The Old Countess; or, The Two Proposals.
by Ann S. Stephens.
CHAPTER I.
LOVE-LIGHTS IN TWO HEARTS.
During fourteen years Hepworth Closs had been a wanderer over the earth.
When he was carried out from the court-room after Mrs. Yates" confession of a crime which he had shrinkingly believed committed by another, he had fainted from the suddenness with which a terrible load had been lifted from his soul.
In that old woman"s guilt he had no share. It swept the blackness from the marriage he had protested against as hideously wicked. The wrong he had done was divested of the awful responsibilities which had seemed more than he could bear. The revelation had made him, comparatively, an innocent and free man. But a shock had been given to his whole being which unfitted him for the common uses of society.
After all that had pa.s.sed through his mind he could not bear to think of joining his sister or husband. The keen feelings of a nature, not in its full development wicked or dishonorable, had been startled into life, when he saw into what a gulf he had almost plunged. He saw the sin and the wrong he had done in its true light, and not only repented of it, but abhorred it from the very depths of his soul. He longed to make atonement, and would have given ten years from his life for a chance by which he could have sacrificed himself to any one that poor murdered lady had loved.
These feelings rose up like a barrier between him and his sister. Her influence over his youth had been so powerful that his own better nature never might have a.s.serted itself but for the tragedy which followed his first plunge into deception and wrong-doing. He loved this beautiful young woman yet, as few brothers of any age or cla.s.s ever did; but the shock of that tragedy was on him, and his impulse was to flee from her and the man for whose sake all this trouble had come.
Hepworth Closs was not the first youth whose life has opened with evil thoughts and evil deeds, from which his manhood shrank appalled.
The unformed intellect and quick pa.s.sions of youth have wrecked many a n.o.ble soul, by the sin of an hour or a day, beyond the redemption of a toiling and regretful after-life. The man who does redeem himself must have a powerful nature, which will force its strength to be recognized, and make its regeneration felt. But to the sins of youth much should be forgiven, which, in the mature man, justice might utterly condemn.
Hepworth Closs arose from that fainting fit humbled and grateful. That moment his resolve was taken. He would not share the benefits which might come to him through his sister"s marriage, nor in anything partake of a reward for the evil he had, in mercy, been saved from. The world was before him. He would work his way into prosperity, if possible; if not, bear his fate like a man who had deserved suffering, and could endure it.
One act of rest.i.tution was in his power. The property of the unfortunate person, whom he knew as Lady Hope, had fallen into his possession, for the house had been purchased in his name, and, in like manner, her deposits had been made. He had never intended to claim this money as his own, and invested it now, holding himself as the trustee. This done, he threw himself upon the world, quite alone.
During fifteen years he had a.s.serted the honorable manhood that had sprung out of his erring youth. That fearful tragedy had sickened him with deception, and with all ambition which did not spring out of his own honest exertions. He went forth, with all his energies on the alert, and his intellect free from the suspicions that had for a time enthralled it. He had craved riches, and hoped to obtain them through Rachael"s marriage. This had been a temptation. He had ambition still, but it took a far more n.o.ble direction. With wealth he would gather knowledge; with both, mental force and moral power.
He went. Men saw him in the gold mines of California, in Australia, and among the traders of India and j.a.pan. Then he came back to New York, and was honorably known upon the exchange. Then came a yearning wish to see his sister, the only relative he had on earth; and we find him at the gate of Oakhurst Park, just as Lady Clara dashed through it, as bright a vision of joyous, happy girlhood as ever crossed the path of any man.
That moment I think that Hepworth Closs fell in love with the girl. If so, it was absolutely his first love. The boyish and most unprincipled pa.s.sion he had felt for that murdered lady had no similitude with the feelings that possessed him now. It was a wicked, insane desire, springing out of his perverted youth--a feeling that he would have shuddered to have recognized as love, in these, his better days.
Yes, it is certain Closs loved the girl at first sight, but was unconscious of it, as the nest is when a dove settles down to its brooding.
As for the girl, she had seen but few men in her life calculated to disturb the repose of a creature so gifted and rich in imagination. At first Hepworth had seemed rather an old person to her, notwithstanding the gloss of his black hair, and the smooth whiteness of his forehead.
With a trust in this, which gradually betrayed her, she accepted him frankly as a relative, and in less than three weeks, grew restless as a bird. She wondered what had made the world all at once so gloriously beautiful, and why it was so difficult for her to keep the tears out of her eyes when the soft purple evening came down, and divided the day which had been spent with him, from the night, when she could only hope to see him in shadowy dreams.
