THE COUNTESS OF HURSTMONCEUX.
The beauteous woe that charms like faded light,
The cheek so pure that knows no youthful bloom,
Well suiteth her dark brow and forehead white,
And in the sad endurance of her eye
Is all that love believes of woman's majesty.
--_Elliott_.
In the meantime Lady Vincent reached Banff. She drove at once to the
principal hotel, where she engaged a room into which her luggage was
carried. With a gratuity to the coachman who had driven her she
dismissed the carriage, which returned immediately to the castle.
Then she ordered a fly and drove to the police station--at that time
a mean little stone edifice, exceedingly repulsive without and
excessively filthy within.
A crowd of disreputable-looking ragamuffins of both sexes and all
ages obstructed the entrance. Surely it was a revolting scene to one
of Lady Vincent's fastidious nature and refined habits. But she did
not shrink from her duty. She made her way through this disgusting
assemblage, and found just within the door a policeman, to whom she
said:
"I wish, if you please, to see your inspector."
"You will have to wait in the outer room, then, miss, because he is
engaged now," replied the man curtly; for the beauty of the woman,
the costliness of her apparel, and the fact of her having come
unattended to a place like that, filled the mind of the officer with
evil suspicions concerning her.
He opened a door on the left and let the visitor pass into the
anteroom--a wretched stone hall, whose floor was carpeted with dirt
and whose windows were curtained with cobwebs. A bench ran along the
wall at one end, on which sat several forlorn, stupefied, or
desperate-looking individuals waiting their turn to be examined. Two
or three policemen, walking up and down, kept these persons in
custody.
Claudia could not sit down among them; she walked to one of the
windows and looked out.
She waited there some time, while one after another the prisoners
were taken in and examined. Some returned from examination free, and
walked out unattended and wearing satisfied countenances. Others
came back in the custody of policemen and with downcast looks.
It seemed long before the inspector was at leisure to receive her.
At length, however, the policeman she had seen at the door came up
and said:
"Now, miss!"
Claudia arose and followed him to another room--a small, carpeted
office, where Inspector Murray was seated at a desk.
He was a keener observer of character than the policeman had proved
himself to be; and so, despite the suspicious circumstances which
had awakened that worthy's doubts, Inspector Murray recognized in
his visitor a lady of rank. He arose to receive her and handed her a
chair, and then seated himself and respectfully waited for her to
open her business.
Lady Vincent felt so much embarrassed that it was some time before
she spoke. At length, however, she took courage to say:
"My errand here is a very painful one, sir."
The inspector bowed and looked attentive.
"Indeed it is of so strange and distressing a nature that I scarcely
know how to explain it," she said.
"I beg you will feel no hesitation in making your communication,
madam. We are accustomed to receive strange and distressing
complaints."
"Sir," said Claudia, gently preparing the way, "you have not failed,
then, in the course of your professional experience, to observe that
crime is not an inmate of the houses of the impoverished and the
degraded only, but that it may be found in the mansions of the rich
and the palaces of the nobility."
"Without a doubt, madam."
"Then you will be the less shocked when I inform you that the
circumstances which have driven me to seek your aid occurred
recently in Castle Cragg, in the family of Lord Vincent."
"It is not the murder that was lately committed there to which you
allude?" gravely inquired the inspector.
"Oh, no, not that murder; but I greatly fear there has been another
one," replied Claudia, with a shudder.
"Madam!" exclaimed the inspector, in astonishment.
"I fear it is as I have hinted, sir," persisted Claudia.
"But who has been murdered?"
"I suspect that a harmless old female servant, named Katie Mortimer
who became aware of a dangerous secret, has been."
"And--by whom?"
"I fear by a woman called Faustina Dugald and a man named Alick
Frisbie."
Now, it is very difficult to surprise or startle an inspector of
police. But Mr. Murray was really more than surprised or startled.
He was shocked and appalled, as his countenance betrayed when he
dropped his pen and fell back in his chair.
"Madam," he said, "do you know what you are saying?"
"Full well, sir; and I entreat you to receive my statement in detail
and act upon it with promptitude. Your own investigations will
discover how much cause I have for my suspicions," said Claudia
firmly.
The inspector drew some writing paper before him, took up his pen,
and said:
"Proceed, madam, if you please."
Claudia commenced her statement, but was almost immediately
interrupted by the inspector, who said:
"Your name, madam, if you please."
