The hot color came and went in her lover's face as Clara spoke out the thoughts that haunted her about the future—his own thoughts expressed through her girlish lips. He turned suddenly, took her hands, and kissed them both with passionate warmth.

"Oh, if they would but give you up with nothing but this glorious freedom, I should not have another wish on earth; but they are about to bury you so deep beneath their wealth and titles that I may not be able to find my love when I ask for her."

Clara smiled.

"You shall never ask for me that I will not come. There is not in all England wealth or honors enough to buy me out of your reach. Only let us wait patiently a little while longer."

"Sweet child! generous woman! Jacob never served more faithfully for his love than I am willing to wait for mine. Only this, we must not be kept apart."

"We will not be kept apart. Our souls belong to each other. No person on earth shall enthrall them."

"Then I am content; all the more because I know what utter desolation absence is. Ah, Clara, it seemed like an opening from Paradise when you wrote me to come here! Heaven knows where I should have been now but for that blessed note!"

"But you are here, safe and well, for which the good God be thanked! Everything has happened without disappointment to any one, unless it may be Caroline's mother, the handsome Olympia. She is furious, Lord Hilton tells me. I am a little sorry for that poor woman. Of course, she wasn't just as she should be to Caroline, but I can't help liking her, after all. There that dear girl sits, like patience on a monument, waiting for me. I wonder what has become of Lord Hilton?"

Here Lady Clara and her lover separated; she joined her friend, whose garments were visible through the green of the leaves, and he walked toward the village, very happy, notwithstanding the uncertainty of his affairs.

As Hepworth entered his room at the inn, he was accosted with boisterous familiarity by Mr. Stacy, the New York alderman, who expressed the broadest astonishment at his presence there, and was anxious to know if it would break up his own mission to the castle.

Hepworth reassured him on this point, and gave some additional directions, which the alderman accepted with nods and chuckles of self-sufficiency, that were a little repulsive to the younger and more refined man.

"I understand Matthew Stacy is to be 'A Number One' in the whole business—sole agent of her mother's trust; by-the-way, who was her mother?"

There was a shrewd twinkle in Stacy's eye as he asked this, which Hepworth comprehended and met at once.

"Her mother was the first Lady Hope, the only daughter of Lady Carset, up there at the castle. She died in America while travelling there with her husband, about fifteen years ago."

All this was plain and simple. The alderman drew a deep breath, and the shrewd twinkle went out of his eyes.

"To tell the truth," he said, "I was thinking of that poor murdered lady, Mrs. Hurst. You know there was a little girl at the inquest that would have been about the age of this young lady; for I took a peep into the peerages, after you opened this matter, and I thought possibly that Mrs. Hurst and Lady Hope might be—you understand?"

"What! Identical! Did you mean that?"

"Well, no, not exactly identical—she was respectable enough—but the same person."

"But you forgot, Mr. Stacy, telling me that the young lady who appeared as a singer in the opera that night was that very child."

"By Jingo! you are right! I did that same. Of course—of course. What was I thinking of? How she did sing, too; ten thousand mocking birds in her throat, all piping away at once. What was I thinking of? Now, Mr. Closs, while I'm gone—for I mean to strike while the iron is hot—just have the goodness to look in on Mrs. S., she will feel it a compliment, being a trifle homesick and lonesome down here. But tell her to keep a stiff upper lip; there isn't many ladies, not even your barronessers and duchessers, that shall outshine her at the grand party up yonder."

"The grand party!" repeated Hepworth, in amazement. "Are you invited there?"

"Not just yet, but of course I mean to be. One good turn deserves another, Mr. Hepworth—I beg pardon—Mr. Closs, and if I take this pile up to Castle Houghton, it is no more than fair that the young lady gives me an invite for myself and Mrs. S. Turn about is fair play, all the world over, Mr. Closs, and I don't mean to lose my chances. Some men would ask money for all this, but I am ready to put up with an invite. Mrs. S. has set her heart on it. Ask her to let you see that red velvet dress that she got made on purpose, and the panier. Don't, by any means, forget to ask her to show you the panier; it's tremendous, I tell you."

Mr. Stacy stood for a moment longer, shaking the links of his gold chain up and down in one hand, as if he had something else to say, but not remembering what it was, he disappeared, and was soon driving, in the best carriage he could obtain, toward Houghton Castle.

Lady Clara was in her own room scolding, persuading, and comforting Caroline, when a card was brought to her, and she read, with astonishment, the name of "Matthew Stacy, Esq., Ex-Alderman, New York."

"Who is this person?" she inquired.

"Haven't the least hidea, my lady; he asked for yer leddyship, and would, on no account, see any one else, yer leddyship."

"Where is he now?"

"In the small drawing-room, yer leddyship."

Clara went down, excited by the painful curiosity which always disturbed her when she met any person from America. What could he want?

Alderman Stacy arose as she entered the room where he was sitting, and made three profound bows in the different stages of her advance from the door, then he sat down in a light chair. The delicate India carving began to creak under his weight, and he sprang to his feet again, looking over his shoulder at the combination of azure silk and lace-like ebony in awkward consternation. Then he took another chair, all cushions and softness, in which he sank down luxuriously, and began to fidget with his chain.

"You are from New York, Mr. Stacy—I think it was on your card?" said Clara, commencing the conversation.

"Yes, exactly, my—my lady—Empire State; besides that I have a little business with you—pleasant business, I may undertake to say; money, my dear young lady. Money always is pleasant. What ancient poet is it that says, 'money makes the mare go?' which means, I take it, that it drives men and women—I mean gentlemen and ladies—just alike. So I call it pleasant news, when I tell your ladyship that I have got a pile of it for you—American bonds, payable in gold."

"Money for me—for me?"

"No wonder you are surprised. The amount was an astonisher for me when I came to reckon it up. At first it was a mere nothing, only a few thousand, but gold, in my hands, grows, grows, grows, and now, my dear young lady, that little heap left by your lamented mother—you understand—"

"Left by my mother, and for me?"

"Yes, your lamented mother, the first Lady Hope, a lovely woman, but delicate, very delicate; carried off by consumption at last. Well, just before her death she sent for me—we were great friends, you know. Being alderman, in fact, president of the board, I had an opportunity to offer her some municipal civilities, such as the use of the Governor's room to receive her friends in, and the freedom of the city. I assure you she had the broadest liberty to ride where she pleased, especially in the Central Park. Then we took her to the institutions, and she had a lovely dinner on Blackwell's Island, for I was hand in glove with the commissioners. I don't tell these things to boast of 'em only to explain how she came to trust me as her executioner—I beg pardon—her executor, and send for me just as her spirit was taking flight."

"Oh! please tell me of that—of her—I do not care about the money," cried Clara, interrupting this pompous tissue of falsehoods, with tears in her eyes. "You saw her, you talked with her?"

"Often and often."

"Oh, tell me!"

"Not just now, young lady. Business is business, and we must not get things mixed. Some other time, after your great party, for instance, I shall be too happy, for Mrs. Stacy and I shall stay in the village, till after that august occasion; but now I come on business, nothing short, and I am in a hurry to get these ten thousand pounds American gold-bearing bonds off my stomach—I beg pardon—conscience. Here, my lady, is the pile of bonds. Every one will bring the tin when its wanted, no mistake about that."

Here Mr. Stacy laid a package of bonds in Lady Clara's lap, and stood with a beaming face, regarding her puzzled look, as she examined them.

"And these are worth ten thousand pounds?" she said.

"Exactly."

"And left to me without reservation or condition, by my mother?"

"Exactly. 'My dear friend,' said she, 'you will find somewhere about three thousand pounds in the bank. That money I leave in your hands, for I have faith in you, Stacy. That money is sure to grow, and when my daughter, Clara, gets to be about eighteen or so, pay it and the increase over to her in my name; tell her to keep it for her own independent use; to say nothing to Lord Hope or his wife—I mean if he should marry again—but to use it just as she pleases, without regard to her grandmother or any one else.' These were the directions your mother left with the money, and I hope you will make sure to abide by them, my lady."

