Countess Vera 10

Countess Vera 10

His story was not generally known. He had succeeded to the Earldom of

Fairvale through a series of unexpected deaths, and though everyone

knew of handsome Lawrence Campbell's accessions, little was known of

him personally beyond the rumor that he had married an American lady,

who had died and left him one only child, his beautiful and worshiped

Vera.

 

Lady Vera had many admirers. Aside from her personal charms, the fact

that she would succeed to the title and estates of Fairvale, cast a

flattering prestige around her.

 

She was the same to all who came to woo--cool, courteous, gently

indifferent. After awhile they began to say that the earl's daughter

was very proud. Ordinary people were not to her fancy, evidently. She

must be waiting for a duke or a prince. Poor Lady Vera! Who was to know

the bitter secret, the ceaseless dread that ached in the fair breast,

that rose and fell beneath the knots of velvety pansies that were her

simple and favorite adornment?

 

Vera has seen and learned a great deal since that night when her

father's mad frenzy had been the means of saving her from the horrors

of a dreadful death.

 

She has traveled, she has had masters and governesses; luxuries of

which she never even faintly dreamed, have surrounded her and become

daily necessities. Pleasure has wooed her softly to its flowery paths,

love has been lavishly laid at her feet. But through it all a loathing

remembrance of Leslie Noble has poisoned her peace.

 

"Where is he? Does he know where I am? Will he ever come to claim me?"

she often asks herself, never dreaming that he of whose coming she is

so terribly afraid believes her dead, and that he has erected a costly

marble monument over the spot where her remains are supposed to rest.

 

Her father's mistaken kindness has kept from her the knowledge of her

deadly peril and her opportune rescue, little dreaming in what an

untoward hour the startling truth shall come to her.

 

And she, in her sensitive pride, has held her peace over that ill-fated

marriage by the bedside of her dying mother--the poor, heart-broken

mother who had erred so fatally, when, with weak, human foresight she

had tried to plan for the future well-being of her helpless child.

 

"Oh, mamma, dearest," she moans, when alone in her silken _boudoir_,

she recalls the wretched past, "how terribly blind and mistaken you

were. Oh, to be free from these fetters that chafe and fret and gall so

terribly!"

 

"Shall you never marry, Vera?" her father asks her one day.

 

It is the day after she has refused Lord Greyhurst, one of the finest

and wealthiest young noblemen in London.

 

The deep color flows into the girl's fair cheeks.

 

"I think not, father," she answers, gravely. "I have no wish to marry.

I have never met anyone that I could love."

 

Earl Fairvale is well pleased.

 

"I am glad to hear you say that, my dear," he answers. "I have no wish

to lose my daughter. And, after all, so much sorrow comes from love,

one is best without it."

 

Lady Vera is very glad to hear him talk so. He will never urge her to

marry, and she may keep her secret always--always, _unless_--dreaded

possibility--Leslie Noble should return to claim her.

 

"But he will not. Why should he? He never cared for me. Yet how strange

that he should have let my father take me away without one word. He

must indeed have been glad to be rid of me," she muses.

 

The earl and his daughter are staying with Lady Clive for the "season."

She is an American, and the daughter of a famous American general. She

is very happily married to Sir Harry Clive, baronet. Loving everything

American with intensest love, she falls an instant victim to Lady

Vera's charms.

 

"Your mother was an American--so am I," she says, vivaciously; "so I

claim you on that score. Do you like England, Lady Vera, and English

people?"

 

"Yes," Vera answers, in her grave way.

 

"And," Lady Clive goes on, in her bright, airy fashion, "do you intend

to marry an Englishman or an American?"

 

"I shall never marry at all," Lady Vera says, with a face of extreme

disgust.

 

"Never! Ah, my dear, you are too young to decide such a momentous

question. Only wait and see," cries Lady Clive, who has a match laid

out in her mind for Vera, but who is far too wise to give her a hint of

it.

