The Old Countess; or, The Two Proposals Part 20

"I do not know yet; but G.o.d will direct me."

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

"I could not! I could not!"

"I know that, knowing you."

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

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

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

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

It must be atoned for."

Hannah Yates moved toward the door, but heavily, and with the reluctance of a woman whose strength had been overtasked. The old countess sat gazing upon the jewels. How trivial and worthless they seemed to her now! Yet the retention of these very diamonds had been a great cause of offence against Lord Hope's second wife. How unjust, how cruel she had been in this! Was it possible that, in other things, she had been equally mistaken? She took up her daughter's letter and read it over.

The first shock of its reception had pa.s.sed away, and nothing but the quivering of the head remained of the fearful agitation that had shook her little form like a reed.

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

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

"Your hands are cold; you look tired. Ring for some wine and biscuit.

That poor, white face is a reproach to your mistress, Yates."

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XV.

THE EARL'S RETURN.

Days pa.s.sed, and Caroline heard nothing of the new friend she had made; but one day Eliza brought her a letter which had come, inclosed in one from Margaret, who had left town with her mistress so suddenly that she found no time to say farewell.

This was the letter which broke down so many hopes for the unhappy girl:

"MY DEAR, DEAR FRIEND--

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

"I want to ask all these things in person. You are from America.

I was there once, and after that fire I remember the ocean and a great black ship, which sent banners of smoke over us day after day.

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

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

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

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

"I am sure you will forgive me that I cannot do all I promised.

It does not grieve you more than it humiliates me. To think that I should offer so much and perform nothing! But it is not my fault, nor is it the fault of any one here.

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

"Yours affectionately, "CLARA."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't you think so?"

"Lady Clara! Mr. Hepworth Closs!"

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

"Father!"

"Lord Hope!"