DOWN AMONG THE FERNS AGAIN.
Lady Carset had extended numerous invitations to her old friends, and it
was understood that Lady Hope would represent the head of the house and
do the honors. This compliment was partly in atonement for the wrong
that had been done Rachael Closs, and partly from the infirmities of
extreme old age, which rendered it even dangerous for the old countess
to entertain her guests in person.
For the first time in her life, Lady Hope was in her true element. The
weight of an intolerable restraint had been lifted from her. She was
mistress of one of the most splendid establishments in all England, not
even for a time, for would it not descend unbroken to a step-daughter
who worshipped her? Was not the will which settled this already made,
and she as good as mistress there during her whole life? She had thought
Oakhurst a noble possession, but it dwindled into insignificance when
compared with the splendor of Houghton Castle. Very seldom in the world
had the ambition of an aspiring woman been so suddenly and completely
gratified. It had been all like a dream to her, but now she felt the
reality, with an exultation of spirit that took ten years from her
person, and a weird burden from her heart. This great happiness sprang
out of two grand passions--love and ambition.
The first was gratified in this--Lord Hope was a changed man--a shadow
had been swept from his path--hidden shame had changed to unchecked
pride. The woman he had married, because of an overpowering love, was
now in a position to fascinate society with her beauty, and win its
homage with her genius. They had come out from the shadow and were in
the broad sunshine.
All his old fondness returned; she could tell it by the elasticity of
his step, by the proud uplifting of his head, by the very tones of his
voice.
She had thirsted for greatness, and it was hers. She had pined for the
old love, and it had come back to her. No wonder the carriage of this
woman was lofty, and her voice full of music. No wonder that the rich
coloring of her youth returned, and her eyes took back their velvety
softness.
At this period Rachael Closs was at the pinnacle of her hopes. She could
scarcely understand that this lofty position had not always belonged to
her. To dispense almost regal hospitality came to her as the most
natural thing on earth, and as each day brought some noble guest to the
castle, she received them with more finished grace and a deeper
consciousness of power.
Of course, at this time, Lady Clara was most frequently with her
stepmother, for the old countess would have it so, and Caroline took her
place very frequently in the tower room, where she felt herself to be
more than welcome. Indeed, the old lady seemed almost as fond of her as
she was of the bright, generous heiress. Caroline would not consent to
mingle with the gay crowd which kept up a brilliant carnival all day
long in the park, in the vast drawing-room, everywhere, except in that
one old tower where the countess spent her quiet life. At the grand
festival she had resolved to come forth and do the honors of her own
castle, but until then she contented herself by receiving her guests,
and then pleasantly turning them over to the splendid woman who filled
her place with such consummate ability.
This arrangement threw Caroline almost constantly into the seclusion of
the tower apartments, and it so chanced that she had not once met Lady
Hope, who was, in fact, unconscious of her presence in the castle.
Clara remembered, with some trepidation, the rebuke which had been given
her, regarding her liking for this girl, and, not caring to provoke a
repetition, did not mention the fact of her residence at Houghton. Thus
it chanced that neither Lord Hope or his wife knew of the independent
step their daughter had taken.
Lady Clara had evidently something on her mind one day, for she gave up
a ride to the hunt, a thing she had set her heart upon, and came after
Caroline to take a long walk in the park with her. Caroline went gladly,
for her heart was aching under its broken hopes, and as the excitement
connected with her new home died out, a sense of bereavement and
desolation came back. She was, indeed, very wretched, and Lady Clara saw
it. Perhaps this was the reason she took her protege out for that
pleasant walk in the park.
When the two girls reached that hollow through which the brook ran, and
where the ferns grew, Clara became suddenly conscious that Caroline must
be tired.
Perhaps she was. Caroline, in her listlessness, did not care to ask
herself about it, but sat down on a fragment of rock, as Clara directed
her, and fell to watching the brook with her sad eyes, as it crept
through the ferns and gurgled over the pebbles at her feet.