Claudia started and blushed at her own forgetfulness; though, in
truth, it had never occurred to her to introduce herself by name to
an inspector of police. Now, however, she perceived how necessary it
was that her name should attend her statement.
"I am Lady Vincent," she replied.
There was an instantaneous change in the inspector's manner. His
deportment had been respectful from the first, because he had
recognized his visitor as a lady; but his manner was obsequious now
that he heard she was a titled lady.
"I beg your ladyship's pardon," he said. "I had no idea that I was
honored with the presence of Lady Vincent. Pray, my lady, do not
inconvenience yourself in the least by going over these painful
things at the present hour, unless you feel that it is really
necessary. I could wait on your ladyship at your residence and
receive your communication there."
"Sir, I thank you for your courtesy, but I prefer to make my
statement now and here," replied Claudia.
The inspector dipped his pen in ink and looked attentive.
Claudia proceeded with her communication. She related all the
circumstances that had come to her knowledge respecting the
disappearance of Katie, and the inspector took down her words.
Then she mentioned the more recent evanishment of Sally and Jim; but
she alluded to these facts only as collateral circumstances; she
could not believe that the two last named had lost their lives.
When the inspector had taken down the whole of her statement she
arose to go.
The inspector also arose.
"Will you investigate this matter immediately?" she said.
"I will do so to-day, my lady," replied Mr. Murray, bowing
deferentially.
"Can I be of any assistance to you in pursuing your inquiry into
this affair?"
"Not at present, I thank your ladyship," replied the inspector, with
a second bow.
"Then I will bid you good-morning."
"I beg your ladyship's pardon; but would your ladyship deign to
leave your address with me? We might need your ladyship's personal
testimony."
"Certainly," said Claudia. "I shall go to Edinboro' to-day, where I
shall remain at the best hotel, if you know which that is, for a few
days; before I leave I will write and advise you of my destination.
And now there is one important part of my errand that I had nearly
forgotten. It was to ask you to advertise for the missing servants,
and to authorize you to offer a reward of two hundred pounds for any
information that may lead to their recovery."
"I will do it immediately, my lady," replied Inspector Murray, as he
obsequiously attended Lady Vincent to the door and put her into the
fly.
She drove quickly back to her hotel, where she had only time to take
a slight luncheon before starting in the eleven o'clock coach for
Aberdeen, where, after four hours' ride through a wildly picturesque
country, she arrived just in time to take the afternoon train to
Edinboro'. It was the express train, and reached the old city at
seven o'clock that evening.
Among the many hotels whose handbills, pasted on the walls of the
railway station, claimed the attention of travelers, Claudia
selected "MacGruder's," because it was opposite Scott's monument.
She took a cab and drove there. She liked the appearance of the
house, and engaged a comfortable suite of apartments, consisting of
a parlor, bed chamber, and bathroom, and ordered dinner.
Now, by all the rules of tradition, Claudia, ignominiously expelled
from her husband's house, deprived of her servants' attendance, far
from all her friends, alone in a strange hotel in a foreign city,
with a degrading trial threatening her--Claudia, I say, ought to
have been very unhappy. But she was not. She was almost happy.
Her spirits rebounded from their long depression. Her sensations
were those of escape, freedom, independence. She felt like a bird
freed from its cage; a prisoner released from captivity; a soul
delivered from purgatory. Oh, she was so glad--so glad to get away
entirely, to get away forever--from the hold of sin, that Castle
Cragg, where she had been buried alive so long; where she had lived
in torment among lost spirits; where the monotony had been like the
gloom of the grave, and the guilt like the corruption of death!
She had passed through the depths of Hades, and was happy--how
happy!--to rise to the upper air again and see the stars. This,
only, was enough for the present. And she scarcely thought of the
future. Whatever that unknown future might bring her, it would not
bring back Castle Cragg, Lord Vincent, Faustina, or Frisbie.
After she had refreshed herself with a bath and a change of dress,
she went into the parlor, where she found a warm fire, a bright
light, and a neatly laid table.
And whatever you may think of her, she really enjoyed the boiled
salmon, roasted moor-hen, and cabinet custard she had ordered for
dinner. After the service was removed she sat comfortably in her
easy-chair before the fire, and reflected on her future movements.
She liked her quarters in this hotel very much. The rooms were clean
and comfortable; the servants were polite and attentive; the meals
delicately prepared and elegantly served.
And she resolved to remain here for the present; to write to her
father by the first American mail; and while waiting for his answer,
beguile the interval by seeing everything that might prove
interesting in the city and in the surrounding country.
