. Spare me and let me go!"
Caroline arose and absolutely fled from the man she loved. He did not attempt to detain her, but walked away slowly, half offended—but more resolved on making her his wife than ever.
Not far from the glen, loitering up and down a secluded forest-path, Caroline met Lady Clara, and, by her side, the young man whom she had met that night at Olympia's supper party. This took her by surprise, and she turned into another path, where a sheltered garden seat invited her to rest.
Lady Clara had not seen her companion, and was too much occupied for any thought regarding her. She was talking earnestly to Hepworth Closs, who had refused Lady Carset's invitation to take up his quarters at the castle, but was staying at the public house down in the village, until after the festival, at which Clara still refused to be introduced as sole heiress of the broad domain on which they stood.
"Let us be patient," she said. "I cannot distress this kind old lady while she is so disturbed and so feeble. Let things take their course till she is strong enough to endure this additional agitation. She was greatly pleased with you that morning when you called. By degrees she will learn to like you; and when she finds that Lord Hilton has no idea of joining the estates by a marriage with her heiress—a thing which I know she has at heart, but she has, as yet, only given me warning by most delicate insinuations—your proposal will not disturb her so much."
Hepworth Closs had learned the great lessons of patience, and loved the young girl by his side too sincerely for any protest against what was, in fact, a necessary delay; so he answered her kindly;
"So long as we are not entirely separated, Clara, I can bear anything, even your father's hostility, which, after all, is but natural."
"But that, too, will be swept away by grandmamma's consent; and I am sure she loves me so much that, with patience, that may be obtained. Besides, there is your sister, eager for your interests and pining for your society."
"Poor Rachael! How does she bear the honors heaped upon her up yonder."
"Like an empress. Indeed, I never saw her really happy before. My father has all at once taken to adoring her. No wonder! Happiness has made her so grandly beautiful, so dashingly brilliant in all she says and does. The new duke, who has just come down, is so taken with her that he scarcely leaves her side."
"I am glad of that," exclaimed Closs. "If ever a woman was born to control society, it is Rachael. Does she know I am here?"
"I have not told her yet. It will be time enough when all this tumult about the heirship has abated. And perhaps it will be best to let papa find it out in some natural way, when he will, I hope, be anxious to recognize you as Lady Carset's guest, and make atonement for his harshness at Oakhurst."
"What a wise little diplomat you have become, Clara!"
"Yes, I think so. It is just beginning to dawn on me that rash action is the worst kind of selfishness; how, just by a little kindness and a great deal of love, I, a harem-scarem girl, who never stopped to think in my life before, have reconciled an old family feud of fifteen years standing, brought Lady Hope triumphantly to Houghton, and swept ever so many cares out of my father's way, besides all the little pleasantness that my coming has given to the old countess. I wouldn't boast in this way to any one else, Hepworth; but these things make me proud and happy, so I tell them to you, as I whisper it to myself. When I first came here, it was with the resolution of appealing to grandmamma against Lord Hope's opposition to us, and, if she went against me, to throw up everything, and set them all at defiance. But one must have a hard nature to attempt such harsh measures with that sweet old lady. It would break my heart to leave her—wound my conscience to give her a moment's pain. As for her title and her wealth, I tell you, honestly, they are encumbrances I do not want. A thousand times, rather, would I have her consent, with that of my father, and freedom to go with you where we pleased. I want no greatness or power for myself, unless it comes through the man I love; but for you, Hepworth, I am ambitious, and would rather a thousand times go to America, and share the honors which your own genius would be sure to win, as plain Mrs. Closs, than stay here as mistress of Houghton, a countess in my own right, and you only recognized as the husband of Lady Carset."
The hot color came and went in her lover's face as Clara spoke out the thoughts that haunted her about the future—his own thoughts expressed through her girlish lips. He turned suddenly, took her hands, and kissed them both with passionate warmth.
"Oh, if they would but give you up with nothing but this glorious freedom, I should not have another wish on earth; but they are about to bury you so deep beneath their wealth and titles that I may not be able to find my love when I ask for her."
Clara smiled.
"You shall never ask for me that I will not come. There is not in all England wealth or honors enough to buy me out of your reach. Only let us wait patiently a little while longer."
"Sweet child! generous woman! Jacob never served more faithfully for his love than I am willing to wait for mine. Only this, we must not be kept apart."
"We will not be kept apart. Our souls belong to each other. No person on earth shall enthrall them."
"Then I am content; all the more because I know what utter desolation absence is. Ah, Clara, it seemed like an opening from Paradise when you wrote me to come here! Heaven knows where I should have been now but for that blessed note!"