"I will remember every word you have said," answered Clara, whose face was beginning to brighten under a new idea, and the bonds were becoming very precious to her. "But is there nothing I can do in return for this kindness?"

"I expected this. That was just what she said, 'My friend,' says she, 'there will be no such thing as paying you in specie for the service you will do my child; but she will be a lady of rank, Mr. Stacy, and as such will know how to return your kindness, and entertain you with the best. Though dukes and princes should be her guests, she will have pride and glory in introducing her mother's faithful friend to them all. Yes, him and that splendid woman, who is your wife, the friend of my bosom,' says she; 'and if you ever go to England, be sure to take your wife along, then you'll have a chance to learn what British hospitality is in the walls of Houghton Castle, my own birthplace.'"

"My mother has promised nothing in my power to perform which shall not be done," said Clara, a good deal puzzled by all that she heard, and quite at a loss to judge of the social status of her visitor. But the great fact remained—her mother had trusted him; he had brought her a large sum of money, which nothing but the most honorable integrity would have prevented him keeping for his own benefit. The man who could so faithfully render back an important trust, must be worthy even of her grandmother's hospitality.

The moment Mr. Stacy had bowed and stumbled himself from the room, Clara ran to Lady Carset, and obtained an invitation for M. Stacy, Esq., and lady, to the entertainment which was now close at hand. With that invitation, went a large package directed to Hepworth Closs, in which a letter was enclosed, requesting him to take such legal steps in her behalf as would secure the amount contained in the American bonds to Mr. Brown, the father of her dear friend, Caroline. "I know that she would refuse the independence for herself and her father, if I were to press it upon her; indeed, she has already done so, when I only hinted at the matter; but when it is secured irrevocably to her father, she must submit to being made comfortable in spite of herself. The money is mine to use exactly as I please, and this is my pleasure. Pray help me to carry it out. There is no need of consulting that dear old man, Brown, whose welfare I seek quite as earnestly as I do that of his daughter; for he is just the sweetest and dearest character I ever knew, and I would give the world to see his blessed old face, when he first discovers that he is a rich man. Tell me all about it. Be very careful and delicate in your management of this business, and say nothing until you have put it out of your power or mine to revoke what will make me the happier in the giving than they can be in receiving. When we meet I will tell you how this money came to be mine; but before then, I trust it will be in the possession of another. What do I want of American bonds? I think it would offend my dear old fairy-grandmother if I took them, and I know you will approve what I am doing."

Closs read the letter with a smile of pleasure; but when he took up the bonds again, his face clouded.

"Can I never wash my hands of that poor lady's money," he said. "Do what I can, it will come back to me."



CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE BALL AT HOUGHTON.

The night arrived at last in which Lady Carset was to do the honors of her own castle, and receive the highest and brightest of the land in person. A range of boudoirs and saloons, connected with the state drawing-room, were thrown together, and united in one splendid vista by silken draperies and hot-house plants, which formed noble wreaths and arches over each entrance, filling room after room with brightness and fragrance.

The conservatories had been stripped that night, that their treasures of rare exotics might brighten the splendor of those rooms, and soften the ancestral grandeur of the vast entrance hall. They wound in massive wreaths around the carved balustrades of that broad oaken staircase—were duplicated over and over again in the height and breadth of those noble mirrors. They formed a blooming border around the oaken floors, black with age and bright with polish, of the dancing-rooms. The gilded orchestras were interlaced with them, and, in every group of plants or clustering wreath, jets of gas twinkled out like stars, casting tremulous shadows from the leaves, and lending a richer color to the blossoms.

When the first carriage load of guests came sweeping across the stone terrace, Lady Carset left her dressing-room, and, leaning on the arm of Lord Hope, took her place in the central drawing-room, with gentle dignity, and stood, with the gaslight quivering around her, touching up the richness of her purple garments with golden ripples of light, and striking out rainbows from the great Carset diamonds, which held, and gathered up the woven moonlight of her lace shawl on those dainty, sloping shoulders and delicate bust, which had not known such ornaments for years. A ripple of these noble jewels ran through the soft waves of her hair, and held the tuft of Marchant feathers and lappets of gossamer lace back from her left temple, whence they floated off gently into the snow of her hair, scarcely whiter than it was. A lovelier representative of the grandest aristocracy on earth, or a more dainty lady of the olden times, had never, since its foundation, done the honors of Houghton Castle. But the sweet old lady was already forced to exert all her strength, that nothing should fall short of the old hospitality on this the last fete she ever expected to give.

Lady Clara had followed her, half dancing, half floating down that broad staircase, jerking blossoms from the plants as she went, and forming them into a tiny bouquet for her grandmother. Her dress was just one cloud of silvery whiteness. A little cluster of moss rose buds on the left shoulder, and another in her belt, were all the ornaments she wore. She had insisted, with almost passionate vehemence, that no mention of her heirship should be made that night, and the old lady consented with reluctance, but appeased her own impatience by a grand festival to all her tenants and retainers in the park, where nothing had been omitted which, in feudal times, was considered proper when the heirship of Houghton was proclaimed. Still, in words, the old lady had kept honorable silence, and no one, even from the grandeur of the entertainment, had a right to more than guess that the general heirship was settled on Lord Hope's daughter.

In fact, this entertainment was ostensibly given to Lord and Lady Hope, and the old countess had taken up the sparkling weight of all those Carset jewels, that all the world might know that they had come back honorably into her own possession. It was a splendid and most delicate way of acknowledging herself in the wrong.

Before the guests had commenced to arrive in any numbers, Lady Hope came floating into the state drawing-room, with a noble cactus flower sweeping backwards from the left side of her head, and resting upon the massive braids of her hair, which curved upwards like a helmet, from her neck almost to the forehead. Chains of large rubies encircled her neck and arms, harmonizing with the cactus blossom, but forming a bold contrast to the amber silk of her dress, which swept far back upon the polished floor, and took the light as birds of Paradise fling off sunshine from their plumage. A beautiful and right queenly personage was Rachael Closs that night, as she moved across the floor and took her place by the little countess, who looked up and smiled gently when she saw that Lord Hope's wife appeared in the old family rubies, which she had presented to her that morning.

One bright glance at Clara, another of sparkling triumph at Lord Hope, and Rachael gave herself up to the brilliant duties that lay before her. This night was to be the crowning success of her life.

The guests swept through the great entrance, and into the drawing-room now, in crowds and groups. Music sounded from half a dozen gilded orchestras, and the oaken floors of that old castle began to tremble under the feet of many dancers, as they kept time to the music, and sent out a soft undertone of conversation.

Lord Hope opened the ball with the elite of the elite. Lord Hilton led Lady Clara into the same set, at which the old countess nodded her head and smiled. She observed that the young nobleman bent his head, and looking in the bright face of her grandchild, was talking earnestly to her, at which the dear old lady smiled again, and put up her fan, that no one might observe how pleased she was.

This was what Hilton was saying:

"And she would not come down, fearing to meet me? This is hard, Lady Clara!"

"No," answered the girl, reaching out her hand for a ladies' chain, and breaking from it in haste. "It is not altogether that; she says that it is impossible to be of us—that her birth forbids it, and any attempt at equality could only end in humiliation. I cannot persuade her out of this idea: entreat as I would, she refused utterly to come down. Then I got grandmamma to urge it, and she did it beautifully, but it was no use; and there the poor darling sits all alone, hearing the music and our voices, as prisoners in their cells listen to bird songs through windows in the walls. It is cruel! Why can't people be born all alike, and go up and down according to their own merits, I wonder?"

"That is an American idea. You must have picked it up there in your infancy, Lady Clara."

"I should not wonder. Some day I mean to go back there and see what social equality is like."