 

"I shall never marry," Vera repeats, calmly. "I do not even like to

think of such things as love and marriage. Dear Lady Clive, let us

talk of something more interesting. You promised to take me into the

nursery, and show me your little children--did you not?"

 

"Yes, and we will go now," her friend answers, leading the way; but

to herself she says, wonderingly: "What a strange girl. At her age I

did not think a set of noisy children more interesting than love and

marriage."

 

The grave young face grows brighter than Lady Clive has ever seen it as

Vera watches the beautiful little children at their playful sports. She

even smiles when they caress her, and gives them the flowers from her

bosom in payment for kisses.

 

"She loves children dearly," Lady Clive says to herself, well pleased.

"How strange that she should be so set against marriage. She is an odd

girl, but I think I shall live to see her change her mind."

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER X.

 

 

Lady Vera having gained the _entree_ to the nursery, pays it daily

visits, always finding herself vociferously welcomed by the three small

dwellers therein.

 

And one day she finds the youthful trio in a hubbub of excitement.

 

"Our uncle from America is coming over to visit us," they triumphantly

announce to their friend.

 

"You seem to be glad," Lady Vera answers, kindly.

 

"Oh, we are," they laugh. "Aren't you glad, too, Vera?"

 

"I do not know. I do not like Americans much," says Lady Vera, with a

distinct remembrance of the Clevelands and Leslie Noble.

 

"Oh, but you will be sure to like Uncle Phil. He is awfully jolly, and

he is a soldier, too. He has a sword and a gun and has promised to

teach me to shoot. I am going to be a soldier, too," cries out Mark,

the second son.

 

"And when is this terrible soldier coming?" Lady Vera inquires, with

languid interest.

 

"We do not know exactly, but very soon," they tell her. "He came about

this time last year. Mamma had a letter from him this morning."

 

"You have not told me his name yet," Lady Vera continues.

 

"He is Captain Philip Lockhart, and his father, our own grandpapa, is

General Lockhart," answers Hal, the heir, while little Dot claps her

small hands gleefully, crying out:

 

"Uncle Phil will bring us lots of bu'ful playt'ings from New York. He

always does."

 

But though "Uncle Phil" remains the favorite topic of the nursery for

several days, Lady Clive quite forgets to tell her guest that she

expects her brother.

 

Lady Vera scarcely gives it a thought. In the expected arrival of

Captain Lockhart she takes not the slightest interest.

 

So it happened that when Vera runs into the nursery one evening--having

promised the children a peep at her ball dress--she comes upon an

unexpected tableau. A man on his knees, hammering at the lid of a big

box, three hopefuls gathered around him, and chattering like magpies;

the prim, white-aproned nurse vainly endeavoring to command silence.

 

Before Vera can beat her instantly-attempted retreat, the little

"Philistines are upon her."

 

"Here she is," they cry. "This is Vera, of whom we have been telling

you. Isn't she pretty, Uncle Phil?"

 

"But she doesn't like Americans," adds one _enfant terrible_.

 

"I am sorry for that," says Captain Lockhart, rising hastily, and

giving Lady Vera a soldier's stately bow. "Cannot you persuade her that

I am of some other nationality, my dears?"

 

The ease and lightness of his words and manner carry off some of the

embarrassment of the meeting. Lady Vera gives him a bow, and a slight

little smile, sweet and transient.

 

"I am sorry to have interrupted you," she says. "I am going now,

directly."

 

But her swift, upward glance has given her a glimpse of a tall,

soldierly form, and a handsome-featured face, with dark-blue eyes,

and dark-brown mustache, while short, curling locks of deepest brown

cluster about a finely-shaped head--"every inch a soldier."

 

Our hero, on his part, sees a vision of dazzling beauty--dark eyes,

golden tresses, scarlet lips, a slim yet daintily-rounded figure in

costly lace, with knots of purple, golden-hearted pansies. Around the

slender, stately column of the white throat a necklace of pansies

formed of dark, purple amethysts with diamond centers radiating fire--a birthday gift from her father.