"But you are here, safe and well, for which the good God be thanked! Everything has happened without disappointment to any one, unless it may be Caroline's mother, the handsome Olympia. She is furious, Lord Hilton tells me. I am a little sorry for that poor woman. Of course, she wasn't just as she should be to Caroline, but I can't help liking her, after all. There that dear girl sits, like patience on a monument, waiting for me. I wonder what has become of Lord Hilton?"
Here Lady Clara and her lover separated; she joined her friend, whose garments were visible through the green of the leaves, and he walked toward the village, very happy, notwithstanding the uncertainty of his affairs.
As Hepworth entered his room at the inn, he was accosted with boisterous familiarity by Mr. Stacy, the New York alderman, who expressed the broadest astonishment at his presence there, and was anxious to know if it would break up his own mission to the castle.
Hepworth reassured him on this point, and gave some additional directions, which the alderman accepted with nods and chuckles of self-sufficiency, that were a little repulsive to the younger and more refined man.
"I understand Matthew Stacy is to be 'A Number One' in the whole business—sole agent of her mother's trust; by-the-way, who was her mother?"
There was a shrewd twinkle in Stacy's eye as he asked this, which Hepworth comprehended and met at once.
"Her mother was the first Lady Hope, the only daughter of Lady Carset, up there at the castle. She died in America while travelling there with her husband, about fifteen years ago."
All this was plain and simple. The alderman drew a deep breath, and the shrewd twinkle went out of his eyes.
"To tell the truth," he said, "I was thinking of that poor murdered lady, Mrs. Hurst. You know there was a little girl at the inquest that would have been about the age of this young lady; for I took a peep into the peerages, after you opened this matter, and I thought possibly that Mrs. Hurst and Lady Hope might be—you understand?"
"What! Identical! Did you mean that?"
"Well, no, not exactly identical—she was respectable enough—but the same person."
"But you forgot, Mr. Stacy, telling me that the young lady who appeared as a singer in the opera that night was that very child."
"By Jingo! you are right! I did that same. Of course—of course. What was I thinking of? How she did sing, too; ten thousand mocking birds in her throat, all piping away at once. What was I thinking of? Now, Mr. Closs, while I'm gone—for I mean to strike while the iron is hot—just have the goodness to look in on Mrs. S., she will feel it a compliment, being a trifle homesick and lonesome down here. But tell her to keep a stiff upper lip; there isn't many ladies, not even your barronessers and duchessers, that shall outshine her at the grand party up yonder."
"The grand party!" repeated Hepworth, in amazement. "Are you invited there?"
"Not just yet, but of course I mean to be. One good turn deserves another, Mr. Hepworth—I beg pardon—Mr. Closs, and if I take this pile up to Castle Houghton, it is no more than fair that the young lady gives me an invite for myself and Mrs. S. Turn about is fair play, all the world over, Mr. Closs, and I don't mean to lose my chances. Some men would ask money for all this, but I am ready to put up with an invite. Mrs. S. has set her heart on it. Ask her to let you see that red velvet dress that she got made on purpose, and the panier. Don't, by any means, forget to ask her to show you the panier; it's tremendous, I tell you."
Mr. Stacy stood for a moment longer, shaking the links of his gold chain up and down in one hand, as if he had something else to say, but not remembering what it was, he disappeared, and was soon driving, in the best carriage he could obtain, toward Houghton Castle.
Lady Clara was in her own room scolding, persuading, and comforting Caroline, when a card was brought to her, and she read, with astonishment, the name of "Matthew Stacy, Esq., Ex-Alderman, New York."
"Who is this person?" she inquired.
"Haven't the least hidea, my lady; he asked for yer leddyship, and would, on no account, see any one else, yer leddyship."
"Where is he now?"
"In the small drawing-room, yer leddyship."
Clara went down, excited by the painful curiosity which always disturbed her when she met any person from America. What could he want?
Alderman Stacy arose as she entered the room where he was sitting, and made three profound bows in the different stages of her advance from the door, then he sat down in a light chair. The delicate India carving began to creak under his weight, and he sprang to his feet again, looking over his shoulder at the combination of azure silk and lace-like ebony in awkward consternation. Then he took another chair, all cushions and softness, in which he sank down luxuriously, and began to fidget with his chain.
"You are from New York, Mr. Stacy—I think it was on your card?" said Clara, commencing the conversation.