"Oh, you will find no place on earth where your title will be of so much value, Lady Clara," said Hilton, laughing.

"Well, that is because the Americans respect history, and associate us with the great deeds of mutual ancestors. It is the romance of tradition that interests them; for they are great readers, these Americans, and know more of us, as a people, than we do of ourselves. We represent the warriors and the statesmen which they have clothed in the poetry of great deeds. If the nobility of this day disappoints them it is our own fault. When they learn that our greatness consists only in titles, we shall have little homage merely for them."

"What a strange little creature you are!"

"Yes, rather. It is our turn now."

After a little there was another long pause in the dance. Then Hilton went back to the subject nearest to his heart.

"You could not possibly persuade her to come down—not here, but into some of the less public rooms?" he said.

"Impossible. She would not think of it."

"Cruel!"

"Yes, I think so; but then, I would do exactly the same thing."

"What makes you start so, Clara?"

"Don't you see? There is Mr. Closs going up to grandmamma, and papa standing close by her. Why, Lord Hope is speaking to him! How good! how kind! They are both smiling; now, now, do look on mamma Rachael's face—she sees them, and happiness makes her splendid! He is coming this way. Understand now, I shall dance with him just as often as I can, and you are to help me if I get into any trouble. Thank Heaven, this set is over!"

"You are complimentary," laughed Lord Hilton.

"So I am; but you don't mind it. Here he is. Let me introduce you before he takes me off. Lord Hilton, Mr. Closs."

The next moment Clara was whirling through the room, with Hepworth Closs' arm around her waist, and her hand on his shoulder. She kept her word, and spent half her evening with him, managing to escape observation as much as possible, and thus secured a few hours of supreme happiness.

Lord Hope had received his brother-in-law with gentlemanly ease. How could he help it, not being master at Houghton?

Besides, he was disposed to cast off all responsibility with regard to his daughter's choice of a husband, and leave everything to the judgment and pride of the old countess, who happened to like Closs, and was not aware how much of that evening he spent with her grandchild.

Rachael was in ecstasies. She loved her brother dearly, and his apparent reconciliation with her husband lifted the last cloud from her heart. It seemed to her that night as if she had nothing to wish for.

The old countess stood to her post bravely, until after the supper-rooms had been thrown open and the gay crowds had passed in and out again; but when the dancing had recommenced and the conversation around her grew brilliant and a little confusing, she turned suddenly pale, and would have fallen, but that Lady Clara, who stood near, sprang forward and threw both arms around her.

"She is better; she can walk now. I will go with her," cried the excited young creature. "Papa, you shall help her up-stairs, then I will take care of her," she added, seeing how helpless the old lady was.

Lord Hope almost carried the old lady up-stairs. Then Clara called aloud for Caroline Brown, who came out from her chamber, and, between them, they led the old countess into the tower-room.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE OLD WOMAN WANDERS BACK AGAIN.

Old Mrs. Yates had left the railroad station two miles back, and was walking wearily along the high road toward the village, which lay, as it were, at the feet of Houghton Castle, like a spaniel crouching at the foot of its mistress. At the station and all along the road she had observed an unusual commotion. Carriages in an unprecedented number were waiting for special trains, which came in more than once that day for Houghton Castle.

All the vehicles in the neighborhood were in motion, dashing to and from the village inns, the castle, and a neighboring town, where accommodations for a great access of people could be obtained.

Hannah Yates was more than once nearly run over and driven back to the banks of the highway by those flying vehicles, where she stood half-terrified, half-curious, looking after them in wistful astonishment.

What could this tumultuous movement mean? Was it a wedding—but of whom? A funeral—the old countess?

No, no! Destiny could not be so cruel. Besides, there was no such eager driving or smiling faces when the head of that castle was taken from its broad portals to the family vault. It must be some festival, and she was yet in time.

At an abrupt curve of the road the old woman came suddenly upon a full view of the castle. It was all ablaze with lights, and rose up from the embosoming trees like some enchanted palace upon which a tempest of stars had rained down in all their heavenly brightness. The broad facade which connected the tower was flooded with noonday light, and she could discover groups of people moving to and fro on the stone terrace in front, rendered so small by the distance that they seemed unreal and fairy-like. Down to the verge of the park and upward, curving through the woods, she could trace the chestnut avenue by wreaths of colored lanterns that blazed from tree to tree like mammoth jewels chaining them together. Now and then a carriage broke to view, sweeping along the macadamized avenue, clearly revealed by the light that fell around it.

Never in her life had the old woman seen such splendid commotion about that stately building, yet she could remember many a festive scene in its old walls, when crowned princes had been entertained there with a degree of splendor scarcely exceeded in their own palaces.

As the old woman stood gazing upon this scene, a countryman, passing along the highway, paused near her to get a sight of the castle.

"What is going on up yonder?" inquired the woman, drawing toward him and speaking in his own broad dialect.

"What is't at yon castle? An' who mon you be that donna know that the oud lady up at Houghton is giving a grand blow-out to her gran'child, Lord Hope's daughter, an' to Lady Hope, as people thought she would never abide in her sight?"

"And is Lord and Lady Hope at the castle?"

"Aye, an' the young lady, too—her that the oud countess is o'er fond of; but the young 'un is a right comely lass, an' the oud 'un might go furder and fare worse."

Mrs. Yates gathered the woolen shawl she had travelled in about her, and went hastily down the bank on which she had been standing, so excited that all the weakness of age seemed to have been suddenly swept from her.

She had intended to sleep in the village that night; now she bent her steps resolutely toward the castle.

As she came out of the chestnut avenue, keeping upon the turf and among the shadows, all of the glory of that illumination broke upon her.

The broad terrace, flooded with light—a fountain, directly in front, shooting up a column of liquid crystal thirty feet or more, where it branched off, like a tree of quivering ice swayed gracefully in the wind, and broke up in a storm of drops that rained downward, flashing and glittering through that golden atmosphere to their source again.

Above this rose those grand old towers, garlanded with colored lamps that wound in and out of the clinging ivy in great wreaths and chains of tinted fire, which harmonized with the quivering foliage, and flooded the fountain, the terrace, and all the neighboring trees with a soft atmosphere of golden green.

Here and there the gray old stonework of the towers broke through, revealing glimpses of the giant strength which lay hidden underneath; and over the right hand tower, from a flag-staff turned around and around with star-like lights, the broad, red banner, with which the Carsets had for centuries defied their enemies and welcomed their friends, floated slowly out upon the night wind.

Hannah Yates saw all this, and knew, by the music which thrilled the air around her, that the revel, whatever it was, had commenced; for a sound of pleasant voices and sweet laughter came through the open windows, and from the depths of the park—where an ox had been roasted whole that day, and wine and beer had flowed freely as the waters of the fountain—came subdued sounds of a waning festival, which had been given to the tenantry and villagers. The gaiety of the castle was answered back from the park, and harmonized by that of the working people who tilled all the broad lands around it.

When the old woman heard these answering sounds she felt that an heiress to all this greatness was acknowledged that night, for when lords gathered in the castle, and tenants in the park, it was usually to acknowledge the rights of a coming heir, and she could not believe that all this had been done in honor of Lady Hope.

Hannah Yates lost all the unnatural strength that had brought her among this splendor. She knew that it was scarcely possible that she could speak with Lady Carset that night, if she could, indeed, gain admittance to the castle; but she went around to a back entrance, and so made her way, unseen, to the tower-chamber, which opened into Lady Carset's dressing-room. There she sat down and waited, hour after hour, until at last the door opened, and the old countess came in, walking feebly between two young girls, one of whom she had never seen before, but the other made the sinking heart leap in her bosom.

When the old countess entered, the lights in her room were shaded, but they struck those masses of jewels in the snowy whiteness of her hair and upon her bosom with a brilliancy that revealed the gray pallor of that aged face with painful distinctness.

Hannah Yates arose from the shaded place in which she was sitting, and came forward to support her old mistress.