Rachael Closs saw all this, and it filled her with bitter rejoicing. How would her powerful old enemy receive the intelligence that a brother of hers had won the heart of the future Lady Ca.r.s.et? that he would be lord of the proud old castle, which must go with the t.i.tle, and mingle the blood she had so often denounced as base with that which had turned against her, with such hot scorn, ever since she entered England as Lord Hope"s wife?
The very thought of that haughty old peeress so humiliated was wonderfully pleasant to the wounded pride of Rachael Closs. But far beyond this was the yearning, almost pa.s.sionate fondness she felt for her brother and the beautiful girl who had been to her at once a Nemesis and an infatuation.
This was what Lady Hope had hinted at when Hepworth first came. The great wish of her heart had grown to be the union of these two persons, next to one supreme object of love, the dearest beings to her on earth.
It seemed to her that those long, weary intervals, which grew more and more frequent, when Lord Hope left her alone in the desolate splendor of that great house, would be more endurable if she were certain that these two persons would always be near her. She was not ambitious for her brother. That feeling had died out years ago; but her love sprang to him, like a freshly-kindled flame.
With Lady Hope, as with Rachael Closs, there was no moderation in her feelings, which were tenacious as they were powerful and exacting. But Rachael, with all her impetuosity, had strong contradictory qualities.
She was sagacious, and could rein in her pa.s.sion of love or hate as an Arab controls his desert steed. That which her soul most desired she could wait for.
One night, when the moonbeams lay like silver on the stone terrace, and the shadow of the peac.o.c.k fell from the bal.u.s.trade like a second bird, Lady Hope complained of fatigue, and retreated into her own room, leaving Hepworth and Clara sitting upon a flight of steps which led down to a flower-garden, somewhat neglected of late years, which lay beneath the stone terrace and brightened the grounds nearest to the lady"s apartments. Not far from these steps was a n.o.ble old cedar of Lebanon, rooted deep, where the drawbridge had been hundreds of years before.
Beneath it was a rustic seat, and in its branches innumerable birds were sleeping.
There never was, perhaps, a finer contrast of silver light and black shadow in any landscape than surrounded these two persons, as they sat together side by side, both thinking of the same thing, and both reluctant to break the delicious silence.
At last Hepworth spoke--it was but a single word, which made his companion start and hold her breath.
"Clara!"
She did not answer him; that one word frightened her. She had half a mind to start up and hide herself in the shadows, for he was looking in her face, and the moonlight fell like a glory over his features, which she now saw were grave even to sadness.
"Clara, do you know that I must go away soon?"
"Oh, no! no!"
The girl had not expected this. The infinite tenderness in his voice had led her completely astray, and she broke forth in an eager protest.
"I must, dear child."
"Dear child!" repeated the girl, half crying. "Yes, yes, you treat me like a child--as if I could help being young--as if I could not feel and think and be miserable like other people. It"s hard, it"s cruel, it"s--it"s--"
Here Clara burst into a flood of tears, and leaping to her feet, would have run into the room where Lady Hope was sitting, but Closs caught her in his arms.
"What are you crying for, Clara? Why do you wish to run away? It is wrong to say this, but I must go, because of loving you as no man ever loved a woman before."
"A woman?" said Clara, and gleams of mischief peeped out from behind her tears. "You called me a child just now."
"Woman or child, Clara, you are the dearest thing to me on earth."
Clara struggled in his arms, and tried to push him from her.
"I--I don"t believe you. There!"
"Don"t believe me?"
Hepworth released the girl, and allowed her to stand alone. On any subject touching his honor he was peculiarly sensitive.
"Because--because men who love people don"t run away from them. It--it isn"t reasonable."
All the mischief in her eyes was drowned in fresh tears. She thought that he was offended, and the estrangement of a moment seems eternal to first love.
"Honorable men do not permit themselves to speak of love at all where they have reason to think it unwelcome," was his grave reply.
"Unwelcome? Oh, Mr. Closs!"
Clara held out both her hands and came nearer to Hepworth, like a child that wants to be forgiven. He drew her close to his side, but spoke a little sadly.
"You see how much I must love you, Clara, to forget all that a guest in your father"s house should remember."
"I--I don"t know; I can"t understand what it is that you have done wrong. I"m sure I"m ready to forgive you."