"Yes, exactly, my—my lady—Empire State; besides that I have a little business with you—pleasant business, I may undertake to say; money, my dear young lady. Money always is pleasant. What ancient poet is it that says, 'money makes the mare go?' which means, I take it, that it drives men and women—I mean gentlemen and ladies—just alike. So I call it pleasant news, when I tell your ladyship that I have got a pile of it for you—American bonds, payable in gold."
"Money for me—for me?"
"No wonder you are surprised. The amount was an astonisher for me when I came to reckon it up. At first it was a mere nothing, only a few thousand, but gold, in my hands, grows, grows, grows, and now, my dear young lady, that little heap left by your lamented mother—you understand—"
"Left by my mother, and for me?"
"Yes, your lamented mother, the first Lady Hope, a lovely woman, but delicate, very delicate; carried off by consumption at last. Well, just before her death she sent for me—we were great friends, you know. Being alderman, in fact, president of the board, I had an opportunity to offer her some municipal civilities, such as the use of the Governor's room to receive her friends in, and the freedom of the city. I assure you she had the broadest liberty to ride where she pleased, especially in the Central Park. Then we took her to the institutions, and she had a lovely dinner on Blackwell's Island, for I was hand in glove with the commissioners. I don't tell these things to boast of 'em only to explain how she came to trust me as her executioner—I beg pardon—her executor, and send for me just as her spirit was taking flight."
"Oh! please tell me of that—of her—I do not care about the money," cried Clara, interrupting this pompous tissue of falsehoods, with tears in her eyes. "You saw her, you talked with her?"
"Often and often."
"Oh, tell me!"
"Not just now, young lady. Business is business, and we must not get things mixed. Some other time, after your great party, for instance, I shall be too happy, for Mrs. Stacy and I shall stay in the village, till after that august occasion; but now I come on business, nothing short, and I am in a hurry to get these ten thousand pounds American gold-bearing bonds off my stomach—I beg pardon—conscience. Here, my lady, is the pile of bonds. Every one will bring the tin when its wanted, no mistake about that."
Here Mr. Stacy laid a package of bonds in Lady Clara's lap, and stood with a beaming face, regarding her puzzled look, as she examined them.
"And these are worth ten thousand pounds?" she said.
"Exactly."
"And left to me without reservation or condition, by my mother?"
"Exactly. 'My dear friend,' said she, 'you will find somewhere about three thousand pounds in the bank. That money I leave in your hands, for I have faith in you, Stacy. That money is sure to grow, and when my daughter, Clara, gets to be about eighteen or so, pay it and the increase over to her in my name; tell her to keep it for her own independent use; to say nothing to Lord Hope or his wife—I mean if he should marry again—but to use it just as she pleases, without regard to her grandmother or any one else.' These were the directions your mother left with the money, and I hope you will make sure to abide by them, my lady."
"I will remember every word you have said," answered Clara, whose face was beginning to brighten under a new idea, and the bonds were becoming very precious to her. "But is there nothing I can do in return for this kindness?"
"I expected this. That was just what she said, 'My friend,' says she, 'there will be no such thing as paying you in specie for the service you will do my child; but she will be a lady of rank, Mr. Stacy, and as such will know how to return your kindness, and entertain you with the best. Though dukes and princes should be her guests, she will have pride and glory in introducing her mother's faithful friend to them all. Yes, him and that splendid woman, who is your wife, the friend of my bosom,' says she; 'and if you ever go to England, be sure to take your wife along, then you'll have a chance to learn what British hospitality is in the walls of Houghton Castle, my own birthplace.'"
"My mother has promised nothing in my power to perform which shall not be done," said Clara, a good deal puzzled by all that she heard, and quite at a loss to judge of the social status of her visitor. But the great fact remained—her mother had trusted him; he had brought her a large sum of money, which nothing but the most honorable integrity would have prevented him keeping for his own benefit. The man who could so faithfully render back an important trust, must be worthy even of her grandmother's hospitality.
