The countess looked wistfully into the box, and shook her head.
"I have been unjust. I have accused that woman falsely. Until this moment, Yates, I have not hesitated to proclaim my belief that the woman they call Lady Hope had possessed herself of these diamonds as she had won my daughter's husband. This is a wrong which wounds me to the soul. It must be atoned for."
Hannah Yates moved toward the door, but heavily, and with the reluctance of a woman whose strength had been overtasked. The old countess sat gazing upon the jewels. How trivial and worthless they seemed to her now! Yet the retention of these very diamonds had been a great cause of offence against Lord Hope's second wife. How unjust, how cruel she had been in this! Was it possible that, in other things, she had been equally mistaken? She took up her daughter's letter and read it over. The first shock of its reception had passed away, and nothing but the quivering of the head remained of the fearful agitation that had shook her little form like a reed.
Hannah Yates stood near the curtain, regarding her with a look of yearning sympathy. How much she had suffered—how terribly she had struggled to save that delicate creature from deeper sorrow—no human being but herself would ever know; but the thought filled her heart with infinite tenderness. She stepped back to the couch, took the hand which lay in the lap of her old mistress, and kissed it.
The old lady lifted her eyes from the letter. They were full of tears—those painful, cold tears which come in such scant drops to the aged.
"Your hands are cold; you look tired. Ring for some wine and biscuit. That poor, white face is a reproach to your mistress, Yates."
"Yes, I will take some wine and bread before I go—it will make me strong; but not here! not here!"
Again the old countess turned to that letter, motioning with her hand that Yates should stay; but the old woman did not see that gentle motion of the hand—her eyes, also, were full of tears.
When the Countess of Carset had thrice perused her daughter's letter, she laid it down, and resting her hand tenderly upon it, fell into thought.
She was a proud but just woman, on whose haughty power old age had fallen like dew, softening all that was imperious, and shading down strong personal pride into thoughtful mercy.