The Old Countess; or, The Two Proposals Part 19

"Yates, did you in America ever know anything of my child?"

The anguish in that voice startled Hannah Yates, and her old face whitened. How much did the mistress know? If little, perfect candor might kill her. She had not come there to wound an old woman with the horrors that had darkened her life; so she answered, cautiously:

"Yes, I saw Lady Hope more than once after she came to America."

"Thank G.o.d!" exclaimed the countess. "I may now learn how and when she died."

"I was not with her when she died," answered the servant, in a low voice.

"But you saw her before?"

"Yes, I saw her often."

"And the child?"

"Yes; the child was with me a good deal."

"Yates, was my child happy in that strange land?"

"How can I answer that, my lady?"

"Did you see Hope there?"

"Once, only once, and that for a moment."

"And you can tell me no particulars. You have no information to give me with regard to the woman who is Lord Hope's wife?"

"Of her I know but little. Remember, my lady, I am but a servant."

"You were my child's nurse. I never looked on you as a common servant, but rather as a faithful friend. So did my poor child. When I learned she was in the same country with you and her foster-brother, my heart was somewhat at rest. But her letters were so studied, so unsatisfactory; yet there was nothing in them of sadness or complaint.

Only this, Yates, she never mentioned her husband, not once! I should hardly have known that he was with her but for the letter in which he told me that I was a childless old woman."

Mrs. Yates drew a long, heavy sigh. She understood now that the secret of that awful tragedy in New York had been kept from her old mistress, and resolved that it never should reach her--never while her will could keep back the horrible truth.

"My lady," she said, with an effort, "there is one thing which our--which my young mistress bade me bring to you if--if she should not live to place them in your own hands herself. It is this which brought me across the ocean."

As she spoke, Mrs. Yates took up the leathern satchel, which lay against her feet, and opened its rusty clasp with her trembling hands. She drew forth a casket from the scant garments it contained, and, still kneeling on the floor, opened it. A blaze of diamonds broke up from the box. The old countess uttered a feeble cry, and clasped two quivering hands over her eyes.

"She was troubled about bringing them out of England, and sent them to her foster-mother with this letter."

"Is there a letter? Yates, give it to me!"

Mrs. Yates reached forth the letter, which had begun to turn yellow with age.

The countess took it, and attempted to open her gla.s.ses; but those little hands trembled so fearfully that she could not loosen the gold which clasped them in.

"Read it for me. I cannot! I cannot!"

Two great tears trembled out of the pain in that aged heart, and fell upon her cheeks like frost upon the white leaves of a withered rose.

Hannah Yates read the letter--a sweet, touching epistle, full of mournful affection, which that murdered lady had written only a few days before her death, when some presentiment of coming evil was no doubt upon her. The diamonds were her mother's, she wrote, and had only crossed the ocean with her because of the haste with which the voyage to America had been arranged. Fearing for their safety, she was about to intrust them to her foster-mother, who had promised to bring them back to England with her own hands, if any evil should fall upon her, or if her sojourn in America was protracted.

"The jewels which belong to the Ca.r.s.et estate, and the child, which will inherit them, I entrust to my dear foster-mother, when I am gone, and I sometimes think that we may never meet again, my mother. This good woman will bring the diamonds, which I will not have endangered, and will tell you about the child, dearer to me than my own life, nay, than my own soul! Tell Lord Hope, if he should seek to take her, that it was the dying wish of his wife that her child should pa.s.s at once into the protection of her own most beloved mother, when Hannah Yates brings her to England. I think he will not deny this to a woman who has loved him better, oh! how much better! than herself--who would die, if she could, rather than be in the way of his happiness. Give him this letter. I think he will not deny the last request I may ever make of him. I will not say farewell, my mother, because the gloom that is upon me in this strange land may be only the homesickness of a heart separated from those it loves. But, if this is given to you by my foster-mother, know that a cloud of gloom has settled down upon me forever."

This much fell upon the ears of the countess as she held her breath and listened.

When Hannah Yates folded the letter, she felt that a gleam of angry fire broke into the eyes bent upon her.

"Yates," said the countess, sharply, "read the date of that letter."

The old servant read the date.

"Fourteen years and more! Why was that letter kept from me so long?"

"I could not bring it."

"I know you were not young even then, Yates; but your son, my own protege! Surely, when my poor child gave you this charge, she gave money also? Why was the child kept from me and sent to that man?"

"Yes, there was money; but my son could not come. We had no power to bring her."

"Then Hope took her from you by force?" questioned the countess. "Where is your son, Yates? He was wrong to permit it!"

"With my young lady."

"Dead! Then you, also, are childless?"

Hannah Yates remembered how the news of her bereavement had reached her in that stone cell which was cold as a grave, and shuddered while the lady in her palace questioned her. Then the old prison-look fell upon her, and she sat motionless, with her eyes upon the floor, saying nothing. How could she explain to that proud lady the bondage in which she had been held?

"Ah! if you had come earlier," said the countess, "the child of my child might have been here! That man would not have dared to keep her! She would not have been taught to return my advances with insolence by his evil wife."

"I _could_ not come before," repeated the old woman, humbly.

"And now it may be too late."

"G.o.d forbid!" said the old woman. "No! no! He will show me how to complete my task. It is for that I have been kept alive."

"Yates, you are brave and faithful. I was wrong to question you so.

Forgive me, old servant."

Mrs. Yates took the child-like hand held out to her and pressed it to her lips.

"I have tried, dear mistress."

"Go, now, old friend, and let me have time to think. Only this is certain, we do not part again."

"Mistress, that cannot be. I have yet a task to perform. It may be many, many miles to travel. When that is done, I will come back and spend the few days left to me here. Oh, it seems like home--it seems like Heaven to sit within the sound of your voice once more! But I must depart at once."

"Where, old friend?"