The moment Mr. Stacy had bowed and stumbled himself from the room, Clara ran to Lady Carset, and obtained an invitation for M. Stacy, Esq., and lady, to the entertainment which was now close at hand. With that invitation, went a large package directed to Hepworth Closs, in which a letter was enclosed, requesting him to take such legal steps in her behalf as would secure the amount contained in the American bonds to Mr. Brown, the father of her dear friend, Caroline. "I know that she would refuse the independence for herself and her father, if I were to press it upon her; indeed, she has already done so, when I only hinted at the matter; but when it is secured irrevocably to her father, she must submit to being made comfortable in spite of herself. The money is mine to use exactly as I please, and this is my pleasure. Pray help me to carry it out. There is no need of consulting that dear old man, Brown, whose welfare I seek quite as earnestly as I do that of his daughter; for he is just the sweetest and dearest character I ever knew, and I would give the world to see his blessed old face, when he first discovers that he is a rich man. Tell me all about it. Be very careful and delicate in your management of this business, and say nothing until you have put it out of your power or mine to revoke what will make me the happier in the giving than they can be in receiving. When we meet I will tell you how this money came to be mine; but before then, I trust it will be in the possession of another. What do I want of American bonds? I think it would offend my dear old fairy-grandmother if I took them, and I know you will approve what I am doing."
Closs read the letter with a smile of pleasure; but when he took up the bonds again, his face clouded.
"Can I never wash my hands of that poor lady's money," he said. "Do what I can, it will come back to me."
The night arrived at last in which Lady Carset was to do the honors of her own castle, and receive the highest and brightest of the land in person. A range of boudoirs and saloons, connected with the state drawing-room, were thrown together, and united in one splendid vista by silken draperies and hot-house plants, which formed noble wreaths and arches over each entrance, filling room after room with brightness and fragrance.
The conservatories had been stripped that night, that their treasures of rare exotics might brighten the splendor of those rooms, and soften the ancestral grandeur of the vast entrance hall. They wound in massive wreaths around the carved balustrades of that broad oaken staircase—were duplicated over and over again in the height and breadth of those noble mirrors. They formed a blooming border around the oaken floors, black with age and bright with polish, of the dancing-rooms. The gilded orchestras were interlaced with them, and, in every group of plants or clustering wreath, jets of gas twinkled out like stars, casting tremulous shadows from the leaves, and lending a richer color to the blossoms.
When the first carriage load of guests came sweeping across the stone terrace, Lady Carset left her dressing-room, and, leaning on the arm of Lord Hope, took her place in the central drawing-room, with gentle dignity, and stood, with the gaslight quivering around her, touching up the richness of her purple garments with golden ripples of light, and striking out rainbows from the great Carset diamonds, which held, and gathered up the woven moonlight of her lace shawl on those dainty, sloping shoulders and delicate bust, which had not known such ornaments for years. A ripple of these noble jewels ran through the soft waves of her hair, and held the tuft of Marchant feathers and lappets of gossamer lace back from her left temple, whence they floated off gently into the snow of her hair, scarcely whiter than it was. A lovelier representative of the grandest aristocracy on earth, or a more dainty lady of the olden times, had never, since its foundation, done the honors of Houghton Castle. But the sweet old lady was already forced to exert all her strength, that nothing should fall short of the old hospitality on this the last fête she ever expected to give.
Lady Clara had followed her, half dancing, half floating down that broad staircase, jerking blossoms from the plants as she went, and forming them into a tiny bouquet for her grandmother. Her dress was just one cloud of silvery whiteness. A little cluster of moss rose buds on the left shoulder, and another in her belt, were all the ornaments she wore. She had insisted, with almost passionate vehemence, that no mention of her heirship should be made that night, and the old lady consented with reluctance, but appeased her own impatience by a grand festival to all her tenants and retainers in the park, where nothing had been omitted which, in feudal times, was considered proper when the heirship of Houghton was proclaimed. Still, in words, the old lady had kept honorable silence, and no one, even from the grandeur of the entertainment, had a right to more than guess that the general heirship was settled on Lord Hope's daughter.
In fact, this entertainment was ostensibly given to Lord and Lady Hope, and the old countess had taken up the sparkling weight of all those Carset jewels, that all the world might know that they had come back honorably into her own possession. It was a splendid and most delicate way of acknowledging herself in the wrong.
Before the guests had commenced to arrive in any numbers, Lady Hope came floating into the state drawing-room, with a noble cactus flower sweeping backwards from the left side of her head, and resting upon the massive braids of her hair, which curved upwards like a helmet, from her neck almost to the forehead. Chains of large rubies encircled her neck and arms, harmonizing with the cactus blossom, but forming a bold contrast to the amber silk of her dress, which swept far back upon the polished floor, and took the light as birds of Paradise fling off sunshine from their plumage. A beautiful and right queenly personage was Rachael Closs that night, as she moved across the floor and took her place by the little countess, who looked up and smiled gently when she saw that Lord Hope's wife appeared in the old family rubies, which she had presented to her that morning.
One bright glance at Clara, another of sparkling triumph at Lord Hope, and Rachael gave herself up to the brilliant duties that lay before her. This night was to be the crowning success of her life.
