DEATH IN THE TOWER-CHAMBER.
The old countess was not dying, but dead. Hannah Yates, who had watched
her faithfully, did not know when the last faint breath left her lips;
but she became conscious of a solemn stillness which settled upon the
room, and bending forward, saw that soft gray shadows had crept over
that gentle face, up to the hair of silky snow, and down to the slender
throat, till it was lost in the purple splendor of that festive robe.
There she lay, tranquil as a sleeping child, with a calm, holy smile
breaking through the shadows, and her little hands meekly folded over
the gossamer lace on her bosom.
Upon a marble table close by lay the jewels she had worn--a glittering
and neglected heap of fire, which gave out more light than the shaded
lamps that threw their beams brightly on them, and shed tender moonlight
on that lovely old face.
The family were slowly gathering in that death-chamber, where Clara and
Caroline were clinging together in bitter grief, and old Mrs. Yates was
kneeling with her face buried in the purple of her mistress' robe.
Lord Hope came in at last, followed by Lady Hope, who, even in that
solemn place, could not suppress her pride as her eyes fell on Lady
Clara, whom she recognized as the heiress of all that gentle lady had
left. But Lady Clara saw nothing of this. The poor girl was weeping out
her passionate sorrow in the arms of her friend, who bent over her with
such tender sympathy that her face was almost concealed.
As Lord Hope advanced toward the death-couch, old Mrs. Yates arose and
stood before him. When he had last seen her she was an old woman, but in
the prime of her strength; now her shoulders stooped, her hair was
entirely white, and she faltered in her walk. He reached out his hand to
her. She did not appear to observe it, but said to him, in a quiet
voice:
"My lord, I am glad to find you here. God has so ordered it that I was
too late for her. She could not hear what I had to say, but you must
listen in her stead."
"At the proper time, Hannah; but we must not talk of worldly things in
this presence."
Lord Hope bent his head reverently toward the pale form upon the couch,
and the old woman also bowed down her face meekly, as she had learned to
bow her head in prison; but she answered, with gentle firmness:
"No--that which I have to say must be told now, and in her dead
presence. Since God has forbidden me to bring doubt and sorrow on her
last moments I thank Him for it, but you must listen."
"Not now--not now," answered Hope, quickly. He was disturbed by the
sight of this old woman, whom he had believed to be buried for life in
an American prison; but he had learned the great art of self-control,
and gave no indication of the shock her presence in that room gave him.
His first impulse was to get Lady Hope out of the apartment. She had
never seen Mrs. Yates, but he was fearful that some mention of her name
might renew the nervous agitation from which she had but just recovered.
"Come with me, Rachael," he said, in a low voice. "I will take you to
our room, for this is a painful sight. Then I will return, alone, to
hear what this person has to say."
Lady Hope was willing to leave a scene which filled her with gloom.
Whispering to Clara that she would come back and watch with her when the
old woman was gone, she twisted a corner of the black lace shawl, which
covered her head, around her throat, and went away, glad to escape that
strange old woman, against whom she had taken one of those sudden
antipathies which were common to her.
"Dear me! I look almost as deathly as she does, with all these shadows
on my face," said Lady Hope, as she stood before the mirror in her
dressing-room, and unwound the black lace from her head.
She was correct. What with fatigue, and the black shadows flung by her
shawl, the best friends of this proud woman would have recognized her
with difficulty.
She turned for her husband's answer, but found that he had left her at
the door. All rest was broken up for her now; in fact, it was almost
morning; so she began to pace the room to and fro, thinking, with
exultation, of the honors and wealth that had poured in upon her family
by that gentle old lady's death.
Meantime Lord Hope had gone back to the death-chamber, where Mrs. Yates
and the two young ladies were waiting.
The old woman arose from her knees when he came in.
"That which I have to say, Lord Hope, relates to you, first of all, now
that my dear old mistress is gone. When the first Lady Hope came to
America, her little girl, then between two and three years of age, was
placed in my son's family, and under my charge, as her mother had been
when a child. She had reasons, which you will understand, for wishing
the child to pass as the daughter of my son; so we gave her his name,
and she was known everywhere as my grandchild.
