Countess Vera 12

Countess Vera 12

"I hope he is not making love to me," Lady Vera says to herself,

uneasily, then laughing at herself. "Of course not; I dare say he has

a sweetheart in his own land, some dear, sweet, angelic creature, like

Ivy Cleveland, perhaps."

 

They speak no more, and when they have gone once around the square,

Captain Lockhart leaves the earl's daughter at the door with a low

bow. She goes into the house, her cheeks tingling with an odd kind of

shame.

 

"I was rude, _perhaps_," she thinks, a little uneasily. "What must he

think of English manners? But then why did he look at me so? I felt

so--so strangely."

 

To Lady Clive, who is trifling over a bit of fancy work, she says,

presently:

 

"Why did you not tell me you expected your brother?"

 

Lady Clive glances up under her long lashes at the flushed face, a

gleam of mischief in the blue eyes so much like her brother's.

 

"It was just like me--to forget it," she exclaims. "But then I knew you

would not be interested. And, besides, I knew he would not be in your

way. Phil is only a plain, blunt soldier--not at all a ladies' man."

 

"I thought he seemed like _that_ last night," Lady Vera answers,

turning the leaves of a book very fast, and not knowing how ambiguous

is her answer.

 

"Like _what_?" her friend inquires.

 

"A ladies' man," Vera answers.

 

"Did you? Oh, yes, when he is thrown among them he tries to make

himself agreeable, but he does not fall in love, he does not run after

them. When he was with us last season, Lady Eva Clarendon made a dead

set at him. Phil was very civil at first--sang with her, danced with

her, played the agreeable in his careless way, you know. But when he

found she was losing her heart to him, he drew off, terrified--seemed

to think she would marry him, willy-nilly--and went away to Italy, then

back home."

 

"I should have thought it would have been a grand match for _him_,"

Lady Vera answers, with unconscious emphasis of the pronoun.

 

Lady Clive's head goes up, slightly.

 

"For _my_ brother? Not at all, Lady Vera," she answers, with a slight

touch of stiffness in her voice. "Philip met the Clarendons on equal

ground. He is wealthy--that is the first and greatest thing with

people, you know--our great-uncle left him a fortune. Next, he is

well-born, and the general, our father, is famous over two continents.

As for Lady Eva's title, that would not weigh a feather with my

brother. He comes from a land, you know, where native worth and

nobility take precedence over all."

 

And having thus blandly squelched Lady Vera's arrogance, the American

lady bends smilingly to her lace work again. Lady Vera only smiles. She

cannot feel offended.

 

"I deserved it all," she thinks, soberly to herself. "Oh! why do I

suffer my hatred of the Clevelands and Leslie Noble to make me venomous

and unjust to every American I meet? I have offended this kind friend

of mine, and been rude to her brother all through my spite against

those wicked people. I wish he would forgive those ridiculous words

I said to him. Not look at me, indeed. How silly! He will think me

wondrous vain."

 

But Captain Lockhart does not forget. When they meet at dinner again

Vera glances at him shyly several times across the silver and crystal

and flowers, but the blue eyes are always on his plate, or on someone

else's face--never on hers. What though she is lovely as a dream in

pale-blue satin and gleaming pearls? Captain Lockhart is serenely

unconscious of the color of her robe, or the half-repentance in her

starry eyes.

 

"I cannot blame him," she admits to herself, "I acted like a silly

child."

 

The days go by, Captain Lockhart and the earl's daughter are merely

civil--they seldom seem to see each other. Each absorbed in the

engagements of the gay season, each drifting further apart in the

whirl, there is no time for pardon or reconciliation. Lady Vera finds

no time for the nursery now save when the soldier is out. Yet she is

ever listening for one step, and the color flies into her cheek when

she hears it.

 

Lady Clive is perplexed and sorry because her brother and her favorite

do not take to each other.

 

"I thought they seemed made for each other," she complains, to Sir

Harry. "And I thought I had managed them so cleverly. But they scarcely

seem conscious of each other's existence."

 

"I hope you are not turning match-maker, Nella," Sir Harry Clive

replies, laughing.