The guests swept through the great entrance, and into the drawing-room now, in crowds and groups. Music sounded from half a dozen gilded orchestras, and the oaken floors of that old castle began to tremble under the feet of many dancers, as they kept time to the music, and sent out a soft undertone of conversation.
Lord Hope opened the ball with the élite of the élite. Lord Hilton led Lady Clara into the same set, at which the old countess nodded her head and smiled. She observed that the young nobleman bent his head, and looking in the bright face of her grandchild, was talking earnestly to her, at which the dear old lady smiled again, and put up her fan, that no one might observe how pleased she was.
This was what Hilton was saying:
"And she would not come down, fearing to meet me? This is hard, Lady Clara!"
"No," answered the girl, reaching out her hand for a ladies' chain, and breaking from it in haste. "It is not altogether that; she says that it is impossible to be of us—that her birth forbids it, and any attempt at equality could only end in humiliation. I cannot persuade her out of this idea: entreat as I would, she refused utterly to come down. Then I got grandmamma to urge it, and she did it beautifully, but it was no use; and there the poor darling sits all alone, hearing the music and our voices, as prisoners in their cells listen to bird songs through windows in the walls. It is cruel! Why can't people be born all alike, and go up and down according to their own merits, I wonder?"
"That is an American idea. You must have picked it up there in your infancy, Lady Clara."
"I should not wonder. Some day I mean to go back there and see what social equality is like."
"Oh, you will find no place on earth where your title will be of so much value, Lady Clara," said Hilton, laughing.
"Well, that is because the Americans respect history, and associate us with the great deeds of mutual ancestors. It is the romance of tradition that interests them; for they are great readers, these Americans, and know more of us, as a people, than we do of ourselves. We represent the warriors and the statesmen which they have clothed in the poetry of great deeds. If the nobility of this day disappoints them it is our own fault. When they learn that our greatness consists only in titles, we shall have little homage merely for them."
"What a strange little creature you are!"
"Yes, rather. It is our turn now."
After a little there was another long pause in the dance. Then Hilton went back to the subject nearest to his heart.
"You could not possibly persuade her to come down—not here, but into some of the less public rooms?" he said.
"Impossible. She would not think of it."
"Cruel!"
"Yes, I think so; but then, I would do exactly the same thing."
"What makes you start so, Clara?"
"Don't you see? There is Mr. Closs going up to grandmamma, and papa standing close by her. Why, Lord Hope is speaking to him! How good! how kind! They are both smiling; now, now, do look on mamma Rachael's face—she sees them, and happiness makes her splendid! He is coming this way. Understand now, I shall dance with him just as often as I can, and you are to help me if I get into any trouble. Thank Heaven, this set is over!"
"You are complimentary," laughed Lord Hilton.
"So I am; but you don't mind it. Here he is. Let me introduce you before he takes me off. Lord Hilton, Mr. Closs."
The next moment Clara was whirling through the room, with Hepworth Closs' arm around her waist, and her hand on his shoulder. She kept her word, and spent half her evening with him, managing to escape observation as much as possible, and thus secured a few hours of supreme happiness.
Lord Hope had received his brother-in-law with gentlemanly ease. How could he help it, not being master at Houghton?
Besides, he was disposed to cast off all responsibility with regard to his daughter's choice of a husband, and leave everything to the judgment and pride of the old countess, who happened to like Closs, and was not aware how much of that evening he spent with her grandchild.
Rachael was in ecstasies. She loved her brother dearly, and his apparent reconciliation with her husband lifted the last cloud from her heart. It seemed to her that night as if she had nothing to wish for.
The old countess stood to her post bravely, until after the supper-rooms had been thrown open and the gay crowds had passed in and out again; but when the dancing had recommenced and the conversation around her grew brilliant and a little confusing, she turned suddenly pale, and would have fallen, but that Lady Clara, who stood near, sprang forward and threw both arms around her.
"She is better; she can walk now. I will go with her," cried the excited young creature. "Papa, you shall help her up-stairs, then I will take care of her," she added, seeing how helpless the old lady was.
Lord Hope almost carried the old lady up-stairs. Then Clara called aloud for Caroline Brown, who came out from her chamber, and, between them, they led the old countess into the tower-room.
Old Mrs. Yates had left the railroad station two miles back, and was walking wearily along the high road toward the village, which lay, as it were, at the feet of Houghton Castle, like a spaniel crouching at the foot of its mistress. At the station and all along the road she had observed an unusual commotion. Carriages in an unprecedented number were waiting for special trains, which came in more than once that day for Houghton Castle.
