THE OLD COUNTESS.
When the old countess of Carset threw out her flag from the battlements
of Houghton castle, it could be seen from all the country around, for
the grim old pile was built upon the uplands, and the gray towers rose
up from the groves of the park like the peaks of a mountain.
For many a long year that broad flag had streamed like a meteor over the
intense greenness of oaks and chestnuts; for, when the head of the house
was at home, the crimson pennant was always to be seen floating against
the sky, and over that sea of billowy foliage. The old lady of Houghton
had not been absent from the castle in many years, for she was a
childless woman, and so aged, that a home among her own people was most
befitting her infirmities and her pride.
One day, as the sun was going down behind those massive castle towers,
filling the sky so richly with gold and crimson, that the red flag was
lost among its fiery billows, an old woman stood on the highway, with a
hand uplifted to shade her eyes, as she searched for the old flag.
There was dust upon her leathern shoes and on the black folds of her
alpaca dress, for she had walked from the railway station, and the roads
were dry.
"Ah, how the trees have grown!" she said, mournfully, dropping her hand.
"I never, never thought to be so near Houghton and not see the flag. Is
my lady dead?"
The old woman was so distressed by the thought, that she sat down on a
bank by the wayside, and over her came that dry, hard foreboding, which
forbids tears to old eyes, but holds the worn heart like a vise. Thus,
with her eyes fixed on the dusty road, she sat till all those bright
clouds melted into the coming night; then she looked up and saw the
great red flag streaming out against a sea of purplish gray, as it had
done when she was a girl, seventy years ago.
"My lady is alive. She is there. Oh! my God! make me thankful!" she
exclaimed, standing up in the road. "Through all, I shall see her
again."
So she moved on, carrying a leathern travelling bag, worn and rusty, in
her feeble hand. Along the highway, up to the gates of that noble park,
she travelled with the slow, toilsome step of old age; but when she came
to the gates they were closed, and her voice was so feeble that it
failed to reach the lodge, from which she could see lights gleaming
through the twinkling ivy leaves.
In patient disappointment the old woman turned from the gate, and walked
on half a mile farther, for she knew of a small public house where a
night's lodging could be obtained. She reached this low stone building
after dark, and entered it quietly, like a gray ghost.
It was a strange guest to enter that tap-room, with her dusty garments
and her old satchel. The villagers, who were taking their beer
comfortably, lifted their eyes in astonishment at her sudden appearance,
and they rounded with wonder, as she passed through the room and entered
the kitchen naturally, as if she had belonged to the premises all her
life.
No one in the house remembered the old woman. A curly-headed girl named
Susan, had flitted like a bird about that kitchen the last time she had
entered it, and now, when a man's voice called out "Susan!" she started
and looked around in a dazed way, expecting the bright eyed girl would
come dancing through the door. But instead appeared an elderly woman,
with quantities of coarse black hair, smoothed under her cap. A linen
apron, large and ample, protected her stuff dress, and a steel
chatelaine, to which were suspended scissors, a needle case and tiny
money box rattled at her side.
"Well, what is to do now, Stephen?" said the landlady, brushing some
crumbs from her apron, for she had been cutting bread.
"Not much, only look sharp. Here is an old body just come off the tramp.
Ah, there she sits. See to her while I mind the bar, for she seems a
little above the common, and is quiet."
The landlord sank his voice as he made the communication, and, after a
glance at the old woman, went back to his guests, while the matron
addressed Mrs. Yates.
"Ye will be wanting something, no doubt. Will it be tea or a cup of ale
posset?"
The old heart in that bosom stirred with a tender recollection of long
ago, as this almost forgotten dish was mentioned, a dish so purely
English, that she had never once heard it mentioned in her American
life.
"I will thank you for a posset," she said, taking off her bonnet and
smoothing her milk-white hair with both hands. "It is long since I have
tasted one."
"Yes," answered the landlady, "there is more refreshment in a cup of
warm posset, than in quarts of tea from China. Wait a bit and you shall
have one of my own making; the maids never will learn how to curdle the
milk properly, but I am a rare hand at it, as was my mother before me."
"Aye, a good housewife was your mother," said the old woman, as tender
recollections stirred in her bosom, "for now I see that it is little
Susan."
