In the midst of these conjectures the quiet old woman reached out her hand for the candle, and with a soft "good-night," closed the chamber-door.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE OLD COUNTESS AND HER SERVANT.
The next morning Mrs. Yates was early at the park-gate. She found no trouble in passing through now, and was soon in the avenue, making slow progress toward the castle, under the shade of those vast oaks and chestnuts. The way was long, and the avenue swept upward with what, to the old woman, was a toilsome ascent. The bag, which she carried in her hand, was of some weight, too, and the cramped inaction of so many years had rendered walking a slow and painful process.
At last she stood in full view of that grand old building—a castle of the olden times—kept, so far as possible to elegance or comfort, in its ponderous mediæval grandeur. But Madam Art had softened all its ruder features. Plate-glass was sunk into those thick walls; circular rooms in those twin towers, commanded a splendid view of the valley, over which the castle was built. The broad stone terrace connecting the towers, and fronting the main building was connected with a velvet lawn by a forest of hot-house plants, that clung around the stone parapet in a sumptuous garland of vines and flowers, that shed a soft and delicious fragrance over everything in and around the building.
Across this lawn and over the stone terrace the old woman toiled toward the main entrance. She was beginning to tremble now with something beside weariness. Her satchel bore down the feeble hand that carried it, till it dragged along the stones with a low, rasping sound, as she climbed the terrace-steps. She lifted the ponderous bronze knocker, and let it fall from her shaking hand with a crash that startled herself, and brought a man, all glittering in silver gray and scarlet, to the door, where he stood, with his insolent lips ajar, waiting to know what miracle had brought that forlorn creature to the grand entrance of Houghton Castle.
"I wish to speak with the countess."
That sweet old voice could not counteract the effect of her dress and worn satchel. The parted lips of the man in scarlet fell together, and drooped scornfully down at the corners.
"There is a proper entrance for servants and village-people," said this high functionary, with his powdered head thrown back.
"I know," answered the woman, quietly; "but I wish to see my lady, and do not care to seek her from the servants' hall. Go to her and say that Hannah Yates, an old servant of the family, is below, waiting to see her."