THE WIFE AND THE DAUGHTER.
Lady Hope was in her own room when Clara came in, pale and breathless,
with news of her father's return. A cry broke from the woman, so
thrilling in its exquisite joy, that it won Clara even from a
remembrance of the harshness with which her lover had been received. In
the birth of her own love, she found intense sympathy for the intense
passion that seemed to consume her stepmother like a living fire.
"Oh! mamma Rachael, do you love him so much, and is this love nothing
but a torment?" she said, kneeling down at the woman's feet, and trying
to draw that wild face down to hers. "He is so cruel, so cruel, I almost
hate him."
Lady Hope pushed the girl from her.
"What? Hate him?"
"Then why don't he love you more?"
"He does love me; how dare you question it?"
The words were harsh, but Rachael's voice faltered in uttering them, and
the gloom of a hidden doubt broke into those great black eyes. Clara
saw the look, and her heart ached with sympathy.
"Then why does he stay from us so long?"
"Ah, why!" answered Rachael, and the two plaintive words sank deep into
that young heart.
"And why does he treat Hepworth, your own brother, so cruelly?"
"Has he done that? Oh, no, no!"
"Yes, mamma Rachael. We both love him _so_ much; but he is very hard
with us just now. I thought he would love Hepworth for your sake."
"Ah! I thought so too. It was my last dream."
"And my first," said Clara, with girlish tears in her eyes. "He was very
angry--they were both angry. I think he meant to insult Hepworth and
drive him away, knowing how proud he is, and he will do it. Oh, mamma
Rachael, I am so miserable!"
"Miserable!" cried Rachael, looking gloomily into that fair young face.
"Poor child! you have no idea what misery is. God forbid that you ever
should!"
"Is not this misery? Papa against me, Hepworth looking so proud and
stormy. You. Oh! mamma, I feel for you so much. Indeed, you look more
unhappy than I am; but it is hard."
"Hush, dear! That is your father's voice."
"Yes, how low and cutting. I cannot stand it. He is coming this way. I
will go to my room."
For the first time in her life, Lady Clara shrank from meeting her
father.
"Do not leave me yet," said Rachael, passing swiftly toward the window.
"They are together still. I cannot see their faces, but they both stand
up sternly in the moonlight. What can they be saying?"
"Something harsh, I know. Lord Hope, when he came up so still and
stern, did not seem like my father. His face looked like marble. He
would not kiss me, and--and put me aside, when I offered, as if I had
done something terribly wrong, in just getting naturally in love with
the most splendid fellow that ever lived. I should think he might
remember when he fell so desperately in love with you himself, and have
some mercy on a poor little girl." Here Clara seemed to catch a restless
infection from Rachael, and joined her in a quick, unequal walk up and
down the room, pausing now and then to dash the tears from her eyes, or
gaze in wonder at Lady Hope's face, which bore an expression she had
never seen in all its gloominess till then.
All at once Rachael paused in her walk, and taking Clara in her arms,
looked at her with such earnest tenderness, that the girl hushed her
sobs to listen.
"My darling, do you love him so much?"
"Better than my father; better than you. Oh! forgive me, but it is
so--better than my own life. I think it is worship, not love, dearest
mamma."
"Great heavens! what trouble I have brought upon us all! Oh why, why did
he come here!" cried Rachael, beginning to pace the floor again,
clasping her hands and tearing them apart, as if angry with herself.
"They were such friends once, and loved each other like brothers. How
could I think it would turn out like this? I so needed him--this one
brother; had such hope in his influence, but it is all over."
"What is all over? You will not permit it? You will not let him be sent
away?"
"How can I help it? What power or influence is left to me?" answered
Rachael, desperately.
"Oh, mamma Rachael, will you fail me? You!"
"Hush! he is coming. I hear his step on the terrace."
How that dusky face lighted up. That woman trembled all over under the
sound of that man's tread. He was coming to her, there in the room, in
which they had once been so happy; coming to her, perhaps in anger. That
was nothing. Anger itself would be Heaven, compared to the cold
politeness that had sometimes almost frozen her to death. She turned to
Clara.
"Go, my child. I will see your father alone."