The countess looked up, and a faint smile flickered across her face.

"Ah! Yates, is it you?"

Mrs. Yates made no answer, but took that frail form in her arms and carried it to the couch.

"Take them off! take them off! They are heavy, ah, so heavy!"

The old lady put a waving hand to her head, indicating that it was the diamonds that troubled her.

Mrs. Yates, who had performed this office many a time before, unclasped the jewels and laid them on a sofa-table close by, then she removed the burning stones from that oppressed bosom, and unclasped them from the slender arms, while her mistress lay struggling for breath, with her eyes fixed on that kind old face with a look of touching helplessness.

"Give me water," she whispered.

Caroline ran for a goblet of water, and held it to those white lips. The countess drank a swallow and then called out:

"Wine! wine!"

Wine was brought, and she drank a little.

"Go, my child," she whispered, seeing how anxious and pale Clara appeared, in spite of the cloudy softness of her dress. "Go to your room and get some rest. Ah, me! how all this wearies, wearies!"

The two girls hesitated. There was something in that sweet old face that kept them spellbound. The old lady saw it, and reaching forth her hand, drew them, one after the other, down to her lips, and kissed them.

"Good-night, good-night!"

How softly those gentle words fell from her lips. With what yearning fondness her eyes followed those young creatures as they went reluctantly from the room, looking back in wistful sorrow, as they left her in the care of Yates.



CHAPTER XXXV.

LADY HOPE IN THE CASTLE.

Lady Clara had been dancing, talking and receiving such homage as would have satisfied the ambition of a princess. She had managed to snatch time to exchange many a sweet word and bright look with her lover, and would have been happy in delicious weariness, but for the sudden indisposition which had fallen upon her grandmother. As it was she could hardly realize anything, but gave way to intense weariness, and almost fell asleep as Margaret was undressing her.

But Caroline had been alone all the evening, within hearing of the laughter, the music, and feeling the very tread of the dancers in every nerve. She was young, ardent, and naturally felt a craving wish for the amusement she had resolutely denied herself; now, less than ever, could she feel a desire for sleep. Instead of seeking her room she wandered off to a wing of the castle, in which the picture gallery stretched its silent range of dead shadows, and tried to throw off the unaccountable excitement that possessed her, by walking up and down the long gallery.

The late moon was shining through the windows, and a crowd of dimly outlined figures, in armor or sweeping garments, looked down upon her from the walls.

Why this strange spirit of unrest had sent her to that gallery she could not have told, but it was there still, urging her on and on, she could not tell where, but walked swiftly up and down, up and down, as if striving to weary herself in a desire for the slumber that seemed to have fallen upon every human being in the castle.

As she was walking thus wildly, a footstep, not her own, disturbed her. She stopped to listen—made sure that it was some one advancing, and drew slowly back toward the wall, hoping to shelter herself among the low-hanging pictures.

The moonlight, from a neighboring window, lay full upon her as she retreated across the room, with her face turned down the gallery, and her breath hushed in fear. She saw, coming toward her, now in shadow, now in broader light, a lady, in garments of rustling silk, sweeping far back on the oaken floor, and gleaming duskily, amber-hued in the imperfect light of a small silver lamp which she carried in her hand—a beautiful lady, with rubies on her neck and in her hair. The lamplight, for a moment, concentrated on a face whose weariness was overborne by slumbering triumph, which poised her head like that of a newly crowned empress.

Caroline stood for the moment fascinated, then made a swift retreat, for she saw those great, black eyes turned full upon her, and fled in a panic.

A shriek—the crash of a falling lamp, and a mass of dusky drapery huddled together on the floor, brought the girl out of her covert. Something must have happened—the lady had hurt herself—perhaps could not arise from want of help. She went down the gallery, passing first one window then another, taking the moonlight from each, when the fallen lady uttered another cry, sprang to her feet and fled down the gallery, leaving her lamp overturned, with the wick still burning.

Caroline took up the lamp, and placing it on a bracket, left the gallery, vexed with herself for the fright she had occasioned this strange lady by wandering about so heedlessly in the dark. Still she could not sleep, but went to her own room and sat waiting there for the morning to dawn.

Perhaps an hour after Caroline left the picture gallery, a figure clothed in white from head to foot, came through an end door, walking firmly through the darkness, and touching the floor with the noiseless tread of her naked feet. She walked straight to the silver lamp and took it from the bracket. Now her face was revealed. It was Lady Hope.

She held the lamp before her, and moved on very slowly, looking ahead through the darkness with those wide open, staring eyes.

After that, when all the fires of that vivid illumination had burned out in the park, and were quenched in the castle, a bright star seemed wandering up and down the vast building; now at one window, then at another, lighting it up with fitful gleams, then leaving it in darkness, and appearing again in some far off casement.

Once or twice the form of a woman in white cast its cloudy outline across the plate glass of an unshuttered window; but no person was in the park to observe her, and she wandered on with a lamp in her firm hand, which brightened over the pallid outlines of her face, and kindled up her night drapery like sunshine over drifted snow. Up and down along the corridors, and through the long drawing-room, the figure swept, carrying her lamp, and moving noiselessly over the floor with her white, naked feet.

Upon that unconscious face a look of deep pain had stamped itself in place of haughty triumph, and the wide open black eyes had a far-off look, as if their glance could penetrate the walls and the very sky beyond.

On and on the woman wandered, till she came to a closed door in one of the corridors. Here she paused, laid her right hand on the silver knob, and turned it so noiselessly that, when the door opened, it seemed like the action of a ghost.

The room was darkened from even the faint light of the stars by sweeping draperies of silk, which glowed out redly as the lamp light fell upon it in flashes, as if suddenly drenched with wine.

A high ebony bedstead stood in the centre of this noble room, canopied half way over, and draped like the windows, so that a red gleam fell upon the whiteness of the counterpane as the light of that lamp fell upon it.

A man lay profoundly sleeping on this bed—a handsome, middle-aged man, whose thick brown beard showed soft gleams of silver in it, and whose hair, though waving and bright, was growing thin on the top of his head.

The man appeared to sleep heavily, and a smile lay on his lips; but a look of habitual care had written itself on his forehead, and his mouth was surrounded by stern, hard lines, that seemed graven there with steel.

The woman stood by this sleeping man, gazing on him with the far-off look of a ghost. She turned at last, and set the light down on a console, where it fell less distinctly on the pillow where that head was lying. Then she crept back and sat down on the side of the bed, so close to the unconscious sleeper that her shadow fell across him. Slowly, as if she had been touching a serpent, her hand crept stealthily toward that which lay in the supine carelessness of sleep on the white counterpane. She touched it at last, but started back. A blood-red stain from the curtain fell across it as her bending form let the light stream through the silk.

The woman drew back and passed her left hand quickly over that which had touched the sleeping man. Again and again she rubbed one hand over the other, muttering to herself.

Then a look of passionate distress came to that dark face, and, going to a marble table, on which a silver bowl and pitcher stood, she poured some water into the bowl, and plunged the hand with which she had touched that sleeping man into it. The splash of the water aroused him, and its icy coldness shocked the woman out of her unnatural sleep. She turned around wildly, with the water dripping from her hands—turned to find herself in her husband's chamber, with his astonished eyes fixed upon her as he sat up in bed.

"Rachael!"

She did not answer him, but stood gazing around the room in wild bewilderment. How came she standing there? By what spirit of love or hate had she been sent to that silver basin?

"Rachael, is anything wrong? Are you ill?"

The woman began to shiver. Perhaps the ice cold water had chilled her.

She looked down upon her hands as if the red shadow haunted her yet, but all she saw were drops of pure water rolling down her slender fingers, and falling one by one to the floor.

"I do not know!" she answered, in cold bewilderment. "Something drove me out from the bed, and sent me wandering, wandering, wandering! But how I came here, alas! Norton, I cannot tell you."