And in a locality so rich in historical monuments as this was, she
was sure of interesting occupation for the month that must intervene
before she could hear from her father in answer to the letter which
she meant to write.
She had brought with her from Castle Cragg all the ready money she
had; it was something more than two hundred pounds; so that there
was nothing to fear from financial embarrassments.
After settling this matter to her satisfaction, Claudia, feeling
very tired, went to bed, and having lost two nights' rest,
immediately fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, that lasted,
unbroken, until morning.
Her first sensation on awakening from this sleep of oblivion to the
consciousness of her altered circumstances was--not humiliation at
her own unmerited dishonor--not dread of the impending, degrading
trial--but pleasure at the recollection that she was free; that she
was away from Castle Cragg; that she would not have to meet Lord
Vincent and Faustina at breakfast; that she would never have to meet
them again.
Ah! only those who have been compelled for months to breathe the
vitiated atmosphere of guilt can appreciate the excess of Claudia's
joy at her deliverance. It was a joy that not even the distressing
circumstances that surrounded her, and the trial that awaited her,
had any power to destroy.
To one who knew her position, without being able to enter into her
feelings, it would have seemed an extravagant, an unnatural, an
insane joy. Perhaps she was a little insane; she had had enough
trouble to derange her reason.
She arose gladly. She had a motive for rising now; formerly, at
Castle Cragg, she had none, because she had nothing to do. Now she
had to order her breakfast, write to her father, and drive round to
see the old city.
She dressed herself quickly and went into the parlor. The windows
were already opened, the fire lighted, and the breakfast table was
laid.
She went to the windows and looked out. The morning was clear and
bright. It seemed to her that even Nature sympathized in her
deliverance. The winter sun shone down brightly upon Scott's
monument, that stood within its inclosure in the middle of the space
before her windows. Yes, she was pleased with her quarters.
She rang the bell and ordered breakfast, which was quickly served.
When she had finished her morning meal and sent the service away,
she got her writing-case from her trunk and sat down to write to her
father and give him a detailed account of her misfortunes.
But she found a difficulty in arranging her thoughts; her mind was
in too excitable a condition to admit of close application. She
commenced, and discarded letter after letter.
Finally, she gave up trying to write for the present. There was time
enough; the foreign mail, as she had ascertained, did not close
until six o'clock in the evening. She thought a drive through the
old city would work off her excitement and tranquilize her nerves.
She rang and ordered a fly, and drove out.
First she went to Holyrood, and soon lost all consciousness of her
own present and individual troubles in dreaming of all those
princes, heroes, and beauties of history who had lived and sinned or
suffered within those old palace walls.
She went into Queen Mary's rooms, and fell into a reverie over that
fatal bed-chamber, which remains to this day in the same condition
in which it was left by the hapless queen about three hundred years
ago. She saw the steep, dark, narrow, secret staircase, with its
opening concealed behind the tapestry, up which the assassins of
Rizzio had crept to their murderous work. She saw the little turret
closet in which the poor queen was at supper with her ladies when
the minstrel was surprised and massacred in her presence.
She went into the great picture gallery, where hung the portraits of
the Scottish kings--each mother's royal son painted with a large
curled proboscis--"a nose like a door-knocker," as someone described
it. With one exception--that of James IV., the hapless hero of
Flodden field. It was a full-length portrait, life-sized, and full
of fire. Claudia stood and gazed upon it with delight. She was
charmed by its beauty and by the lines that it brought distinctly to
her recollection. Whether this was really a faithful portrait of
King James or not, it certainly was an accurate likeness of the hero
described by the poet:
"The monarch's form was middle size;
For feat of strength or exercise
Shaped in proportion fair;
And hazel was his eagle eye,
And auburn of the darkest dye
His short curled beard and hair.
Light was his footstep in the dance
And firm his stirrup in the lists;
And oh! he had that merry glance
That seldom lady's heart resists."
Yes, there he stood before her, pictured to the very life; all
luminous with youth and love, chivalry and royalty; bending
graciously from the canvas, smiling upon the spectator, and seeming
about to step forward and take her hand.
Claudia turned away from this picture, feeling at the same moment
both pleased and saddened. She had spent three hours dreaming
amongst the ancient halls and bowers of Holyrood, and now she felt
that it was time for her to return to the hotel, especially as the
palace was beginning to be filled with the usual daily inflowing of
sight-seers, and she felt somewhat fatigued and worried by the
crowd.