"We had another little girl, about the same age, the daughter of Mrs.
Brown, an actress; fair, like your child, and very pretty. This child,
Caroline Brown, was almost given to us; for, after the first year, we
never saw her mother, or received anything from her. One night I
received a note asking me to come down to one of the theatres, and meet
a person who had business with me. There was no name to the note; but I
supposed it must be from Mrs. Brown, and went. But no person was there
to meet me, and I went home disappointed. That night Lady Hope died."
Lord Hope, who had been anxious and restless, drew a deep breath; for he
understood, by the slow caution of the old woman's speech, that she
meant to reveal nothing which his anxious and listening daughter might
not hear.
"My lady left a letter behind her, with some money, and the Carset
diamonds, which she charged me to deliver, with my own hands, here at
the castle.
"She had fears about her daughter--anxieties, which I need not
explain--and besought me to keep the little girl; to educate her, and
conceal her identity until she was eighteen years old, when I, or my
son, should take her back to England, and allow her to choose her own
way of life.
"I had talked this matter over with my lady, and gave her a solemn
promise to protect her child, and the honor of her name, with my life,
if that were needed. The very night of her death Lady Hope gave all the
papers necessary to the recognition of her child to my son. He brought
them home, and, while the children were asleep, we two pledged ourselves
to protect your child from everything that her mother feared, and to
secure for her all that she hoped.
"My lord, we kept our oaths. He died, broken-hearted, under the terrible
burden which we took on ourselves that night. I lived, carrying it with
me, till my shoulders are bowed, and my hair white with old age.
"The next day, while _she_ lay dead, a fire broke out in the house where
we lived. Our rooms were high up; the flames and smoke mounted so
suddenly that it was impossible for us to escape by the stairs. The two
little girls had crept into a corner of the room, and sat crying there,
with the fire and smoke rolling toward them. I had secured the box, in
which were Lady Hope's jewels and papers, and swung it over my
shoulders, then snatched up your child."
Here the two girls, who stood, pale and trembling, by the window,
uttered a simultaneous cry.
"I remember! I remember!" they said, each to the other, then clung
together and listened.
The old woman scarcely heeded this interruption.
Lord Hope looked toward the window, so bewildered that he could neither
see nor hear anything distinctly.
Mrs. Yates went on:
"I called on Daniel's wife to bring the other child. Firemen and
citizens were climbing the ladders and leaping in at the windows. One
man sprang into the room and out again, while I waited for my turn. He
had something in his arms huddled up like a bundle--pushed me aside and
took my place on the ladder. Then Daniel's wife came to me, wringing her
hands and crying. She could not find the child.
"But I had the one most precious to me in my arms. The flames drove me
forward, and I let myself down on the ladder. Your child was safe. I
know now that the man who pushed me from the window saved little
Caroline Brown and brought her to you. She has since been known as your
daughter. I saw her in your arms on board the steamer. Last night she
was recognized as grand-daughter of Lady Carset."
"But the other--my own child?"
"I had no means of telling you the truth at the time, and, after that,
would not do it. The child, I knew, would be a safeguard to little
Clara. You would not inquire for her while supposing her in your own
possession. But we took one precaution--that of giving her the name of
Caroline, which was sure to prevent inquiry. After that she was known
as Caroline Yates, and, until my son's death, thought herself his child.
I never lived with them after that, but saw her from time to time,
though she never noticed me or knew of the interest I took in her; but,
year by year, I saw her grow up, until my son died. Then I lost all
knowledge of her.
"One day I was free to look for this dear child, and went to the cottage
where my son's will had secured her a home. It was empty. She had gone
away with some singing woman and a person named Brown, who had been her
music-teacher.
"The woman had claimed to be her mother, and was known on the stage as
Olympia."
"Go on! go on!" exclaimed Lord Hope; "I am listening."
The two girls in the window were listening also. As they understood this
story more and more clearly, their arms tightened around each other and
a look of unutterable affection beamed upon their faces; but that of the
girl known as Lady Clara glowed with a look of generous self-abnegation,
while her companion was troubled, and almost sad.
"Go on! go on!"