Rachael shivered all over as she spoke, and, as if drawn that way by some unseen force, came close to Lord Hope's bed, and sat down upon it.

"Oh, I am so cold—so dreary cold!"

An eider down quilt lay across the foot of the bed. Lord Hope reached forward and folded it around her, very gently, murmuring:

"My poor wife! poor Rachael! You have been dreaming."

"No; it was not all dreaming, Norton. I did see—no matter what; but it was something that terrified me out of all the joy and glory of this night. I must have been fearfully worn out to sleep after that; but the lamp, which I left behind me, is burning there, and my hands were in the cold water, trying to wash themselves, when you awoke me. I must have been in that fearful picture gallery again."

"You have courage to go there at all, Rachael!"

"I got there without knowing it. The rooms have been so changed I lost my way, and took the wrong corridor, and there I saw—"

"Her picture."

"Was it that? Oh! was it only that?"

"It is there—her picture—life size; and so like that I would not look on it for the world."

"But what carried me there, Norton? On this night, too, when I have been honored, as your wife should be for the first time! when her mother has taken me by the hand and lifted the cloud from my name! Ah, Norton! Norton! it was glory to me when I saw your eyes kindle, and answer back to mine, as the noblest of the land crowded round to do me homage. Then I knew that the old love was perfect yet. Oh, Destiny is cruel, that it will not let me have one perfect day!"

"After all, it was but a picture. Why allow it to distress you so?"

Lord Hope took her hands in his. She did not shrink from his touch now, as she had in her abnormal sleep; but he felt her palms growing warm, and saw the light coming back to her eyes, where it had seemed frozen at first.

"And you love me? I was sure of it to-night. That was my chiefest glory. Lacking that, what would the homage of all the world be to Rachael Closs? I was thinking this, when that seemed to start up before me, and whispering to myself, 'He loves me! he loves me! he loves me!' like a young girl; for I have seemed very young to-night. Why not? A glorious life lies before us. You will now step more fearlessly forward, and take your place among the great men of the earth,—while I—I will be anything; charm stones, work miracles, to win popularity and lay it at your feet.

"Say that you love me once more, Norton, and then I will creep back to my pillow, the proudest and happiest woman on earth—for, after all, it was only a picture!"

Rachael Closs had hardly done speaking when a cry of distress rang through the neighboring corridor, the door of Lord Hope's chamber was flung open, and a pallid face looked in.

"Come—come at once! My lady is dying!"

Round to other rooms came that cry of terror, arousing those two girls—the one from her sleep, the other from her mournful vigil—and drawing the family together, in pale groups, into the tower-chamber.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

DEATH IN THE TOWER-CHAMBER.

The old countess was not dying, but dead. Hannah Yates, who had watched her faithfully, did not know when the last faint breath left her lips; but she became conscious of a solemn stillness which settled upon the room, and bending forward, saw that soft gray shadows had crept over that gentle face, up to the hair of silky snow, and down to the slender throat, till it was lost in the purple splendor of that festive robe.

There she lay, tranquil as a sleeping child, with a calm, holy smile breaking through the shadows, and her little hands meekly folded over the gossamer lace on her bosom.

Upon a marble table close by lay the jewels she had worn—a glittering and neglected heap of fire, which gave out more light than the shaded lamps that threw their beams brightly on them, and shed tender moonlight on that lovely old face.

The family were slowly gathering in that death-chamber, where Clara and Caroline were clinging together in bitter grief, and old Mrs. Yates was kneeling with her face buried in the purple of her mistress' robe.

Lord Hope came in at last, followed by Lady Hope, who, even in that solemn place, could not suppress her pride as her eyes fell on Lady Clara, whom she recognized as the heiress of all that gentle lady had left. But Lady Clara saw nothing of this. The poor girl was weeping out her passionate sorrow in the arms of her friend, who bent over her with such tender sympathy that her face was almost concealed.

As Lord Hope advanced toward the death-couch, old Mrs. Yates arose and stood before him. When he had last seen her she was an old woman, but in the prime of her strength; now her shoulders stooped, her hair was entirely white, and she faltered in her walk. He reached out his hand to her. She did not appear to observe it, but said to him, in a quiet voice:

"My lord, I am glad to find you here. God has so ordered it that I was too late for her. She could not hear what I had to say, but you must listen in her stead."

"At the proper time, Hannah; but we must not talk of worldly things in this presence."

Lord Hope bent his head reverently toward the pale form upon the couch, and the old woman also bowed down her face meekly, as she had learned to bow her head in prison; but she answered, with gentle firmness:

"No—that which I have to say must be told now, and in her dead presence. Since God has forbidden me to bring doubt and sorrow on her last moments I thank Him for it, but you must listen."

"Not now—not now," answered Hope, quickly. He was disturbed by the sight of this old woman, whom he had believed to be buried for life in an American prison; but he had learned the great art of self-control, and gave no indication of the shock her presence in that room gave him.

His first impulse was to get Lady Hope out of the apartment. She had never seen Mrs. Yates, but he was fearful that some mention of her name might renew the nervous agitation from which she had but just recovered.

"Come with me, Rachael," he said, in a low voice. "I will take you to our room, for this is a painful sight. Then I will return, alone, to hear what this person has to say."

Lady Hope was willing to leave a scene which filled her with gloom.

Whispering to Clara that she would come back and watch with her when the old woman was gone, she twisted a corner of the black lace shawl, which covered her head, around her throat, and went away, glad to escape that strange old woman, against whom she had taken one of those sudden antipathies which were common to her.

"Dear me! I look almost as deathly as she does, with all these shadows on my face," said Lady Hope, as she stood before the mirror in her dressing-room, and unwound the black lace from her head.

She was correct. What with fatigue, and the black shadows flung by her shawl, the best friends of this proud woman would have recognized her with difficulty.

She turned for her husband's answer, but found that he had left her at the door. All rest was broken up for her now; in fact, it was almost morning; so she began to pace the room to and fro, thinking, with exultation, of the honors and wealth that had poured in upon her family by that gentle old lady's death.

Meantime Lord Hope had gone back to the death-chamber, where Mrs. Yates and the two young ladies were waiting.

The old woman arose from her knees when he came in.

"That which I have to say, Lord Hope, relates to you, first of all, now that my dear old mistress is gone. When the first Lady Hope came to America, her little girl, then between two and three years of age, was placed in my son's family, and under my charge, as her mother had been when a child. She had reasons, which you will understand, for wishing the child to pass as the daughter of my son; so we gave her his name, and she was known everywhere as my grandchild.

"We had another little girl, about the same age, the daughter of Mrs. Brown, an actress; fair, like your child, and very pretty. This child, Caroline Brown, was almost given to us; for, after the first year, we never saw her mother, or received anything from her. One night I received a note asking me to come down to one of the theatres, and meet a person who had business with me. There was no name to the note; but I supposed it must be from Mrs. Brown, and went. But no person was there to meet me, and I went home disappointed. That night Lady Hope died."

Lord Hope, who had been anxious and restless, drew a deep breath; for he understood, by the slow caution of the old woman's speech, that she meant to reveal nothing which his anxious and listening daughter might not hear.

"My lady left a letter behind her, with some money, and the Carset diamonds, which she charged me to deliver, with my own hands, here at the castle.

"She had fears about her daughter—anxieties, which I need not explain—and besought me to keep the little girl; to educate her, and conceal her identity until she was eighteen years old, when I, or my son, should take her back to England, and allow her to choose her own way of life.

"I had talked this matter over with my lady, and gave her a solemn promise to protect her child, and the honor of her name, with my life, if that were needed. The very night of her death Lady Hope gave all the papers necessary to the recognition of her child to my son. He brought them home, and, while the children were asleep, we two pledged ourselves to protect your child from everything that her mother feared, and to secure for her all that she hoped.

