The Old Countess; or, The Two Proposals Part 32

"I wish, from the bottom of my heart, that the dear old lady could just take the t.i.tle and the castle with her."

She seemed very much in earnest, and pulled the sailor's hat down over her eyes, to conceal the tears, that were filling them with moisture.

Lord Hilton was surprised. He had certainly intended to interest the young lady by a description of the n.o.ble place that would some day be hers.

"Ah, wait till you have seen Houghton. It is one of the finest old strongholds in the kingdom. The only wonder is that Cromwell, that magnificent old hypocrite, happened to spare it. When Lady Ca.r.s.et stands upon her own battlements, she can scarcely see the extent of her lands.

A very wealthy lady is the old countess."

Clara all at once began to wonder how it happened that the man was giving her so much knowledge about her own near relative. How did he know that her information did not equal his own?

"You live near Houghton, I suppose?" she said.

"Yes; when the flag is up, we can see it plainly enough from my grandfather's place."

Clara brightened out of her momentary depression. If she were compelled to stay long at Houghton, it would be pleasant to meet this handsome and pleasant young man. How kind he had been about the fruit. With what genial suns.h.i.+ne his eyes dwelt upon her, as he sought to interest her about the place to which she was going. Judson was not so well pleased.

She had some doubts of the propriety of permitting these young persons to drop into such familiar conversation, with no more impressive introduction than the chance courtesies of a railroad car.

True, she had known the young man when he was quite a child, and liked him, as well as her prim habits and narrow channel of thought would permit; but nothing in her experience had taught her how to act in an emergency like that.

The young people had given her no opportunity for reflection, but plunged into an acquaintance at once. The whole thing troubled her greatly, but what could she do?

There they sat, face to face, eating peaches together, talking of the scenery, laughing now and then, again and again half quarreling, as if a dozen years had ripened the acquaintance between them. It quite took away her appet.i.te for the fruit, and she clasped her little silver knife, with a helpless sigh, and dropping both hands into her lap, wondered what on earth she could do, and of course did nothing.

The young people forgot all about the prim Abigail, and went on with their conversation; but after awhile a shade of sadness crept over both those young faces. Their hearts wandered off into serious reveries, and for a time they became unconscious of each other's presence.

Clara was thinking of that night, which now seemed far, far away, but was, in fact, scarcely twenty-four hours back in her life--of the words that were spoken, the promises given, and sealed with kisses, which seemed burning on her lips even yet.

Oh! where was he now, the man whom she loved so entirely, and whose humiliation made her heart ache, and burn with sorrow and wrath every time she thought of it? Would he hold to his faith with her, after such scornful treatment from her father? Where would he go? Where was he now?

He had been a wanderer always, and had found himself sufficient to himself.

After he saw her the first idea of rest and a permanent home had opened new vistas of hope to him. He had found the one thing that had hitherto been denied to his existence--found it only to be driven from the light that had dawned upon him, like a trespa.s.sing dog.

Clara's heart swelled as she thought of all this, and all at once the prim Abigail was astonished out of all propriety by a burst of sobs from the corner in which Clara had retreated.

The young man looked up and came out of his own melancholy thoughts, just as Mrs. Judson had drawn forth her smelling-bottle and was pressing it upon the girl, who averted her face and sobbed out, piteously:

"Oh! let me alone--please let me alone!"

Judson retreated backward to her place in the opposite corner, while the young man motioned her to remain quiet, and let the pretty creature sob out her grief unmolested.

At last Clara had wept her sudden burst of sorrow away, and became conscious of her own strange conduct. She pushed back her hat, drew the soft gauze streamers across her eyes, and burst into a sobbing laugh, exquisitely childlike, but which Judson could not in the least understand.

"I'm afraid I am getting homesick," she said. "I never was so far from Oakhurst before, and, until this morning, you know, I had never seen either of your faces, but all that need not make such an absurd baby of me."

