The Old Countess; or, The Two Proposals Part 3

"Write to Lord Hope; tell him the truth--that you have won the respect of men by your actions, and have, with your own energies, acquired wealth enough to make you a fair match in that respect for his daughter.

Make no allusion to the past; he is proud, and terribly sensitive on that point, and might suspect you of making claims to equality because of it."

Hepworth smiled as he stood before her in the moonlight, and she saw it.

Wide travel and experience among men had led him to think that, after all, the highest level of humanity did not always range with hereditary t.i.tles; but he only said, very calmly:

"Lord Hope cannot accuse me justly of aspiring where he is concerned."

Rachael felt the hot crimson leap to her face. Did Hepworth dare to equal himself with Lord Hope, the one great idol of her own perverted life? She answered, angrily, forgetting that the sinner was her only brother:

"Lord Hope need have no fear that any man living will so aspire."

"Poor foolish girl!" said Hepworth, feeling the flash of her black eyes, and touched with pity, rather than anger, by her quick resentment. "Do not let us quarrel about Hope. If he makes you happy, I have nothing to say against him."

"Happy! happy!"

Rachael shrank back in her seat, uttering these two words in a voice so full of pathetic sorrow, that it brought the pain of coming tears into Hepworth's eyes. He was glad to turn the subject.

"Then you are not willing that I should go away?"

"It would almost kill me to lose you again, Hepworth."

The young man felt that she spoke the truth; the very tones of her voice thrilled him with a tender conviction.

"I will write to Hope," he said; "it must end in that or absence. It shall not be my fault, Rachael, if I ever go far away from you again."

Lady Hope took her brother's hand between hers.

"That is kind, and I really think the only wise thing to be done," she said. "Hope knows that you were born a gentleman."

"And having married into the family himself, can hardly say that it is not good enough for his daughter. This is answer enough for all objections of that kind. In fact, Rachael, I begin to think we can make out a tolerable claim. Now that we have decided on the letter, I will write it at once, here, if you will let me order more lights."

Hepworth rang the bell as he spoke, and directly wax candles were burning on the ebony desk at which Lady Hope was accustomed to write.

Having made up his mind, Closs was not the man to hesitate in doing the thing he had resolved on. He spread a sheet of paper before him, and began his letter at once. Rachael watched him earnestly as his pen flew over the paper.

For the first time she realized, with a pang of apprehension, the step she was so blindly encouraging. What if Lord Hope took offense at the letter, or should condemn her for the intimacy which had led to it? She was afraid of her husband, and each movement of Hepworth's pen struck her with dread. Had she, indeed, laid herself open to the wrath of a man, who was so terrible in his anger, that it made even her brave heart cower?

"There, it is finished," said Hepworth, addressing his letter, and flinging down the pen. "Now let us throw aside care, and be happy as we can till the answer comes."

Lady Hope sighed heavily, and, reaching forth her hand, bade him good-night.

CHAPTER III.

LOVER'S QUARREL.

They were sitting together, under the great cedar tree, declared lovers; perhaps not the less happy because some little doubt rested over their future, so far as the young lady was concerned.

As for Hepworth Closs, he had made up his mind to expect difficulties, and knew how to conquer them, if human ingenuity could do it. He loved the bright young creature, and had resolved within himself that no unreasonable opposition on the part of his former friend should prevent him marrying her, while there was a possibility of conciliating his bride, or working upon the love which he had always evinced for his child.

Hepworth had learned, from conversation with both the ladies, that the Lord Hope of the present day was a very different person from the rash, headstrong, audacious young man whom he had almost threatened with disgrace fourteen years back.

Then he was ready to cast wealth, rank, conscience, everything, aside for the gratification of any wild pa.s.sion that beset him. Now he held the rank to which he was born sacred above all things; was careful, if not covetous, of wealth, because it added power to rank; and was known the whole country round as one of the proudest n.o.blemen and most punctilious magistrates in the three kingdoms.

This man's daughter he--Hepworth Closs--desired to make his wife. Nay, in spite of fate, meant to make his wife, unless she, in her own self, cast his love from her. Having settled upon this, he cast off all care, and gave himself up to the supreme happiness of loving and being beloved.

So, as the two sat under the cedar tree, that bland autumn day, Clara thought, in her wilful little heart, that the man looked too confident and happy. She had no idea of settling down into a commonplace engagement, sanctioned or unsanctioned. What business had he to look so supremely contented? Did he not know that girls sometimes changed their minds?

In short, Lady Clara was in a wilful mood, and could be provoking enough when the fit came on her. Just now she was embroidering diligently. The golden stamens of a superb cactus glowed out st.i.tch by st.i.tch, as her needle flew in and out of its great purplish and crimson leaves.

"Why don't you look up, Clara? I haven't seen your eyes these ten minutes."

"Indeed! Well, I'm too busy. Pray hand me a thread of that yellow silk."

"Not if I can help it, ladybird. It's very tiresome sitting here, only to watch your sharp little needle as it drops color into that great flower. One never gets a sight of your full face."

"Then you don't like the profile?" said Clara, demurely, and her needle flashed almost into Hepworth's eyes as he bent over her. "That is just what I expected. It isn't three days since you first pretended to care for me."

"Pretended! Clara?"

"That was the word," answered Clara, holding her work at arms' length, and examining it, with her head on one side, like a bird eyeing the cherry he longs to peck at. "Lovely, isn't it?"

"I have been where you could gather armsful of them from the wayside,"

answered Hepworth. "That is well enough, of course, for silk and worsted; but you never can get that mixture of crimson, purple and glittering steel, that makes the flower so regal in the tropics; then the soft ta.s.sel of pale gold, streaming out from the heart, and thrown into relief by this exquisite combination of colors. Ah, some day I will show you what a cactus really is, Clara."

"Perhaps," said the provoking girl, searching her work-basket for the silk she wanted. "Who knows?"

A flash of color flew across Hepworth's forehead. The handsome fellow never had given himself much to the study of women, and even that pretty creature had the power to annoy him, mature man as he was. She saw that he was vexed, and rather liked it; for if the truth must be told, a more natural coquette never lived than Lady Clara.

"Are you beginning to doubt, Clara?"

"Doubt? Oh! not at all. I don't honestly believe that there ever was a more perfect flower than that. See how the colors melt into each other; then the point of that long, p.r.i.c.kly leaf coming out behind. I tell you, Mr. Closs, it's perfect."

She was looking down at her work, and he could not detect all the mischief that sparkled under her drooping lashes.

"Clara, what does this mean?"

The girl looked up at him so innocently.

"Mean? Why, it means a cactus-flower."

Hepworth Closs had never been a patient man, and the feelings which that wild girl had awakened in his heart were all too earnest for such trifling. He rose to leave her. Then she gave him a side glance, half comic, half repentant.

"Are you going?"

"Yes."