THE FAMILY MEETING AT HOUGHTON.
The train which took Caroline and her party down to Houghton, reached
their destination just as the sun was setting over the glorious old
trees of the park, and trembling in golden brightness in the ivy that
clung to those twin towers.
Scarcely had they left the train, when a basket-carriage came dashing up
to the platform, and a young lady sprang out, tossing her reins to a
dainty little tiger, who sat behind, erect and decorous, knowing himself
to be an object of general attention.
"So you are really here. I am so glad to find you! All right, this
way--jump in; don't be afraid, the ponies are gentle as gentle can be.
Here we are, never mind the others. There is a carriage on the way for
them; but, of course, I got here first; always do. Give me the reins,
Joe--now for it."
The little carriage wheeled around, and Lady Clara looked back, nodding
to Brown, as her ponies took the road in full speed.
"Nice old fellow, isn't he? I am so glad to get him here, for I am going
back on my music terribly."
"Did you know he is my father?" said Caroline, in a gentle voice.
"No!"
"He is, indeed. I never learned it till yesterday; but it does not seem
strange, for no father was ever more gentle or kind than he has been
since the first day I knew him."
"And Olympia--she is your mother, no doubt?"
"Yes; she is my mother."
"All right, we needn't talk of her! it isn't of the least consequence.
You must not speak so sadly. I dare say she is a good enough person; but
you don't know how to manage her. For my part, I rather like her; but
the old gentleman is just lovely! I am glad he _is_ your father; because
he can take care of us so properly, and grandmamma will like it, I know.
I have got you a chamber next to mine. Our dressing-rooms open into each
other, and they are both near grandmamma's apartments. Dear old lady,
she is just the kindest, sweetest, loveliest mite of a woman you ever
saw; like a darling old fairy. Won't you love her?"
They drove along now for some distance in silence; but as they mounted
to the uplands, where Houghton stood, Caroline began to take a lively
interest in the scenery, which was both grand and beautiful in that
region. Away toward the horizon, at the upper end of the valley, was
some large building, whose gray walls and oriel windows were just now
burning in the golden fires of a magnificent sunset.
"What place is that?" said Clara, repeating the question her companion
had asked, "Oh, that is Keath Hall, and may some day belong to Lord
Hilton, a friend of ours."
Caroline felt her breath taken away, she had no power to speak, while
Lady Clara sat smiling pleasantly to herself. The poor girl felt like
springing out of the carriage, and fleeing to the uttermost parts of the
earth, rather than be in the neighborhood with a man who had scorned her
so.
"Lord Hilton is not there now," said Clara, with the innocent quietness
of a kitten; "something has taken him to London or Italy, I believe; but
he is very pleasant, and I like him well enough to be sorry about his
going."
Caroline breathed again; but her face was very sorrowful and her heart
heavy, during the rest of the drive.
The size and splendor of that vast building almost terrified the girl,
who had been brought up in that little cedar cottage. She gave no
indication of this in her manner, but walked by the side of her friend
through that spacious hall, with its bronze statues, suits of armor and
bossed shields, as if no meaner roof had ever sheltered her.
"Come," said Clara, as the young traveller took off her tiny hat, and
began to smooth the hair back from her temples. "I am so impatient to
have grandmamma see you. That will do--that will do. Come, now."
The two girls went out together, Clara leading the way, and directly
stood in the dim light of Lady Carset's chamber.
"Grandmamma, I have brought my friend to pay her respects," said Clara;
"only to pay her respects, for, of course, she is famished; but I felt
how glad you would be, and brought her directly up here."
The old countess arose from her chair, and came forward holding out her
hand. She did, indeed, seem like a fairy godmother, with that soft lace
quivering over her snow-white hair, and those great diamonds blazing on
her tiny hands.
"I am glad to see you, Miss--Miss--"
"Miss Brown, grandmamma."
"Oh, indeed! well, I am very glad to welcome you, Miss Brown. They tell
me you have a fine voice. I should like to hear it some day, when you
are not tired."
"If my voice will give you pleasure, lady, I shall, for the first time
in my life, be grateful for it," said Caroline, so impressed by this
sweet old lady's kindness, that she longed to throw both arms about her.
"What, what? I did not hear distinctly. Oh, it is the voice they tell me
of, which thrills the heart with its sweetness; was not that what you
said of it, Clara? No wonder people like it. I do."
The old lady still held Caroline's hand--her delicate fingers clung to
it, with the loving tenacity of a child. She looked up to the beautiful
face with eager, wistful curiosity; but the light always came dimly into
that chamber, and its rich draperies of lace and brocade threw their
shadows over Caroline; besides, those old eyes were dim with age, or she
might have been troubled that such dangerous beauty should come into her
house in the form of a dependant. As it was, she allowed the two girls
to depart, without dreaming that a more beautiful woman than her
grandchild had almost been put upon a level with her.