"My lord, we kept our oaths. He died, broken-hearted, under the terrible burden which we took on ourselves that night. I lived, carrying it with me, till my shoulders are bowed, and my hair white with old age.

"The next day, while she lay dead, a fire broke out in the house where we lived. Our rooms were high up; the flames and smoke mounted so suddenly that it was impossible for us to escape by the stairs. The two little girls had crept into a corner of the room, and sat crying there, with the fire and smoke rolling toward them. I had secured the box, in which were Lady Hope's jewels and papers, and swung it over my shoulders, then snatched up your child."

Here the two girls, who stood, pale and trembling, by the window, uttered a simultaneous cry.

"I remember! I remember!" they said, each to the other, then clung together and listened.

The old woman scarcely heeded this interruption.

Lord Hope looked toward the window, so bewildered that he could neither see nor hear anything distinctly.

Mrs. Yates went on:

"I called on Daniel's wife to bring the other child. Firemen and citizens were climbing the ladders and leaping in at the windows. One man sprang into the room and out again, while I waited for my turn. He had something in his arms huddled up like a bundle—pushed me aside and took my place on the ladder. Then Daniel's wife came to me, wringing her hands and crying. She could not find the child.

"But I had the one most precious to me in my arms. The flames drove me forward, and I let myself down on the ladder. Your child was safe. I know now that the man who pushed me from the window saved little Caroline Brown and brought her to you. She has since been known as your daughter. I saw her in your arms on board the steamer. Last night she was recognized as grand-daughter of Lady Carset."

"But the other—my own child?"

"I had no means of telling you the truth at the time, and, after that, would not do it. The child, I knew, would be a safeguard to little Clara. You would not inquire for her while supposing her in your own possession. But we took one precaution—that of giving her the name of Caroline, which was sure to prevent inquiry. After that she was known as Caroline Yates, and, until my son's death, thought herself his child. I never lived with them after that, but saw her from time to time, though she never noticed me or knew of the interest I took in her; but, year by year, I saw her grow up, until my son died. Then I lost all knowledge of her.

"One day I was free to look for this dear child, and went to the cottage where my son's will had secured her a home. It was empty. She had gone away with some singing woman and a person named Brown, who had been her music-teacher.

"The woman had claimed to be her mother, and was known on the stage as Olympia."

"Go on! go on!" exclaimed Lord Hope; "I am listening."

The two girls in the window were listening also. As they understood this story more and more clearly, their arms tightened around each other and a look of unutterable affection beamed upon their faces; but that of the girl known as Lady Clara glowed with a look of generous self-abnegation, while her companion was troubled, and almost sad.

"Go on! go on!"

"I left America at once on learning this, bringing Lady Hope's papers and Lady Carset's jewels with me. Olympia was in England, and, no doubt, your daughter was with her. First I came here, and gave up the trust that had become a heavy, heavy burden. Then I went in search of my young lady. The time had come when she might claim her title and her rights, without violating her mother's directions. After much search, I found Olympia's house, and inquired for the person known as her daughter. She told me herself, and with bitter anger, that she had no daughter. I knew the woman, and attempted to make her comprehend that I wished to find the young lady for her own good; but this flung her into a passion of rage, and she ordered me from the house. Then followed an attempt to bribe me. Still I kept up the search, and at last traced the girl they called Caroline Brown to this neighborhood."

"To this neighborhood!" exclaimed Lord Hope. "Where? where?"

"My lord, up to this time you have only the word of an old woman, who has suffered under great reproach for all this. I know that the identity of a nobleman's child and the transfer of a great inheritance cannot be so proven. But here is the letter, which Lady Hope gave to me, and another that she wrote to you on the day of her death. Poor, poor lady! She was very sad that morning, and would undertake the letter at once. God seemed to warn her of what would happen in the next twenty-four hours."

Lord Hope took the papers which the old woman handed to him, and there, in the presence of the dead, gathered a confirmation of all Mrs. Yates had told him.

The paper had grown yellow since it was blotted with the tears of a woman he had once loved. No wonder it shook his hand as he read.

"And this girl, my daughter, where is she?" he cried, with a passionate outburst of grief.

The girl known as Lady Clara came out from the shadows of the window curtains, and made an effort to draw Caroline with her; but she shrank back and stood alone, trembling violently.

"Papa!"

"Oh, my poor, poor child! How will you bear this?" cried Lord Hope.

"Trust me, dear, dear papa—for I will call you so. Nothing can break my heart, if you and mamma Rachael will love me yet; for the rest, I am glad, so glad, that I am no longer a lady, and am left without a guinea. This is to be really free!"

"Ah, poor child, how can we ever part with you?"

"Your own daughter will not begrudge me a little love; and, after all, I do belong to mamma Rachael more than she ever can. That is something. Besides, it is from me that you must take your daughter, for I brought her here. Ask her if I did not."

The young girl was smiling, but tears stood in her eyes, and her lips quivered as she spoke.

"Come with me, father, and I will give you to her. It is hard, but I will."

She led Lord Hope across the room, drew back the curtain, and let in the soft gray light of that early dawn upon the trembling young creature who stood there.

Lord Hope shook in all his limbs when he saw that face. The eyes full of tears seemed to reproach him as hers had on that fatal night.

He reached out his arms, with a convulsive heaving of the chest, and faltered out:

"Forgive me! forgive me! for I have bitterly repented."

He did not kiss her—he dared not even touch her forehead in that solemn presence; but he laid one hand on her head, rested his own upon it, asking that forgiveness of God which her heart gave, but could only express by pathetic silence.

Then the old woman came up to the window, and stood there, waiting.

When Lord Hope fell back against the window-frame, strengthless from excess of feeling, she laid a hand upon the girl's shoulder, and, turning her face gently to the light, gazed upon it with tender scrutiny. Then she said, talking to herself:

"It is her face! It is her face!"

"And you are Daniel Yates' mother. How I shall love you! Oh, how I loved him!"

Then the old woman's face began to quiver, and her large gray eyes filled with the slow tears old age gives out with such pain.

"Yes, child, you must love me a little for your mother's sake."

"And for the sake of that good man, your son, who was a father to me. How often he has told me that, if there was anything grand or good in him, it came from the best mother that ever lived! 'Some day,' he once said, 'God may be merciful and let you know her. Then remember that she has nothing left but you.' I do remember it, and no child ever loved a grandmother better than I will love you."

The old woman lifted up her head from the gentle embrace thus offered her, and turned to her dead mistress.

A smile, soft as that hovering about that cold mouth, came to her lips and eyes.

"God is very good to me. Are the angels telling you of it, my old mistress, that you smile so?"



CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE NEMESIS.

The last tender words were still lingering on the lips of Mrs. Yates, when the door opened and Lady Hope stood upon the threshold.

She had become restless beyond self-control in her own room, and came back to the death-chamber, wondering what detained her husband there so long. She had thrown the lace shawl from her head entirely; but it fell around her shoulders, shading her bare white arms and beautiful neck, which the amber-hued dress would otherwise have left uncovered. Framed in the doorway she made an imperial picture.

"My lord," she said, advancing to her husband, "what detains you here so long?"

Old Mrs. Yates stepped forward with a scared, wild look; a gleam of anger or fear, bright as fire, and fierce as a martyr's faith, shot into her eyes and broadened there. She came close to Lady Hope, facing her, and laid one hand heavily on her arm.

The haughty woman drew back, and would have shaken the hand from her arm, but it clung there with a grip of steel.

"Lord Hope, is this woman your wife?"

"His wife! Yes, old woman, I am his wife," cried Rachael, pale with indignation; "but who authorized you to ask?"

The old woman did not heed her scornfulness, but turned her eyes upon Lord Hope, whose face was already white with vague terror.

"Is she your wife—the woman who was called Rachael Closs?"

"It is Lady Hope, my wife. Why do you ask?"

"Because it was this woman who murdered your first wife, Lady Carset's daughter!"