"I left America at once on learning this, bringing Lady Hope's papers
and Lady Carset's jewels with me. Olympia was in England, and, no doubt,
your daughter was with her. First I came here, and gave up the trust
that had become a heavy, heavy burden. Then I went in search of my young
lady. The time had come when she might claim her title and her rights,
without violating her mother's directions. After much search, I found
Olympia's house, and inquired for the person known as her daughter. She
told me herself, and with bitter anger, that she had no daughter. I
knew the woman, and attempted to make her comprehend that I wished to
find the young lady for her own good; but this flung her into a passion
of rage, and she ordered me from the house. Then followed an attempt to
bribe me. Still I kept up the search, and at last traced the girl they
called Caroline Brown to this neighborhood."
"To this neighborhood!" exclaimed Lord Hope. "Where? where?"
"My lord, up to this time you have only the word of an old woman, who
has suffered under great reproach for all this. I know that the identity
of a nobleman's child and the transfer of a great inheritance cannot be
so proven. But here is the letter, which Lady Hope gave to me, and
another that she wrote to you on the day of her death. Poor, poor lady!
She was very sad that morning, and would undertake the letter at once.
God seemed to warn her of what would happen in the next twenty-four
hours."
Lord Hope took the papers which the old woman handed to him, and there,
in the presence of the dead, gathered a confirmation of all Mrs. Yates
had told him.
The paper had grown yellow since it was blotted with the tears of a
woman he had once loved. No wonder it shook his hand as he read.
"And this girl, my daughter, where is she?" he cried, with a passionate
outburst of grief.
The girl known as Lady Clara came out from the shadows of the window
curtains, and made an effort to draw Caroline with her; but she shrank
back and stood alone, trembling violently.
"Papa!"
"Oh, my poor, poor child! How will you bear this?" cried Lord Hope.
"Trust me, dear, dear papa--for I will call you so. Nothing can break
my heart, if you and mamma Rachael will love me yet; for the rest, I am
glad, so glad, that I am no longer a lady, and am left without a guinea.
This is to be really free!"
"Ah, poor child, how can we ever part with you?"
"Your own daughter will not begrudge me a little love; and, after all, I
do belong to mamma Rachael more than she ever can. That is something.
Besides, it is from me that you must take your daughter, for I brought
her here. Ask her if I did not."
The young girl was smiling, but tears stood in her eyes, and her lips
quivered as she spoke.
"Come with me, father, and I will give you to her. It is hard, but I
will."
She led Lord Hope across the room, drew back the curtain, and let in the
soft gray light of that early dawn upon the trembling young creature who
stood there.
Lord Hope shook in all his limbs when he saw that face. The eyes full of
tears seemed to reproach him as _hers_ had on that fatal night.
He reached out his arms, with a convulsive heaving of the chest, and
faltered out:
"Forgive me! forgive me! for I have bitterly repented."
He did not kiss her--he dared not even touch her forehead in that solemn
presence; but he laid one hand on her head, rested his own upon it,
asking that forgiveness of God which her heart gave, but could only
express by pathetic silence.
Then the old woman came up to the window, and stood there, waiting.
When Lord Hope fell back against the window-frame, strengthless from
excess of feeling, she laid a hand upon the girl's shoulder, and,
turning her face gently to the light, gazed upon it with tender
scrutiny. Then she said, talking to herself:
"It is her face! It is her face!"
"And you are Daniel Yates' mother. How I shall love you! Oh, how I loved
him!"
Then the old woman's face began to quiver, and her large gray eyes
filled with the slow tears old age gives out with such pain.
"Yes, child, you must love me a little for your mother's sake."
"And for the sake of that good man, your son, who was a father to me.
How often he has told me that, if there was anything grand or good in
him, it came from the best mother that ever lived! 'Some day,' he once
said, 'God may be merciful and let you know her. Then remember that she
has nothing left but you.' I do remember it, and no child ever loved a
grandmother better than I will love you."
The old woman lifted up her head from the gentle embrace thus offered
her, and turned to her dead mistress.
A smile, soft as that hovering about that cold mouth, came to her lips
and eyes.
"God is very good to me. Are the angels telling you of it, my old
mistress, that you smile so?"