Two or three days after this, Lord and Lady Hope arrived at the castle,
and the old countess, for the first time, saw the woman who wore the
coronet which had once belonged to her child. It was beautiful to see
that proud lady--for now you could decide that she had been very
proud--preparing herself to receive this woman, whom she had hated and
wronged so grievously. She stood up in her tower-room when Rachael
entered it, her black satin dress trailing far out upon the floor, the
yellow old lace fastened over her bosom with a cluster of diamonds, and
a handkerchief of delicate lace in her hand.
There was a little more motion of the head than usual, and that was all
the evidence she gave of extraordinary emotion.
Lady Hope came to the door, leaning on the arm of her husband; but, on
the threshold, she abandoned his support, and came forward by his side,
apparently calm and self-possessed; but a proud fire shone in those
black eyes, which would not be quenched.
"I have sent for you, Lady Hope, because I thought that the most open
and honorable way of acknowledging the wrong I have done you, and of
asking your forgiveness."
The old countess folded her arms over her bosom, and bent, in her proud
humility, before that beautiful woman whom she could never, never love.
Rachael Closs forced back the triumph that swelled haughtily in her
bosom, for the old lady's acknowledgment fired her heart like burning
incense; but she bowed her head, as if she had committed the fault, and
turning to her husband, appealed to him:
"I cannot--I have no language in which to say how this kindness
overwhelms me. Pray tell her from this hour I forget that she has not
always thought so kindly of me as I have deserved."
Lord Hope was greatly agitated. The keen eyes of that old lady, as they
turned upon his face, troubled him. His very lips were white as he
attempted to open them, not to utter the elegant speech suggested by his
wife, for his heart seemed to break forth in a single sentence:
"Countess, have the justice to blame me if any wrong has been done to
you or yours. As for this lady, no more devoted mother ever lived than
she has been to your daughter's child!"
A burst of sobs arose from the other side of the room, and Lady Clara
came forward, her face wet with tears, her mouth quivering.
"Indeed, indeed she has! Oh, grandmamma, do _love_ her, because she has
been so good to me and everybody else!"
Lady Carset reached forth her hand gently, and with delicate cordiality;
but there was no yearning of the heart there, such as had marked her
reception of that young girl.
Lady Hope cared very little for this. She had attained the great aim of
her life in this recognition; anything like warmth of affection would
have been as irksome to her as it was impossible to the old countess.
She took the little hand, pressed her lips upon it, and retreated from
the room, keeping her face toward the old lady, as if she were retiring
from the presence of a queen.
The old countess stood up bravely, and bent her delicate person with the
exquisite grace of a lady of the olden time, as her guests disappeared.
The moment they were gone she turned to seek her couch; but her limbs
lost their strength, her feet became entangled in the satin train, and
she would have fallen to the carpet but for Lady Clara, who sprang
forward and held her up.
"Dear me, how you tremble! Oh, grandmamma, don't! I never saw you cry
before. It breaks my heart!"
The poor old lady was trembling in all her limbs, and crying like a
child. It had been a hard cross for her feebleness to take up when she
admitted that man and woman to her presence. It seemed as if her own
dead child had stood between them, and with shadowy arms striven to push
them apart.
"I have done no more than my duty," she said, with a piteous smile. "It
was hard, very hard. Still a Carset must not allow any wrong to go
unatoned for, and about those diamonds I did wrong her."
Clara did not speak. She was frightened by the agitation into which this
scene had thrown the old lady, and only besought her to rest; but
strong, nervous excitement is not so easily pacified. The countess
conquered her tears, but the couch shook under her nervous trembling.
Then Clara ran to her own apartments, and came back to an adjoining room
with Caroline, whose voice had a power of soothing which even excitement
could not resist.
"Begin to sing--something low and sweet," she whispered. "I will leave
the door ajar."
Then Clara stole back to her grandmother, and directly a soft strain of
music stole into the room, almost unnoticed at first, like the perfume
of flowers, but growing into harmonies so full and swelling, that the
whole atmosphere seemed flooded with it.
The old countess listened; the faint breath paused upon her lips, her
eyelids began to quiver, and her little withered hands stole up to her
bosom and rested there in a tremulous clasp.
"It is a heavenly voice. My child is not angry with me. Oh! how sweetly
she tells me so! how sweet--how sweet!"
And so she fell asleep after awhile--all the trembling gone, all the
pain swept from those delicate features. Then Caroline came in and sat
down by Lady Clara, smiling over the gentle work she had done. The old
lady opened her eyes once, and, reaching out her hand to Caroline, who
sat nearest, murmured:
"You are not offended with me, child?"
"She takes you for me," whispered Clara, "and is dreaming, I think. Let
us be very still."
So the two girls sat together, and guarded the gentle slumber into which
the old countess had fallen, with loving solicitude. She seemed to feel
their loving presence even in sleep, for a heavenly smile stole over her
face, and occasionally she whispered as if answering some pleasant voice
that came stealing through her dreams.