So she went out and re-entered her cab, and was driven back to the
hotel. Here an unexpected misfortune awaited her. As she left the
cab she put her hand in her pocket to take out her purse and pay the
cabman.
It was gone!
She turned sick with apprehension, for the loss of this purse, which
contained all the money which she had brought with her, was, under
the circumstances, a serious calamity.
She hurried again into the cab and searched it thoroughly; but no
purse was to be found.
Then the truth burst upon her; she had been robbed of it by someone
in the crowd of visitors in Holyrood Palace; her pocket had probably
been picked while she stood in the picture gallery dreaming before
the portrait of King James. How she reproached herself for her
carelessness in taking so considerable an amount of money with her.
She was excessively agitated; but she managed to control herself
sufficiently to speak calmly to the waiter, and say:
"Be good enough to pay this man and put the item in my bill"
The waiter obeyed and discharged the cab; for, of course, the name
of Lady Vincent was as yet a passport to credit. Then she hurried to
her room in a state of great agitation that nearly deprived her of
all power to think or act. She rang the bell, which brought a waiter
to her presence.
"I would like to see the landlord of this hotel," she said.
"I beg your pardon, my lady, but the proprietor lives out of town,"
returned the man.
"Then send the clerk of the house, or the head waiter, or whoever is
in charge here."
"I will send the clerk, my lady," said the waiter, retiring.
The clerk soon made his appearance.
"Sir," said Claudia, "I sent for you to say, that while I was seeing
Holyrood Palace, this forenoon, my pocket was picked of my purse,
which contained a considerable amount of money; and I wish to ask
you what steps I should take for its recovery?"
"Have you any idea of the sort of person that robbed you, my lady?"
"Not the slightest; all I know is that I had the purse with me when
I paid the guide on entering the palace, and then I missed it when I
reached home; and all I suspect is that it was purloined from me
while I was in the picture gallery, standing before the portrait of
James IV."
"In what form was the money, my lady?"
"Five and ten pound Bank of England notes."
"Were the numbers taken?"
"Oh, no; I never thought of taking the numbers."
"Then, my lady, I very much fear that it will be difficult or
impossible to recover the money. However, I will send for a
detective, and we will make an effort."
"Do, sir, if you please."
The clerk retired.
In a few moments Detective Ogilvie waited on Lady Vincent, and
received her statement in regard to the robbery, promised to take
prompt measures for the discovery of the thief, and retired.
Then suddenly Claudia remembered her letter to her father It was now
near the close of the short winter day. Her interview with the
detective had occupied her so long that she had barely time to
scribble and send off the few urgent lines with which the reader is
already acquainted. Then she dined and resigned herself to repose
for the remainder of the evening.
While she sat in her easy-chair luxuriating in indolence and
solitude before the glowing fire, the thought suddenly occurred to
her that she was not really so badly off as the loss of her purse
had first led her to suppose. She recollected that she had several
costly rings upon her fingers; diamonds, rubies, and emeralds--the
least valuable of which was worth more than the purse of money which
had been stolen from her; and if she should be driven to extremity
she could part with one of these rings; but then, on calm
consideration of the subject, she had really no fears of being
driven to extremity. She was Lady Vincent, and her credit was as yet
intact before the world. This was a first-class hotel, and would
supply her with all that she might require for the month that must
intervene before her father's arrival.
She would spend this interval in seeing Edinboro' and its environs,
and when her father should come she would persuade him to take her
to the Continent, and afterwards carry her back to her native
country, and to her childhood's home, to pass the remainder of her
life in peace and quietness.
Dreaming over this humble prospect for the future, Claudia retired
to bed, and slept well.
The next morning, as soon as she had breakfasted, she ordered a
carriage from the stables connected with the hotel and drove to
Edinboro' Castle, where she spent two or three hours among its royal
halls and bowers, dreaming over the monuments of the past.
She lingered in the little cell-like stone chamber where Queen Mary
had given birth to her son, afterwards James VI. She read the
pathetic prayer carved on the stone tablet above the bedstead, and
said to have been composed by the unhappy queen in behalf of her
newborn infant.
In the great hall of the castle she paused long before a beautiful
portrait of Mary Stuart, that was brought from Paris, where it had
been painted, and which represented the young queen in her earliest
womanhood, when she was the Dauphiness of France. And Claudia
thought that this portrait was the only one, among all that she had
ever seen of Mary Stuart, which came up to her ideal of that royal
beauty, who was even more a queen of hearts than of kingdoms.