 

Earl Fairvale sees nothing. Day by day he grows more gloomy, more

self-absorbed, and goes less into society. The only interest in his

life outside of his adored daughter, centers in the occasional letters

that reach him from America. But after each one he grows more sad

and gloomy, losing flesh and color daily. Only Vera knows that the

vengeance that is the object of his life is so long delayed that

the strain on his mind is killing him. For though the most skilled

detectives in the world are watching and working, they can find

no trace of the secure hiding-place where Marcia Cleveland dwells

untroubled by the vengeance from which she has fled.

 

Lady Vera's roses pale when she sees how her father is breaking

down--how the mind is wearing out the body, even as the sword wears out

the scabbard.

 

"Father, even if you found out her hiding-place, what could you do?

What form could your revenge take?" she asks him, mournfully, as she

has done many times before.

 

"I cannot tell--but some way would be opened. I should find some

vulnerable point at which to strike," he answers, moodily.

 

She twines her fair, white arms about his neck, and presses her fresh

young lips to his clouded brow.

 

"Father, this long brooding over your revenge, this hatred, nourished

in your heart, is sapping your life," she sighs. "I beg you, for my

sake, to give it up, dear father. Give it up, and leave it to Heaven!"

 

He looks at the beautiful, tearful eyes and the sweet face, pale now

with its sorrow.

 

"Vera, you come to me with your mother's face, your mother's voice, and

ask me not to avenge her ruined life, her broken heart, her mournful

death," he answers, bitterly. "Child, you know not what you ask. What

can you know of the pangs I have endured? Have you forgotten, too, the

indignities heaped upon you in your young, defenseless life?"

 

The dark eyes filled with smouldering wrath.

 

"No, father, never!" she cries; "but it is all past. Mother is safe in

Heaven, you and I are together. Let us forget those wicked ones. Surely

God will punish them for the ruin they have wrought."

 

"I will not listen to you, Vera," he says, putting her from him,

resolutely. "I have sworn to break Marcia Cleveland's heart if it be

not made of stone. If I fail--listen to me, darling--if I fail, I shall

bequeath my revenge and my oath to you in dying."

 

She pales and shivers through all her slight young frame, as if some

dim foreboding came to her of the nearing future--that future in whose

black shadow her feet already tread, it comes so near.

 

"I shall bequeath it to you," Earl Fairvale repeats, gloomily; "you

will lack no means to accomplish it if only you can find out the

serpent's lair. You will be Countess of Fairvale. You will inherit

great wealth, and an enormous rent-roll. With wealth you can do almost

anything. If I fail you will take up the work where it dropped from my

hand in dying--you, Vera, will avenge the dead."

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XII.

 

 

One of Earl Fairvale's favorite amusements was riding on horseback. He

had a passion for fast horses. He might often be seen mounted on some

spirited and superb animal, riding in the "Row" by his daughter's side,

who was herself a finished horsewoman.

 

Sometimes he drove a four-in-hand. Often he might be seen tearing along

at a wild and break-neck pace on some fiery-looking horse that ordinary

people would shudder to look at. But the earl did not know the name

of fear. He seemed to take a reckless delight and gloomy satisfaction

in those wild, John Gilpin-like races, at which others trembled with

dread. He laughed at the fears of his daughter and her friends, and

disregarded their entreaties.

 

Sir Harry Clive came home one day, his fine face clouded with anxiety.

 

"The earl has bought a new horse," he said. "It is a beautiful

creature, black as night, glossy as satin, clean-limbed, superb, but

with the most vicious eye conceivable, and a fiery temper. They call

him King."

 

"I suppose there is no danger to the earl," said his wife. "He has a

marvelous control over his horses. They seem to obey the least touch of

his hand or sound of his voice."

 

"This animal he has now is not like to be tamed so easily," Sir Harry

answers, gravely. "It is said that he threw his last master and killed

him. Indeed, Nella, you could not imagine a more devilish-looking

creature than this beautiful King. I told Fairvale that its true name

ought to be the Black Devil, for I am sure he looks like one."

 

Lady Clive shudders.

 

"Has the earl tried him yet?" she inquires.

 

"He started out upon him an hour ago," Sir Harry answers. "There were a

score of us who tried to persuade him not to mount the fiery creature.

But he laughed at our fears, and went off in gallant style. King tried

to prevent him from mounting, but he succeeded in first-rate style. Yet

I doubt," gloomily, "if he ever returns alive."

 

"What will Lady Vera say? She has been so anxious over him, so nervous of late," sighs Lady Clive.