More than the stillness of death settled upon that room. The two girls hushed their sobs, and clung closer together in awful silence. The man and the woman, on whom these words had fallen like a rock hurled from some great high stood living and human, but struck into marble by a single blow. The man could not move; the woman did not seem to breathe. Hannah Yates went on, her voice low, but ringing out clear and distinctly like a funeral knell:

"On the twenty-first of June, now more than fifteen years ago, I saw you, Lord Hope, come out of a house in Forty-third Street, in New York.

"You know the house, and can never forget who lived in it. That day I had carried your child to see its mother, and left word at home for my son, Daniel Yates, to go after her; for I had business with a woman at one of the theatres, and was not sure of coming back in time. The woman I expected to see was not there; but it took me a long time to walk back, and it was about ten o'clock when I reached the house in Forty-third Street. Thinking it possible that Daniel might not have come home from his work till late, I was crossing the street to go in and inquire about the child, when the front door opened, and you came down the steps, with a fierce, angry air, such as I had seen many a time on this side the water. I knew that your presence in that house could have no peaceful meaning, and went over. I had a latch-key, and did not need to ring.

"The hall was dark—everything was still below; but a sound of weeping and moans of distress came from my lady's chamber. I went up and found her in the dark, lying across her bed, trembling dreadfully. She shrieked when I bent over her, and it was not till I got a light that she would be satisfied that it was only me. Then she sat up, and, in a rapid way, told me that you had been there after the child, and would have it but that the little creature had crept away and could not be found anywhere in the house. She must have got into the street, and you would find her, or she might be lost. She begged me to go at once and look for the child, and wanted to go with me; but I would not let her do that. I took her arms from my neck—for, in her joy at seeing the old woman, she had flung them there—made her lie down on the bed, and went away, promising to come back if I did not find the child; but, if I did, it was to be carried to my own house, as she was afraid to trust it near her. With this understanding I left her to search for the little girl.

"She may have crept down to the basement door and be hiding under the steps, I thought. Of course, the little thing would be afraid to go out into the streets. So the first thing I did was to run down into the area. In my haste I had left the door ajar, and bethought myself to go back and shut it, but while I was searching the area a woman ran up the steps and, pushing the door open, went into the house.

"At first I thought it was one of the servants, for they all appeared to be out, but she had on a striped India shawl, such as ladies wore in travelling, and a straw bonnet, from which the veil had blown back. These were not things worn by servants; besides, her air and walk convinced me that this woman was of another class. As she entered the door I saw her face for a single moment, but long enough to show me that I had never seen it before.

"The child was not in the area. I rang the basement bell, meaning to question the servants, but no one answered it. Then I hesitated where to go next, and as I stood in the shadow of the steps thinking the matter over, this same woman came through the door, shut it without noise, and ran down to the pavement. I saw her face clearly then, for the street lamp was bright. It was that of the woman by your side, Lord Hope."

Rachael Closs turned a pallid face upon her husband.

"Will you permit this woman to go on? Is this hideous lie a thing for my husband to encourage by his silence? Who is this audacious woman?"

Lord Hope attempted to speak, but his white lips seemed frozen together.

"I am Hannah Yates, the nurse of that murdered lady; the woman who has given fourteen years of her life, rather than have scandal fall on the husband her foster-child loved, or the awful truth reach her dear old mistress, who died, thank God, without knowing it."

"And you listen, my lord, to this woman, a confessed murderer, and, no doubt, an escaped convict?"

"He must listen, and he must believe! How did I know that he was in my lady's house that night, and the moment of his leaving it? How did I know the very words he used in attempting to force the child from her? No human being but himself and the poor lady, whose lips were cold within an hour, knew of anything that passed between the husband and wife the last time they ever met on earth."

"But you might have overheard—no doubt were listening—if my lord was indeed in that place at all. This is no evidence, even if a woman, convicted by her own confession of a crime she now seeks to cast upon another, could bear witness."

Rachael Closs spoke out clearly now, and her eyes, shining with the ferocity of a wild animal at bay, turned full upon the old woman who accused her.

The old woman put a hand into her bosom and drew out a small poniard. Rachael Closs gave a sharp gasp, and snatched at the poniard, but the old woman held it firmly.

"Lord Hope, this has been in your hands a hundred times. When did you part with it? To what person did you give it? Your crest is on the handle; her blood rusts the blade."

Lord Hope lifted both hands to conceal the horror that was on his face, to shut out the weapon from his sight.

"Oh! my God! my God! spare me more of this!"

The proud noble was shaking from head to foot. The veins swelled purple on his forehead. The sight of that slender weapon swept away his last doubt. Lady Hope shrank back from his side, but watched him keenly in her agony of guilt and dread. Her proud figure withered down, her features were locked and hard, but out of their pallor her great eyes shone with terrible brilliancy. Her husband's hands dropped at last, and he turned a look of such despairing anguish upon her that a cry broke from her lips.

"You—you condemn me?"

Lord Hope turned from her, shuddering.

"You know! you know!"

He remembered giving her this poniard on the very day of her crime. He had been in the habit of carrying it with him when travelling, and though sharp as a viper's tongue, it, with the daintily enamelled sheath, was a pretty table ornament, and she had begged it of him for a paper cutter. He had seen the sheath since, but never the poniard, and now the sight of it was a blow through the heart.

"I picked it up by her bed that morning, after the murder. There is a person in the castle who saw me take it from the place where it had fallen. If any one here doubts me, let them ask a person called Margaret Casey—let them ask her."

That moment the door of the room opened, and Hepworth Closs stood on the threshold. He had been informed of Lady Carset's illness, just as he was leaving the castle, and came back only to hear that she was gone. The scene upon which he looked was something worse than a death-chamber.

"Ask him if he did not see this poniard in her room while she lay unburied in the house."

Rachael turned her eyes upon her brother—those great, pleading eyes, which were fast taking an expression of pathetic agony, like those of a hunted doe.

"And you—and you!" she said, with a cry of pain that thrilled the heart of her wretched husband. "Has all the world turned against me? Old woman, what have I ever done to you that you should hunt me down so?"

Hepworth Closs came forward and threw an arm around his sister's waist.

"What is it, Rachael? Who is hunting you down?" he said, tenderly. "No one shall hurt you while I am near."

She turned, threw her arms around his neck, and covered his face with passionate kisses. Then she turned to Lord Hope, held out her pale hands imploringly; and cried out in pathetic anguish:

"Oh, do not believe it! Do not believe it!"

But Lord Hope stepped back, and turned away his face. She knew that this motion was her doom.

"Let me look at the poniard," she said, with unnatural gentleness. "I have a right to examine the proofs brought against me."

Hannah Yates gave her the dagger. She looked at it earnestly a moment, laid one hand upon her heart, as if its beating stifled her, then lifted the other and struck.

"Now, my husband, will you kiss me? I have given them blood for blood, life for life!"

She fell in a heap at her husband's feet, and while death glazed over her eyes, reached up her arms to him.

He fell upon his knees, forgetting everything but the one dreadful fact that she was his wife, and dying. His face drooped to hers, for the lips were moving, and her eyes turned upon him with pathetic anxiety.

"It was love for you that led me to it—only that—Oh, believe—beli—"

"I do! I do!" he cried out, in fearful anguish. "God forgive me, and have mercy on you!"

She struggled, lifted up her arms, drew his lips close to hers, and over them floated the last icy breath that Rachael Closs ever drew.

Then the young girl, who had loved this woman better than anything on earth, sank to the floor, and took that pale head in her lap, moaning over it piteously.

"My poor mamma! my darling mother! Speak to me! Open your eyes! It is Clara—your own, own child! Her eyelids close—her lips are falling apart! Oh! my God, is she dead?"

She looked piteously in the face of Hepworth Closs, who had knelt by her side, and asked this question over and over again:

"Is she dead? Oh, tell me, is she dead?"