At length, weary of sight-seeing, she re-entered her carriage and
returned home. While she was in her bedchamber taking off her
bonnet, a card was brought to her.
"This must be a mistake--this cannot be for me; I have no
acquaintances in the town," she said, without taking the trouble to
glance at the card.
"I beg your ladyship's pardon, but the countess inquired
particularly for Lady Vincent," replied the waiter who had brought
the card.
"The countess?" repeated Claudia, and she took it up and read the
lightly penciled name:
"Berenice, Countess of Hurstmonceux."
"Say to Lady Hurstmonceux that I will be with her in a few minutes,"
said Claudia.
"'Berenice, Countess of Hurstmonceux,'" she repeated when the man
had retired; "that is the widow of the late earl, and the forsaken
wife of Herman Brudenell. What on earth brings her here? And how did
she know of my presence in the city, and even in this house?
However, I shall know soon, I suppose."
And so saying, Claudia made a few changes in her toilet, and went
into the parlor.
Standing, looking from the window, was a lady dressed in a black
velvet bonnet and plumes, a black silk gown, and a large sable cloak
and muff.
As Claudia entered, this lady turned around and lifted her veil,
revealing a beautiful, pale face, with large, deep-fringed, mournful
dark eyes, and soft, rippling, jet-black hair. At the first glance
Claudia was touched by the pensive beauty of that lovely face.
Yes! at the age of forty-five the Countess of Hurstmonceux was still
beautiful. She had passed a serene life, free alike from carking
cares and fashionable excesses, and so her beauty had been well
preserved. It would have taken a keen observer to have detected the
few wrinkles that had gathered in the corners of her fine eyes and
plump lips, or to have found out the still fewer silver threads that
lay hidden here and there among her dark tresses.
Claudia advanced to greet her, holding out her hand, and saying:
"The Countess of Hurstmonceux, I presume?"
"Yes," replied the visitor, with a sweet smile.
"I am Lady Vincent; and very happy to see you. Pray be seated," said
Claudia, drawing forward a chair for her visitor.
"My dear Lady Vincent, I only learned this morning of your arrival
in town, and presuming upon my slight connection with the family of
the present Earl of Hurstmonceux, I have ventured to call on you and
claim a sort of relationship," said Berenice kindly.
"Your ladyship is very good, and I am very glad to see you," said
Claudia cordially. Then suddenly recollecting her own cruel
position, and feeling too proud as well as too honest to appear
under false colors, she blushed, and said:
"I cannot think how your ladyship could know that I was here; but I
am sure that when you did me this honor of calling, you did not know
the circumstances under which I left Castle Cragg."
A tide of crimson swept over the pale face of Berenice; it arose for
Claudia, not for herself, and she replied:
"My dear, wronged lady, I know it all."
"You know all--all that they allege against me, and you call me
wronged?" exclaimed Claudia, in pleased surprise.
"I know all that they allege against you, and I believe you to be
wronged. Therefore, my dear, I have come to-day to offer you all the
service in my power," said Berenice sweetly.
Claudia suddenly caught her hand and clasped it fervently.
"And now, my dear Lady Vincent, will you permit me to explain myself
and inform you how I became acquainted with the circumstances of
your departure from Castle Cragg, and your arrival at this house?"
inquired Berenice.
"Oh, do! do!" replied Claudia.
"You must know, then, that a few of my old domestics, who served the
late earl and myself while we lived at Castle Cragg, still remain
there in the service of the present earl's family, which is always
represented at the castle by Lord Vincent. Among them there are two
who, it appears, became very much attached to your ladyship. I
allude to the housekeeper, Jean Murdock, and the major-domo,
Cuthbert Allan."
"Yes, they were very kind; but, after all, it was old Cuthbert who
sent that note to Lord Vincent, which brought him from the play at
midnight to burst into my room and find his wretched valet hidden
there," replied Claudia gravely.
"Yes; Cuthbert saw the valet steal into your room and sent word to
his master, as in duty bound. But, after witnessing the scene of his
discovery, Cuthbert's mind instantly cleared your ladyship of
suspicion and rushed to the conclusion that the miserable valet
concealed himself in your boudoir unknown to you and for the purpose
of robbery. I, for my part, believe he was placed there with the
connivance of Lord Vincent, and that old Cuthbert was made to play a
blind part in that conspiracy."
"I knew, of course, that it was a conspiracy, but really wondered to
find the honest old man in it."