"Little Susan, and you know of her? That was what they used to call me
when I was a lass, so high."
"But now, what is the name you go by?"
"What name should a woman go by but that of her own husband? You have
just seen the master. The neighbors call him Stephen Burke."
"What, the son of James Burke, gamekeeper at the castle?"
"Why, did you know him, too?"
"Aye, that did I. A brave young fellow he was, and every one at the
castle up yonder--"
The old woman checked herself. She had not intended to make herself
known, but old recollections had thronged upon her so warmly, that it
seemed impossible to keep silent.
"You speak of the castle as if you knew about it," said the landlady,
eyeing her askance.
"And no wonder," answered the old woman; "people have told me about it,
and I was in the neighborhood years ago, when you were a slip of a
lass."
It was strange, but this old woman, since her entrance to that room, had
fallen back upon phrases and words familiar to her lips once, but which
had not made any part of her speech for years. There was a home sound in
them that warmed her heart.
"Did ye ever know any of them up yonder?" asked the landlady, as she
placed a broad porringer before the fire, and poured some milk into it.
"Yes. I have seen the countess, but it was long ago."
"May-be it was when the young lady was at home. Oh! them were blithe
times, when young Lord Hope came a courting, and we could see them
driving like turtle doves through the park and down the village; or,
walking along by the hedges and gathering hyacinths and violets. It was
a sorry time, though, when he took her away for good and all."
"Is the young lady living near this?" inquired Mrs. Yates, with an
effort.
"Near this, my good woman! Why, she has been dead these many years, and
Lord Hope had been married to his second wife ten years, when my first
lass was born; but he lives at Oakhurst, and never comes here now. No
one, in these parts, has seen his second lady, for the countess was
sadly put out with the marriage, and all her household was forbidden to
mention Lord Hope's name before her. She never got over the death of our
own young lady in foreign parts, off in America among the red Indians,
who tomahawk people, and no one asks why. This was where Lord Hope took
his wife and child. Can any one wonder that our countess could not
forgive him, especially when he came back home with a new wife, and
stood out that his daughter should never come to Houghton, till our old
lady up yonder was ready to be gracious to the new woman."
"So the child was never at the castle?" inquired the old woman.
"No one hereabouts has ever seen her, though we are told that she is a
beautiful young lady, sweet and pleasant, but with a will of her own.
The old countess sent for her once, for she must be heiress of Houghton,
you know; but she sent back word that nothing could entice her into a
house where her stepmother was forbidden to come, and this so offended
our countess, that she has taken no notice of her since."
While she was talking, the landlady poured a measure of frothing ale
into the porringer, and became all at once silent. The delicate art of
curding the milk into whey took up all her attention. Thus the old lady
was allowed to drop into a fit of thought, from which she was aroused,
with a start, when the hostess poured the warm posset into a china bowl
and began stirring it with a heavy silver spoon, as she called out:
"Come to the table, grandame, and sup the posset while it is hot. You'll
not get its fellow till I turn my hand to another for ye. Come, come!"
Mrs. Yates drew her chair to the table, and took up the silver spoon,
eagerly. Poor woman! She had travelled all day without tasting food, and
the posset took her from a very painful train of thought.
The hostess sat down at one end of the table, smiling blandly over the
keen appetite of her guest. With her arms folded on the white cloth, and
her ruddy face bending forward, she went on with her talk. But this
time she turned from the castle, and began to ask questions, for the
presence of this singular old woman in her house had fully aroused her
curiosity.
But the traveller was on her guard now, and escaped these blunt
questions with quiet adroitness. When they became oppressive, she arose
from the table and asked permission to seek her bed, as the day's travel
had left her tired beyond anything.
The hostess took a candle from the table and led the way up stairs,
somewhat baffled, but full of kindly feeling. There was something about
the manner and speech of this old woman that set all her warm-hearted
interest afloat. Who was she? From what part of England had she
travelled with that rusty little bag and those thick-soled shoes? That
quiet manner and gentle voice might have belonged to any lady of the
land.
In the midst of these conjectures the quiet old woman reached out her
hand for the candle, and with a soft "good-night," closed the
chamber-door.