Butler grew pale; the very earth seemed slipping from under his feet.
“Who are you, and what right has this crooked imp at Ashton?” he demanded.
“I am the husband of Caroline Lady Granby; you see, these good people all recognize me.”
“We do—we do—every one of us; his hair has grown white, and his forehead is not so smooth, but there is the old smile, and the old look of the eye; God bless the master.”
“And you will know this face, too,” said Varnham, removing Mary’s bonnet, and allowing the golden hair to fall over her shoulders; “she is my child—little Mary.”
The servants began to weep; some covered their faces; others came forward on tiptoe and tenderly examined those beautiful features. The old housekeeper sunk to her knees, and drew the face down to her bosom; then she looked up wistfully at Varnham; he understood all she desired to ask, and turned his eyes sorrowfully on his child’s mourning-dress.
A quiet awe stole over the group of servants; they asked no more questions.
Gravely and quietly, like one who takes up a pleasant duty, the young countess of Granby assumed the great power of her birthright. Her father had spent half his life in striving to introduce the blessings of civilization among the savages; but in remedying the evils which civilization had yet left untouched in that rich domain, both he and the gentle Mary found ample scope for all the benevolence of their great hearts.
While Edward Clark managed the estates, and his young wife brought all her sprightliness and beauty into the household of her sister—for so she still called the Lady of Ashton—the lovely girl herself moved about her own mansion, in her simple dress of black silk or velvet, more like a spirit of mercy than the mistress of a proud name and broad lands. Her tastes continued simple and child-like as ever, and when she appeared in public it was to be greeted with such love as a beautiful spirit—let the form which clothes it be what it will—is sure to command from the good.