Hepworth Closs bent down, and touched his lips to the cold forehead of his sister; then he lifted Clara from the floor, and half led her, half carried her, from the room.

Then Lord Hope stood up and turned, with a shudder, to the old woman, who had been to him and his a fearful Nemesis.

"Hannah Yates," he said, "you have suffered much, concealed much, and, from your own confession, are not without sin."

"True, true," murmured the old woman. "I have sinned grievously."

"Therefore, you should have shown more mercy to this unhappy woman. But the suffering and the wrong was done to shield this girl from what you thought an evil influence, and save from reproach two noble houses, to which she belongs—for her face tells me that your story is true. Spare the memory of this most unfortunate, if sinful woman. Spare the high name and noble pride of the old countess, who beseeches you—her very face seems to change as I speak—for silence and forgetfulness. That which you have done in love, continue in mercy. Let this miserable scene, with all that led to it, rest in sacred silence among us. The persons who have suffered most are now before a tribunal where no evidence of yours is wanted. Look on your old mistress," he continued, pointing toward the death couch, "and let her sweet face plead with you. Had she lived—"

"Had she lived," said the old woman, "I should not have spoken. Death itself would not have wrung from me one word of what her daughter suffered. But the woman who murdered her came suddenly before me. It was a power beyond my poor will that made me speak; but hereafter no word of this shall ever pass my lips. No evil story of suffering or bloodshed shall ever go forth about a lady of Houghton while I can prevent it."

Lord Hope bent his head, and made an effort to thank her, but he could not speak.

"Leave me now," said the old woman. "Let no servants come near these apartments, save two that can be trusted here with me. Some one send Margaret Casey and Eliza, her sister, here. Now leave me, Lord Hope, and you, Lady Carset. You can trust the old woman alone with these two."

Before noon, that day, it was known in all the country around that the old countess, Lady Carset, lay in funeral state in the royal guest-chamber at Houghton Castle, for the long red flag was floating half-way down its staff, and a hatchment hung in mournful gorgeousness over the principal entrance between those two massive towers.

But farther than the flag could be seen, and swift as the wind that stirred it, went the strange story that the beautiful Lady Hope had been seized with a violent hemorrhage of the lungs while standing by the death couch of the old countess, and had died before help could be obtained.

After this, another wild rumor took wing. The young lady who had been some weeks at the castle was only an adopted daughter of Lord Hope, and, consequently could not become heiress of Houghton under the will or by entail. The daughter and heiress was at the castle, stricken down with grief at the double loss that had fallen upon her since her arrival from abroad, where she had been educated. With a feeling of delicacy that did her honor she had declined to appear as the acknowledged heiress at the festival given to Lady Hope, feeling that it might interfere with her grandmother's independent action with regard to the vast property at her disposal, if she allowed herself to be proclaimed thus early as the chosen heiress, which she now undoubtedly was. The will had been read, and, with the exception of a considerable legacy to Caroline Brown, the adopted daughter, and provisions for the servants, young Lady Carset came in for everything.

Alderman Stacy took this story back to America, and described his reception at Houghton Castle with such glowing colors—when the assembled board were at supper one night, in a pleasant, social way—that one of the fathers proposed forthwith to draw up a resolution of thanks to young Lady Carset for the hospitality extended to their illustrious compeer, and forward it, with "the liberty of the city, under the great seal of New York." At the next meeting of the board this resolution was carried unanimously—in fact, with acclamation.

Months went by, twelve or more, and then the trees around that grand old stronghold blazed out with lights again. Two fountains shot their liquid brightness over the stone terrace, at which the people from far and near came to drink. One sent up crystal, and rained down diamonds, as it had done that night when the old countess died. The other, being of wine, shot up a column of luminous red into the air, and came down in a storm of rubies.

The people, who caught the red drops on their lips, and dipped the sparkling liquid up with silver ladles, knew that a double wedding was going on in the castle, and clamored loudly for a sight of their lady and her bridegroom.

After a little, the windows along the facade of the building were thrown back, and a gay throng poured itself into a broad balcony, that projected a little over the stone terrace, where the wine was flowing, and the eager people crowding forward for the first look.

Foremost came Lord Hilton, leading Clara—Lady Carset—by the hand. Then Hepworth Closs stepped forth, and on his arm a bright, sparkling little figure, in a cloud of gauzy silk, and crowned with white roses, who smiled and kissed her hand to the crowd, while her little feet kept time, and almost danced, to the music, which broke from terrace and covert as the bridal party appeared.

Standing a little back, near one of the windows, stood two gentlemen, one very old and stricken in years, who leaned heavily on his cane, and looked smilingly down upon the multitude swaying in front of the castle; and well he might, for two of the finest estates in England had been joined that day, and from horizon to horizon stretched the united lands which the children of his grandson would inherit.

The other gentleman, standing there with the sad, worn face was Lord Hope, who leaned heavily against the window-frame, and looked afar off over the heads of the multitude wearily, wearily, as if the days of marrying and giving in marriage were all a blank to him. When the young bride, who had given up her name, title and fortune willingly to another, came up to him at the window, she laid her hand tenderly on his arm, whispering:

"Farewell, father, farewell! I am not the less your child because of the blue blood, for she cannot love you better than I do. Will you not shake hands with my husband, father?"

Lord Hope lifted his heavy eyes to Hepworth Closs, saw the features of another, whom no one ever mentioned now, in that face, flung both arms about the bridegroom, shaking from head to foot with tearless sobs.

A little while after a carriage drove from Houghton to the station, and in two days a steamer sailed with Hepworth Closs and his wife, with that kind and faithful man, her father, for New York.

Just as they were about to sail, an old woman came quietly into the second-class cabin, paid her passage, and rested there, never coming on deck till the steamer landed. Then she gathered up her effects in a carpet-bag and went ashore.

That night a fire blazed on the hearth at Cedar Cottage, and the dilapidated furniture in the various rooms was arranged in the kitchen.

About six months after, this old woman was found dead upon an iron bedstead up-stairs, and the neighbors held a consultation about burying her at the expense of the town; but, on searching the rooms, plenty of English gold was found to have kept her comfortable for years. Then some one remembered that a convict, discharged from the prison not many years ago, was said to be the mother of Daniel Yates, a good man and excellent citizen, and they decided to bury the poor old convict by his side.

There is a very prosperous firm in New York, which has stood the shock of gold corners, and railway crashes, with the firm resistance of heavy capital and business integrity. It is the firm of Closs & Brown.

The younger member is an active, shrewd, generous man, full of resources, and capable of wonderful combinations.

The other superintends the in-door business, and makes himself very useful, in a quiet sort of way, in keeping things straight—no unimportant position in a business house, let me assure you.

As for Caroline—Mrs. Hepworth Closs—you may see her, any fine day, dashing faster than the law allows, along the avenues of Central Park, holding a pair of white ponies well in hand, while she chats and laughs with her husband, glorying in him, and exulting in the freedom which she gained in losing a grand title and estate.

THE END.



MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS' WORKS.

Each Work is complete in one volume, 12mo.

THE OLD COUNTESS; OR, THE TWO PROPOSALS. LORD HOPE'S CHOICE. THE REIGNING BELLE. A NOBLE WOMAN. MARRIED IN HASTE. WIVES AND WIDOWS; OR, THE BROKEN LIFE. THE REJECTED WIFE. THE GOLD BRICK. THE CURSE OF GOLD. THE HEIRESS. FASHION AND FAMINE. PALACES AND PRISONS. THE OLD HOMESTEAD. SILENT STRUGGLES. MARY DERWENT. THE WIFE'S SECRET. THE SOLDIER'S ORPHANS. RUBY GRAY'S STRATEGY. MABEL'S MISTAKE. DOUBLY FALSE.

Price of each, $1.75 in Cloth; or $1.50 in Paper Cover.

Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or all of the above books will be sent to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, on receipt of their price by the Publishers,

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.

THE END