All the vehicles in the neighborhood were in motion, dashing to and from the village inns, the castle, and a neighboring town, where accommodations for a great access of people could be obtained.
Hannah Yates was more than once nearly run over and driven back to the banks of the highway by those flying vehicles, where she stood half-terrified, half-curious, looking after them in wistful astonishment.
What could this tumultuous movement mean? Was it a wedding—but of whom? A funeral—the old countess?
No, no! Destiny could not be so cruel. Besides, there was no such eager driving or smiling faces when the head of that castle was taken from its broad portals to the family vault. It must be some festival, and she was yet in time.
At an abrupt curve of the road the old woman came suddenly upon a full view of the castle. It was all ablaze with lights, and rose up from the embosoming trees like some enchanted palace upon which a tempest of stars had rained down in all their heavenly brightness. The broad façade which connected the tower was flooded with noonday light, and she could discover groups of people moving to and fro on the stone terrace in front, rendered so small by the distance that they seemed unreal and fairy-like. Down to the verge of the park and upward, curving through the woods, she could trace the chestnut avenue by wreaths of colored lanterns that blazed from tree to tree like mammoth jewels chaining them together. Now and then a carriage broke to view, sweeping along the macadamized avenue, clearly revealed by the light that fell around it.
Never in her life had the old woman seen such splendid commotion about that stately building, yet she could remember many a festive scene in its old walls, when crowned princes had been entertained there with a degree of splendor scarcely exceeded in their own palaces.
As the old woman stood gazing upon this scene, a countryman, passing along the highway, paused near her to get a sight of the castle.
"What is going on up yonder?" inquired the woman, drawing toward him and speaking in his own broad dialect.
"What is't at yon castle? An' who mon you be that donna know that the oud lady up at Houghton is giving a grand blow-out to her gran'child, Lord Hope's daughter, an' to Lady Hope, as people thought she would never abide in her sight?"
"And is Lord and Lady Hope at the castle?"
"Aye, an' the young lady, too—her that the oud countess is o'er fond of; but the young 'un is a right comely lass, an' the oud 'un might go furder and fare worse."
Mrs. Yates gathered the woolen shawl she had travelled in about her, and went hastily down the bank on which she had been standing, so excited that all the weakness of age seemed to have been suddenly swept from her.
She had intended to sleep in the village that night; now she bent her steps resolutely toward the castle.
As she came out of the chestnut avenue, keeping upon the turf and among the shadows, all of the glory of that illumination broke upon her.
The broad terrace, flooded with light—a fountain, directly in front, shooting up a column of liquid crystal thirty feet or more, where it branched off, like a tree of quivering ice swayed gracefully in the wind, and broke up in a storm of drops that rained downward, flashing and glittering through that golden atmosphere to their source again.
Above this rose those grand old towers, garlanded with colored lamps that wound in and out of the clinging ivy in great wreaths and chains of tinted fire, which harmonized with the quivering foliage, and flooded the fountain, the terrace, and all the neighboring trees with a soft atmosphere of golden green.
Here and there the gray old stonework of the towers broke through, revealing glimpses of the giant strength which lay hidden underneath; and over the right hand tower, from a flag-staff turned around and around with star-like lights, the broad, red banner, with which the Carsets had for centuries defied their enemies and welcomed their friends, floated slowly out upon the night wind.
Hannah Yates saw all this, and knew, by the music which thrilled the air around her, that the revel, whatever it was, had commenced; for a sound of pleasant voices and sweet laughter came through the open windows, and from the depths of the park—where an ox had been roasted whole that day, and wine and beer had flowed freely as the waters of the fountain—came subdued sounds of a waning festival, which had been given to the tenantry and villagers. The gaiety of the castle was answered back from the park, and harmonized by that of the working people who tilled all the broad lands around it.
When the old woman heard these answering sounds she felt that an heiress to all this greatness was acknowledged that night, for when lords gathered in the castle, and tenants in the park, it was usually to acknowledge the rights of a coming heir, and she could not believe that all this had been done in honor of Lady Hope.
Hannah Yates lost all the unnatural strength that had brought her among this splendor. She knew that it was scarcely possible that she could speak with Lady Carset that night, if she could, indeed, gain admittance to the castle; but she went around to a back entrance, and so made her way, unseen, to the tower-chamber, which opened into Lady Carset's dressing-room. There she sat down and waited, hour after hour, until at last the door opened, and the old countess came in, walking feebly between two young girls, one of whom she had never seen before, but the other made the sinking heart leap in her bosom.
