The Old Countess; or, The Two Proposals Part 15

"But I will argue it, and if I cannot convince, I will hate you, Hepworth Closs, just as long as I live."

"Not quite so bad as that, I trust," answered Hepworth, sadly. "To own the truth, Clara, I fear your mother will have enough to do in reconciling Lord Hope to the position another person has a.s.sumed in his household. Do not let us add new difficulties to her position."

Clara began to cry.

"I'm sure I never thought of troubling her or offending my father. It is so natural for them to be good and kind, why should I doubt them now, when the grandest, sweetest, most beautiful girl in the whole world wants help--just the help they can give, too? Well, well, when papa comes home, I will lay the whole case before him."

"Not for the world!" cried Rachael, suddenly. "I tell you, cast this subject from your mind. I will not have my lord annoyed by it. For once, Clara, I must and will be obeyed."

Clara sank back in her seat, aghast with surprise.

"Oh, mamma Rachael, you are getting to be awfully cruel."

"Cruel? No! In this I am acting kindly. It is you who are cruel in pressing a distasteful and impossible thing upon me."

"I don't understand it; I can't believe it. You are always so free, so generous, to those who need help. It is just because this poor girl is my friend. Oh! I only wish old Lady Ca.r.s.et would just die, and leave me everything! I would let the world see a specimen of independence--I would! Don't speak to me, don't attempt to touch my hand, Mr. Closs! You haven't a spark of human nature in you. I have a good mind to leave you all, and go on the stage myself."

Again Lady Hope broke into a storm of impatience so unlike her usual self-restraint, that Clara was really terrified.

"Hush, girl! Not another word of this. I will not endure it."

This severe reprimand took away Clara's breath for an instant; then she burst into a pa.s.sion of sobs and tears, huddling herself up into a corner of the carriage, and utterly refused all consolation from Hepworth, who was generously disturbed by her grief.

Lady Hope did nothing, but sat in silence, lost in thought, or perhaps striving to subdue the tumult of feelings that had so suddenly broke forth from her usual firm control.

Thus they drove home in distrust and excitement. A few low murmurs from Hepworth, bursts of grief from Lady Clara, and dead silence on the part of Rachael Closs, attended the first disagreement that had ever set the stepmother and daughter in opposition.

When they reached home, Clara, her face all bathed in tears, and her bosom heaving with sobs, ran up to her room, without the usual kiss or "Good-night."

She was bitterly offended, and expressed the feeling in her own childish fas.h.i.+on.

Rachael sat down in the hall, and watched the girl as she glided up the broad staircase, perhaps hoping that she would look back, or, it may be, regretting the course she had taken, for her face was unutterably sad, and her att.i.tude one of great despondency.

At last, when Clara was out of sight, she turned a wistful look on her brother.

"She will hate me now."

Her voice was more plaintive than the words. The confidence of that young girl was all the world to her; for, independent of everything else, it was the one human link that bound her to the man she loved with such pa.s.sionate idolatry. Her kindness to his child was the silver cord which even his strong will could not sunder, even if he should wish it.

Hepworth saw her anguish, and pitied it.

"Let her go," he said, stooping down and kissing his sister on the forehead, which, with her neck and arms, was cold as marble. "She is disappointed, vexed, and really indignant with us both; but a good night's sleep will set her heart right again. I wish we had never chanced to come here."

"Oh, Heavens! so do I."

"Rachael," said Hepworth, "what is it troubles you so?"

"What? Is it not enough that the child I have made a part of my own life should quarrel with me and with you, because of me, for a stranger?"

"No; because her own generous nature a.s.sures us that the evil will die of itself before morning. This is not enough to account for the fact that you quiver as if with cold, and the very touch of your forehead chills me."

"Do I?" questioned Rachael. "I did not know it. My cloak has fallen off--that is all."

"Mamma Rachael!"

They both started, for leaning over the banisters was the sweet, tearful face of Lady Clara.

"My own darling!" cried Rachael, lifting her arms.

Down the staircase sprang that generous young creature, her feet scarcely touching the polished oak, her hair all unbound and rolling in waves down her back. Struck with sweet compunctions, she had broken from the hands of her maid, and left her with the blue ribbon fluttering in her hand, while she ran back to make peace with the woman who was almost dearer to her than a mother.

She fell upon her knees by Rachael, and shook the hair from her face, which was glowing with sweet penitence.

"Kiss me, mamma Rachael, not on this saucy mouth of mine, but here upon my forehead. I cannot sleep till you have kissed me good night."

Rachael laid one hand on that bright young head, but it was quivering like a shot bird. She bent the face back a little, and pored over the features with yearning scrutiny, as if she longed to engrave every line on her heart.

Something in those black eyes disturbed the girl afresh. She reached up her arms, and cried out:

"Don't be angry with me, mamma Rachael, but kiss me good night, and ask G.o.d to make me a better girl."

Instead of kissing her, Rachael Closs fell upon her neck and broke into a pa.s.sion of tears such as Clara had never seen her shed before.

CHAPTER XII.

THE OLD PRISONER.

In America again. Yes, fate has swept most of the characters of our story across the ocean; but one remains behind to whom the kind heart must turn with more solemn interest than the young, the beautiful, or the lordly can inspire.

No changes had fallen upon that bleak, gloomy prison, whose very shadow, as it lay across the dusty road, streamed out like a pall. Human crime brings human misery, and that, crowded together and stifled under the heel of the law, is a terrible, most terrible thing.

In the midst of this desolation, that old woman had lived and suffered fourteen years, without a complaint, without once asking for the freedom, which would have been so sweet to her, even of her G.o.d. She had sinned deeply--how far, she and the Almighty, who knows all things, alone could tell; but she had borne her punishment with much humility; in her quiet way, had made her presence in that dreary place a blessing to those more wretched than herself.

During that long, weary time many a poor prisoner had felt the comfort of her presence near her sick couch and her grave. Kind looks had cheered other desponding souls when words of compa.s.sion were forbidden to her lips.

One day this woman sat at her task sewing on some heavy prison garments.

A skein of coa.r.s.e thread hung about her neck, and a steel thimble was upon her long, slender finger, where it had worn a ring about the nail with incessant use.

She did not look up when the matron entered the room, but worked on, with steady purpose, not caring to see that strange gentleman who came in with the matron, and stood looking kindly upon her.

"Mrs. Yates."

The old woman lifted her head with a suddenness that almost shook the iron spectacles from her face. Her eyes encountered those of the gentleman, and she stood up meekly, like a school-girl aroused from her task, and remained, with her eyes bent on the floor, waiting for the man to pa.s.s on. He did not move, however, but stood gazing upon her snow-white hair, her thin old face, and the gentle stoop that had, at last, bent her shoulders a little, with infinite compa.s.sion in his face.

"Mrs. Yates, why do you stand so motionless? How is it that your eyes turn so steadily to the floor?"