Mrs. Judson unfolded a fine pocket handkerchief and held it toward the girl, with the most anxious look possible to imagine.

"Wipe your eyes, dear young lady, wipe your eyes. We are coming to Houghton, and I would not have you seen with that face for the world."

"Yes," said the young man, looking out, "yonder is Houghton Castle."

CHAPTER XXII.

THE OLD COUNTESS.

"I will see her now, Judson." The old lady of Houghton came out from her dressing-room as she said this.

She had a little cap of gossamer lace and silver ribbon on that shaking head, and tied a girdle of silken cord around the floating folds of her cashmere morning robe, which would better have concealed the attenuated figure underneath, had it been permitted to float loose, as it had done.

But the dainty old lady still felt a stir of feminine pride in her toilet, and though the exertion took away all her strength, she had made these pretty additions to her dress, rather than meet her grandchild, for the first time, in the disarray of an invalid.

"I will see her now, Judson."

She repeated this, panting for breath, as she sank down to the couch in her favorite tower-chamber, and took the delicate handkerchief of lace and cambric, on which Judson had just dropped some pungent perfume.

Judson left the room; directly the red curtain parted again, and behind the grim waiting-maid came a young girl, flushed with excitement and rosy with perfect health, but so strangely dressed that the old countess uttered a little exclamation of surprise, mingled perhaps with a little displeasure. The jaunty hat with its blue streamers, the double-breasted jacket, glittering with b.u.t.tons, took away her breath.

Lady Clara hesitated a moment, took off her hat hurriedly, like a naughty boy, and came forward with an easy step, as if she had been in a forest, and the high heels of her pretty boots trampling down wood moss, instead of the tangle of flowers in that sumptuous carpet.

The old lady sat gazing on her full half a minute. The girl flushed crimson under the steady look of those brown eyes, turned around and gave her hat a toss to Judson, who let it fall in her astonishment at the audacious act, and came forward, half-indignant, half-crying.

"Grandmother!"

As that fresh, young voice fell upon her, the old countess reached forth her hand.

"My child!"

The old voice was faint, but kind. Lovely as that young creature was, she brought sadness and disappointment with her. The prejudice of years is not easily swept away from the mind of an aged woman, whatever her strength of character may be. This girl was the step-daughter of the governess she had so long detested, and she seemed to bring the atmosphere of a hated place with her. Perhaps she had expected a more stately bearing in her daughter's child.

A chair had been drawn up to the couch by the thoughtful Judson, and the countess made a gentle motion that her grand-daughter should occupy it.

Clara sat down, feeling nervous and very miserable; for those eyes followed her with mournful curiosity, which the high-spirited girl mistook for criticism.

"I dare say that I am not so handsome or so good as my poor mother was, but she loved me dearly, everybody says that, and for her sake you might be glad I am here, grandmother, especially as you sent for me."

As Clara said this, tears swelled from those blue eyes that had been slowly filling, and dropped to her cheeks like rain upon damask roses.

This appeal, so childlike in its pa.s.sion, lifted the old countess out of her seeming apathy. She arose, laid her hands on that young head and kissed the flushed forehead.

The moment Clara felt the touch of those tender lips, she threw both arms around the shadowy old woman, and broke forth.

"Oh, grandmother, grandmother, don't stop to think about it, but let me love you! I want to so much, for without that I shall be awfully homesick."

The old lady's heart beat as it had not done for years. Never, since her only child went forth from those proud walls a bride, had any one dared to claim her love, or speak to her as one free soul speaks to another.

In the haughty isolation of her rank, she had almost forgotten that equality could ever be claimed of her. The very audacity of this cry for affection stirred the old lady's pride like a trumpet.

"There speaks the Ca.r.s.et blood," she said, appealing to the grim hand-maiden who stood by; "always ready to give and bold to claim just rights. My grandchild is of the true stock, you see. G.o.d bless her and love her as I will!"