Clara went to her room. Through the window which looked out upon the
lawn, she saw Hepworth Closs come out from the shadow of the cedar, and
walk swiftly toward the avenue. By the proud lift of his head, and those
quick steps, that seemed to spurn the earth he trod upon, she knew that
he had parted from her father in anger, and threw up the window.
"Hepworth! Hepworth! Stop! Stop! and tell me where you are going!"
He did not hear her, the storm in his heart was too violent. He had been
driven forth from his sister's roof with a cool politeness that was
insulting. The commonest courtesies of life had been denied to him, by
the man who had once been his friend. He scarcely thought of Clara,
then, a sense of burning indignation swept everything else from his
mind.
Clara leaned from the window, trembling with sudden apprehension. Was he
really going? Had her father treated him with indignity? Was he giving
her up without a struggle or a word of farewell?
While she asked herself these questions, Closs disappeared among the
trees in the park, and was swallowed up in the black shadows.
"He shall not go!" cried the girl, in wild excitement. "He shall not be
driven away by papa, or any one else! Where is my jacket? What has that
girl done with my hat? Ah! here, and here!"
She huddled the shawl around her, tossed the little sailor's hat to her
head, and, opening the chamber door so swiftly that it made no noise,
darted down stairs, and, avoiding the principal entrance, reached the
lawn by leaping from one of the drawing-room windows, where she paused a
moment to draw breath. But no time was to be lost. At the rate Hepworth
was walking, he must now be well on his way to the lodge. The avenue
swept away from the house in a grand curve. She knew of a path through
the trees which would lead her straight to old Badger's lodge. It was
shadowy and lonesome, but what did she care for that? No deer ever
bounded down that path more lightly than Clara went. She did not stop to
think of propriety, or of her own object. Her heart told her that
Hepworth had been driven from the house, perhaps thinking that she would
sanction the outrage; for it was an outrage, even if her own father had
done it. He should not go away, believing it possible for her to prove
so base.
On she went, eager, breathless, with the streamers floating out from her
hat, and her white sacque flying open, fairly racing through the
moonlight, like a frightened fairy.
As she came in sight of the lodge, the clang of an iron gate falling
into position, brought a cry of dismay from her lips. He had reached the
highway. Dared she follow him there?
Clara came out into the avenue, panting for breath. She could hear his
quick steps upon the road. How terribly fast he was walking toward the
village. Yes, he was surely going that way.
Old Badger stood in the lodge door, shaded by a trailing drapery of ivy,
and saw the young lady standing there in the moonlight, wringing her
hands and absolutely crying. In his astonishment he addressed Jules
confidentially, as she lay on the stepping stone at his feet.
"It is the young lady as sure as you live, old girl, and she's a
following that handsome fellow as just left a golden sovereign in my
hand, Jules. Something has happened up yonder, Jules. The master has
come back and found out what you and I knew all the time. If that
handsome brother of my lady hasn't got a ticket-of-leave, I lose my
guess; but what are we to do with the young lady, old girl? That is what
is a puzzling me just now."
Jules arose, stretched herself, and threw out one paw as she settled
down again, when Badger broke out in a glow of admiration.
"Right, Jules. In a matter where the sects are concerned, you are true
as a clock. I'll show myself; I'll help her."
Jules gave a faint yelp, which brought Clara to the door.
"Oh, Badger, you here! Go and call him back. Here is some money; run
like a deer; tell him I want to speak with him--must speak with him.
It's about Lady Hope; but no matter. Why don't you start, Badger? It's
half an hour since I first told you."
But Badger did not start. He stood a little way from the door, examining
the money she had given him, by the moonlight, and muttering to himself;
when the impatient girl broke out again.
"A shilling! Was it only a shilling I gave you? How provoking! I thought
it was gold. Well, start! start! and I'll make it a sovereign--two,
three--only bring him back!"
Old Badger went off with a rush now. Ordering Jules to stay with the
young mistress and mind the gate, he made swift progress down the road.
"I say, sir! I say! Halloo! I say!"
Hepworth checked his rapid walk, and looked back. Badger came up with a
run, feeling that some extra exertion was necessary, when so much gold
lay in the question.
"There is a person--well, a lady--a young lady--who wishes to have you
turn back, sir. She is waiting at the lodge, sir; and I promised to
bring you back, dead or alive, sir--dead or alive!"