When the old countess entered, the lights in her room were shaded, but they struck those masses of jewels in the snowy whiteness of her hair and upon her bosom with a brilliancy that revealed the gray pallor of that aged face with painful distinctness.
Hannah Yates arose from the shaded place in which she was sitting, and came forward to support her old mistress.
The countess looked up, and a faint smile flickered across her face.
"Ah! Yates, is it you?"
Mrs. Yates made no answer, but took that frail form in her arms and carried it to the couch.
"Take them off! take them off! They are heavy, ah, so heavy!"
The old lady put a waving hand to her head, indicating that it was the diamonds that troubled her.
Mrs. Yates, who had performed this office many a time before, unclasped the jewels and laid them on a sofa-table close by, then she removed the burning stones from that oppressed bosom, and unclasped them from the slender arms, while her mistress lay struggling for breath, with her eyes fixed on that kind old face with a look of touching helplessness.
"Give me water," she whispered.
Caroline ran for a goblet of water, and held it to those white lips. The countess drank a swallow and then called out:
"Wine! wine!"
Wine was brought, and she drank a little.
"Go, my child," she whispered, seeing how anxious and pale Clara appeared, in spite of the cloudy softness of her dress. "Go to your room and get some rest. Ah, me! how all this wearies, wearies!"
The two girls hesitated. There was something in that sweet old face that kept them spellbound. The old lady saw it, and reaching forth her hand, drew them, one after the other, down to her lips, and kissed them.
"Good-night, good-night!"
How softly those gentle words fell from her lips. With what yearning fondness her eyes followed those young creatures as they went reluctantly from the room, looking back in wistful sorrow, as they left her in the care of Yates.
Lady Clara had been dancing, talking and receiving such homage as would have satisfied the ambition of a princess. She had managed to snatch time to exchange many a sweet word and bright look with her lover, and would have been happy in delicious weariness, but for the sudden indisposition which had fallen upon her grandmother. As it was she could hardly realize anything, but gave way to intense weariness, and almost fell asleep as Margaret was undressing her.
But Caroline had been alone all the evening, within hearing of the laughter, the music, and feeling the very tread of the dancers in every nerve. She was young, ardent, and naturally felt a craving wish for the amusement she had resolutely denied herself; now, less than ever, could she feel a desire for sleep. Instead of seeking her room she wandered off to a wing of the castle, in which the picture gallery stretched its silent range of dead shadows, and tried to throw off the unaccountable excitement that possessed her, by walking up and down the long gallery.
The late moon was shining through the windows, and a crowd of dimly outlined figures, in armor or sweeping garments, looked down upon her from the walls.
Why this strange spirit of unrest had sent her to that gallery she could not have told, but it was there still, urging her on and on, she could not tell where, but walked swiftly up and down, up and down, as if striving to weary herself in a desire for the slumber that seemed to have fallen upon every human being in the castle.
As she was walking thus wildly, a footstep, not her own, disturbed her. She stopped to listen—made sure that it was some one advancing, and drew slowly back toward the wall, hoping to shelter herself among the low-hanging pictures.
The moonlight, from a neighboring window, lay full upon her as she retreated across the room, with her face turned down the gallery, and her breath hushed in fear. She saw, coming toward her, now in shadow, now in broader light, a lady, in garments of rustling silk, sweeping far back on the oaken floor, and gleaming duskily, amber-hued in the imperfect light of a small silver lamp which she carried in her hand—a beautiful lady, with rubies on her neck and in her hair. The lamplight, for a moment, concentrated on a face whose weariness was overborne by slumbering triumph, which poised her head like that of a newly crowned empress.
Caroline stood for the moment fascinated, then made a swift retreat, for she saw those great, black eyes turned full upon her, and fled in a panic.
A shriek—the crash of a falling lamp, and a mass of dusky drapery huddled together on the floor, brought the girl out of her covert. Something must have happened—the lady had hurt herself—perhaps could not arise from want of help. She went down the gallery, passing first one window then another, taking the moonlight from each, when the fallen lady uttered another cry, sprang to her feet and fled down the gallery, leaving her lamp overturned, with the wick still burning.
Caroline took up the lamp, and placing it on a bracket, left the gallery, vexed with herself for the fright she had occasioned this strange lady by wandering about so heedlessly in the dark. Still she could not sleep, but went to her own room and sat waiting there for the morning to dawn.
