The Old Countess; or, The Two Proposals

by Ann S. Stephens

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.