"He was a blind tool in their hands. But I was about to tell you how
the facts of your departure from the castle and your arrival in this
hotel came to my knowledge. In brief, I received a letter from old
Cuthbert this morning, in which he related the whole history of the
affair, as it was known to him. He expressed great sorrow for the
part he had been obliged to bear in the business, and the most
respectful sympathy for your ladyship. He said his 'heart was sair
for the bonnie leddy sae far frae a' her friends and living her lane
in Edinboro' toun.' And he begged me to find you out and protect
you. To this letter was added a postscript by Jean Murdock. It was a
warm, humble, respectful encomium upon your ladyship, in which she
joined her prayers to those of Cuthbert that I would seek you out
and succor you."
As Berenice spoke, blushes dyed the cheeks of Claudia, and tears
dropped from her eyes. She was softened by the kindness of those two
old people, and their patronage humiliated her.
Something of the nature of her emotions the countess must have
divined, for she took the hand of Claudia and said:
"Believe me, dear Lady Vincent, I did not need urging to come to
you. I needed only to know that you were in town and alone. As soon
as I read the letters I sent for the morning paper to look for the
arrivals at the various hotels, to see if I could find your name
among them. I could not, and so I was about to lay aside the paper
and send for the one of the day before, when my eye happened to
light on a paragraph in which I found your name. It was the robbery
of your purse at Holyrood Palace. There I learned your address. And
I came away here immediately."
Claudia's fingers tightened on the hand of the countess which she
still retained in hers.
"How much I thank you, Lady Hurstmonceux, you can never know;
because you have never felt what it is to be a stranger in a foreign
country, with your fame traduced and not one friend to stand by your
side and sustain you," she said.
Again that crimson tide swept over the pale face of Berenice; but
this time it was for herself, and she answered:
"Oh, yes, yes! I have known just that. Ten years in a foreign
country, forsaken, shunned, traduced, without one friend to speak
comfort to an almost breaking heart--It is past. I have overlived
it. The God of my fathers has sustained me. Let us speak no more of
it." And crimson as she had been for a moment she was as pale as
marble now.
Claudia laid her hand caressingly upon the shoulder of Berenice and
looked in her face with that mute sympathy which is more effective
than eloquent words. Something, indeed, she had heard of this
before, but the rumor had left no impression on her mind; though she
blamed herself now for the momentary forgetfulness.
"Let us speak of yourself and your plans for the future," said the
countess.
"My plans are simple enough. I have written to my father. I shall
remain here until his arrival," said Claudia.
There was a pause between them for a few minutes, during which the
countess seemed in deep thought, and then this still beautiful
woman, smiling, said:
"I am old enough to be your mother, Lady Vincent, and in the absence
of your father, I hope you will trust yourself to my guardianship.
It is not well, under present circumstances, that you should remain
alone at a public hotel. Come with me and be my guest at Cameron
Court. It is a pretty place, near Roslyn Castle, and despite all the
evil in the hearts of men, I think I can make your visit there
pleasant and interesting."
Claudia burst into tears; the proud Claudia was softened, almost
humbled by this unexpected kindness.
"God bless you!" was all that she could say. "I will gladly go."
"I am your mother, in the meantime, Claudia, you know," said Lady
Hurstmonceux, touching the bell.
"You are my guardian angel!" sobbed Claudia.
"Lady Vincent's bill, if you please," said the countess to the
waiter who answered the bell, and who immediately bowed and
disappeared.
But Claudia grasped the arm of the countess and exclaimed in alarm:
"I had forgotten. I cannot leave the hotel yet, because I cannot pay
the bill. My lost purse contained all the money that I brought from
Castle Cragg." "What of that? I am your mother, Claudia, until you
hear from your father; and your banker until you recover your money.
Now, my dear, go put on your bonnet, while I settle with the waiter.
My carriage is at the door, and we will go at once. I will send my
own maid in a fly to pack up your effects and bring them after us."
"How much my father will thank and bless you!" said Claudia, as she
left the room to prepare herself.
Lady Hurstmonceux paid the bill, and left half a sovereign in the
hands of the chambermaid, bidding her take care of Lady Vincent's
effects until they should be sent for.
And when Claudia came out, equipped for her ride, they went below
stairs.
A handsome brougham, painted dark green, drawn by fine gray horses,
with silver mountings on their harness and with a coachman and
footman in gray-and-green livery stood before the door.
And the countess and her protegee entered it and were driven towards
the Cameron Court.