Perhaps an hour after Caroline left the picture gallery, a figure clothed in white from head to foot, came through an end door, walking firmly through the darkness, and touching the floor with the noiseless tread of her naked feet. She walked straight to the silver lamp and took it from the bracket. Now her face was revealed. It was Lady Hope.
She held the lamp before her, and moved on very slowly, looking ahead through the darkness with those wide open, staring eyes.
After that, when all the fires of that vivid illumination had burned out in the park, and were quenched in the castle, a bright star seemed wandering up and down the vast building; now at one window, then at another, lighting it up with fitful gleams, then leaving it in darkness, and appearing again in some far off casement.
Once or twice the form of a woman in white cast its cloudy outline across the plate glass of an unshuttered window; but no person was in the park to observe her, and she wandered on with a lamp in her firm hand, which brightened over the pallid outlines of her face, and kindled up her night drapery like sunshine over drifted snow. Up and down along the corridors, and through the long drawing-room, the figure swept, carrying her lamp, and moving noiselessly over the floor with her white, naked feet.
Upon that unconscious face a look of deep pain had stamped itself in place of haughty triumph, and the wide open black eyes had a far-off look, as if their glance could penetrate the walls and the very sky beyond.
On and on the woman wandered, till she came to a closed door in one of the corridors. Here she paused, laid her right hand on the silver knob, and turned it so noiselessly that, when the door opened, it seemed like the action of a ghost.
The room was darkened from even the faint light of the stars by sweeping draperies of silk, which glowed out redly as the lamp light fell upon it in flashes, as if suddenly drenched with wine.
A high ebony bedstead stood in the centre of this noble room, canopied half way over, and draped like the windows, so that a red gleam fell upon the whiteness of the counterpane as the light of that lamp fell upon it.
A man lay profoundly sleeping on this bed—a handsome, middle-aged man, whose thick brown beard showed soft gleams of silver in it, and whose hair, though waving and bright, was growing thin on the top of his head.
The man appeared to sleep heavily, and a smile lay on his lips; but a look of habitual care had written itself on his forehead, and his mouth was surrounded by stern, hard lines, that seemed graven there with steel.
The woman stood by this sleeping man, gazing on him with the far-off look of a ghost. She turned at last, and set the light down on a console, where it fell less distinctly on the pillow where that head was lying. Then she crept back and sat down on the side of the bed, so close to the unconscious sleeper that her shadow fell across him. Slowly, as if she had been touching a serpent, her hand crept stealthily toward that which lay in the supine carelessness of sleep on the white counterpane. She touched it at last, but started back. A blood-red stain from the curtain fell across it as her bending form let the light stream through the silk.
The woman drew back and passed her left hand quickly over that which had touched the sleeping man. Again and again she rubbed one hand over the other, muttering to herself.
Then a look of passionate distress came to that dark face, and, going to a marble table, on which a silver bowl and pitcher stood, she poured some water into the bowl, and plunged the hand with which she had touched that sleeping man into it. The splash of the water aroused him, and its icy coldness shocked the woman out of her unnatural sleep. She turned around wildly, with the water dripping from her hands—turned to find herself in her husband's chamber, with his astonished eyes fixed upon her as he sat up in bed.
"Rachael!"
She did not answer him, but stood gazing around the room in wild bewilderment. How came she standing there? By what spirit of love or hate had she been sent to that silver basin?
"Rachael, is anything wrong? Are you ill?"
The woman began to shiver. Perhaps the ice cold water had chilled her.
She looked down upon her hands as if the red shadow haunted her yet, but all she saw were drops of pure water rolling down her slender fingers, and falling one by one to the floor.
"I do not know!" she answered, in cold bewilderment. "Something drove me out from the bed, and sent me wandering, wandering, wandering! But how I came here, alas! Norton, I cannot tell you."
Rachael shivered all over as she spoke, and, as if drawn that way by some unseen force, came close to Lord Hope's bed, and sat down upon it.
"Oh, I am so cold—so dreary cold!"
An eider down quilt lay across the foot of the bed. Lord Hope reached forward and folded it around her, very gently, murmuring:
"My poor wife! poor Rachael! You have been dreaming."
"No; it was not all dreaming, Norton. I did see—no matter what; but it was something that terrified me out of all the joy and glory of this night. I must have been fearfully worn out to sleep after that; but the lamp, which I left behind me, is burning there, and my hands were in the cold water, trying to wash themselves, when you awoke me. I must have been in that fearful picture gallery again."
"You have courage to go there at all, Rachael!"
"I got there without knowing it. The rooms have been so changed I lost my way, and took the wrong corridor, and there I saw—"