Meantime Clara had wandered quietly up the hollow, and disappeared in
search of something which grew a little way off, she said. So Caroline
was not to move till she came back, unless she wished to be lost
utterly.
Caroline liked the solitude, and the cool ripple of the brook soothed
her. She was rather sorry when a footstep on the forest turf heralded
the return of her friend; but she looked up with a welcoming smile, and
saw Lord Hilton, her Italian teacher--the man who had told her more than
once that he loved her better than his own life!
She did not cry out, or rise from her hard seat, but sat still, looking
at him in mournful quietness. What was he, what could he ever be, to
her? A nobleman of the realm, and the Olympia's daughter!
He came down the bank and seated himself by her side.
"Caroline, have you no welcome to give me?"
She looked at him with a gleam of excitement in the sadness of her eyes.
"You know who I am, and I, alas! know that you are Lord Hilton," she
said, with a touch of pathetic pride. "How can I welcome you?"
"Have you, then, ceased to love me, Caroline?"
Her pale face flushed, her eyes kindled.
"Is this a question to ask me?"
"Yes--because I have never ceased to love you, and never shall."
"Not when you are certain that I am the daughter of--of--an actress?"
"Not if you were the daughter of fifty actresses, Caroline! I have been
searching for you, in London, everywhere. More than once I inquired at
Olympia's door."
"You!"
"Indeed I did; but she would give me no information."
"She could not. I left no word."
"And now that I have found you, Caroline?"
"My name is Brown, Lord Hilton. I am, in truth, the daughter of that
good man whom you supposed my father."
"And of Olympia?"
"Yes, they were married and--and divorced before she became celebrated
and took the name of Olympia."
Caroline said all this with a feeling of self-torture that took all the
color from her face. The love of Lord Hilton seemed an impossibility to
her, and she gave him the hard truth, under which her heart was
writhing, without a reservation of pride or delicacy.
"It is of very little consequence whose daughter you are," said the
young man, tenderly, "so long as I love you, and am, with God's
blessing, resolved to make you my wife."
"Resolved to make me your wife!"
The words came one by one from her lips, in measured sadness. She knew
the thing to be impossible, and uttered the words as if she had buried
some beloved object, and was mourning over it.
"I repeat it, Caroline. There is no change in my love--no change in my
determination. All that I felt for you in our sweet Italian life lives
with me yet."
Caroline turned her eyes full upon him. An expression of pain broke
through their mournfulness.
"It was impossible!"
That was all she said; but he knew how much agony the words had cost by
the whiteness of her lips.
"But why," he pleaded, "if we love each other, for you love me yet?"
"Yes, I love you!"
Hilton threw his arms around her, and kissed her cold face in a
transport of thankfulness.
"Then, why not? We were betrothed in Italy, when I believed you Mr.
Brown's daughter, as I do now."
"But I did not know that you were an English nobleman, and heir to a
large estate."
"Is that a crime, Caroline? Besides, you need not trouble yourself about
the estate. When I ask you in marriage, that is given up."
She turned to him suddenly, and held out her hands.
"Are you, indeed, ready to give up so much for me?"
"I am ready to give up everything but my honor," was his reply.
"I am only a poor girl, with no honor to hold but my own; but you shall
not find me less generous than you are."
He kissed her hands in passionate gratitude.
"Ah, darling, I knew--I knew that it must end so."
She forced her hands from his clasp.
"You misunderstand me. I love you better than myself! better than my
life! Do believe it! And for that reason we part, now and forever! I
could not live through another hour like this!"
"Caroline!"
"I know it is hard; my own heart is pleading against it. But there is
something which forbids me to listen."
"Caroline, I will not permit this! It is unnatural, cruel!"
"I know it! I know it! Still it is our destiny. Nothing that has been
said, or can be said, will change the fact of your birth and mine. Do
not, I implore you, press this matter farther. It is hard to fight
against my own heart and you. Spare me and let me go!"
Caroline arose and absolutely fled from the man she loved. He did not
attempt to detain her, but walked away slowly, half offended--but more
resolved on making her his wife than ever.