Hepworth felt his heart give a great leap. Was it possible that Clara
could have followed him? or was it Lady Hope?
"A lady!" he said, "and at the lodge?"
"A young lady--such as isn't commonly seen following young gents by
moonlight; but come, sir, she is waiting."
Hepworth turned at once, and retraced his steps. Clara saw him
approaching the gate, and swinging it back, ran to meet him, with tears
still quivering on her anxious face.
She passed Badger, who was resolved to earn his money at least by
discretion, and moved in great haste toward the lodge, never once
looking back, as in honor bound, he told Jules in his next confidential
conversation.
"Oh, Hepworth, how cruel! how wicked! Tell me truly, were you going
without a word?"
Clara had clasped both hands over her lover's arm, and was slowly
leading him back, with her face uplifted in sweet reproachfulness to
his, and drawing deep, long sighs of thanksgiving that she had him
there, chained by her linked hands.
"I do not know. How can I tell? Your father has dismissed me from his
house."
"He has? I thought as much; and thinking so, came after you--but only to
say that I love you dearly--ten times more since this has happened--and
nothing on earth shall ever make me marry any other person."
Hepworth looked down into that generous face, and his own took a softer
expression in the moonlight.
"Your father is against us," he said. "I think it must be open defiance,
or separation--at any rate, for a time."
Clara's face clouded. She loved her father, and was a little afraid of
him as well; but that was nothing to the passionate attachment she felt
for Hepworth Closs. She would have defied the whole world rather than
give him up; but open disobedience was a terrible thing to her. All at
once she brightened.
"Some day, you know, I shall be my own mistress. We can wait. I am so
young. When I am Countess of Carset, come and claim me. No one can stand
between us then."
She spoke firmly, and with the dignity of deep feeling, standing upright
and looking bravely into his face, as if she were a peeress already, and
was ready to pledge all the honor of a long race of ancestors for the
faith that was in her.
"Ah, if you were only the bright, handsome girl you seem, with no
dignity to keep up, no belongings but your own sweet self, how grateful
I should be! From this night, Clara, we would never part."
"Oh, if it were! If I hadn't anything to expect! But, no! My old
grandmother will be sure to leave me everything she has, just out of
spite, when all I want on earth is my liberty, and the love that belongs
to me. How I should like to--"
"To what, Clara?"
"Nothing--only I was thinking how jolly it would be just to tie on my
hat, button my jacket, and go off with you to America, where people
can't die and leave you titles and things; but it is of no use thinking
of such a thing. It would break mamma Rachael's heart; and she needs me
so much."
Hepworth caught his breath. The thought had been in his mind. But for
his sister, I think he would have proposed it.
"Do not tempt me, darling. We cannot abandon her."
"Oh, no," answered Clara, pouting a little, "I didn't mean anything of
the kind. Of course, we have got to part now; I know that."
She clung to his arm more closely, and made him walk slower. Both their
faces grew pale and sad in the moonlight. She could not speak because of
the sobs that came swelling into her throat. He was silent from a bitter
sense of bereavement. After those few weeks of entire happiness, was he
to be driven into the cold world again, leaving the angel of his
paradise behind?
They were drawing near the gate now. Hepworth would not pass into the
boundaries of a man who had wounded him so grievously, so he paused by
the park-wall, snatched her to his bosom, kissed her lips, her eyes, her
hair, blessing her with his soul, promising to find her again, to be
faithful, begging her to love him and no one else, until he broke away
from her and fled down the highway, dashing the tears from his eyes as
he went.
She called after him. She ran a few paces with her arms extended,
entreating him to come back; but he would not hear. All his brave
manhood had been taxed to its utmost. He knew well enough that to go
back was to take the girl with him, and he was not selfish enough for
that.
So poor Lady Clara watched him, till he passed quite away into the
shadows, with her back against the wall, and her hands hanging down
loose, as they had fallen after her last cry. Then she crept slowly back
through the gate, which Badger had left open, and away into the depths
of the park, crying as if her heart would break.
Badger saw her through the diamond-shaped panes of the lodge-window, and
muttered:
"Poor thing, she has forgot the gold; but never mind, it will come."