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 Ca.r.s.et 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 Ca.r.s.et 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.
CHAPTER x.x.xI.
DOWN AMONG THE FERNS AGAIN.
Lady Ca.r.s.et 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sions--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 n.o.ble 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 repet.i.tion, 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 n.o.bleman 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?"