Countess Vera 18
She glances up. If she can point the words by even one deep glance into
her lover's eyes, all may yet be well. But Miss Montgomery, as if in
malice prepense, has suddenly risen and leaned against the piano just
before the singer's eyes. Captain Lockhart, standing with folded arms
across the room, is out of the range of her vision. Lady Vera rises
in despair. Her innocent little plan has failed. All hope dies in her
breast.
She sits down in a quiet corner, and Lord Gordon insists on fanning
her, and showing her a new portfolio of engravings. This is his last
evening with her, and like the reckless moth that he is, he singes his
wings in the flame of her beauty.
Someone calls him away at last, and the girl's heart gives a great,
muffled throb of relief. She is alone for the moment, in the quiet
alcove, half hidden by the white lace curtain. Will Captain Lockhart
come to her now? she asks herself, with a wildly-beating heart.
He sees her sitting there in her black dress and lily-white beauty, the
light shining down on her golden head and star-like face. Some impulse
stronger than his pride moves him to cross the room to her side. She
glances up with a smile so dazzling in its joy, that Tennyson's lines
rush into his mind:
"What if with her sunny hair,
And smile as sunny as cold,
She meant to weave me a snare
Of some coquettish deceit,
Cleopatra-like, as of old,
To entangle me when we met,
To have her lion roll in a silken net,
And fawn at a victor's feet?"
He sits down in Lord Gordon's vacant chair, the little stand with the
portfolio of new engravings and a vase of roses just between them. The
countess takes one of the crimson roses and plays with it to hide her
nervousness. She does not think how beautiful her slender, white hands
look playing with the red leaves of the rose.
The handsome soldier is for once embarrassed. That smile which she had
thought would tell him all has only puzzled him.
"Is she only a coquette, after all?" he asks himself. "Is she trying to
draw me into the toils again that she may see how great is her power?"
With that thought he grows cold and hard toward her.
"Lady Vera, do you know that you are very cruel to that poor rose?" he
asks.
"Am I? I did not mean to be," she answers, gently, looking down at the
torn petals strewing her lap. "I did not really think what I was doing."
"You had better give it to me, I will care for it more tenderly," he
pursues.
"Not this, but a sweeter one," she answers, with a beating heart.
Her white hands flutter over the vase a moment, and she selects a
lovely scarlet one just opening into perfect bloom.
Bending her head with regal grace, she touches the rose to the crimson
flower of her lips and holds it toward him.
Something in the strange significance of the action strikes him oddly.
An eager, impetuous speech springs to his lips, but Miss Montgomery,
who has seen the rose given, comes hastily up to them, interrupting him.
"Lord Gordon has been telling me of those beautiful new engravings. May
I look at them, Lady Vera, if I do not interrupt your _tete-a-tete_?"
she asks with sweet unconsciousness.
"Certainly. Pray take my seat," Lady Vera answers with icy coldness,
moving away.
Captain Lockhart is about to follow her when the fair marplot claims
his assistance in adjusting the stereoscope to the right focus.
Before she releases him the attention of Lady Vera is claimed by Sir
Roger Mansfield, who admires her immensely.
She leans back in her chair listening to his lively sallies of wit and
humor with a languid smile, in apparent forgetfulness of the episode of
the roses.
"It was only a bit of careless coquetry. I was a fool to think she
meant anything by it," the captain tells himself, angrily, turning away.
Fifteen minutes later they are all separating for the night, and
Captain Lockhart and Lord Gordon make their adieux to the ladies
because they must take the early train for London in the morning before
the household is astir.
Lady Vera stands quietly waiting her turn. She has wished Lord Gordon
farewell and _bon voyage_ with a smile, and she summons all her pride
to bear her up in her parting with Captain Lockhart.
He has left her for the last one, perhaps with some care that hers
shall be the last hand he clasps, the last eyes he looks into on
leaving England.
"Lady Vera, I have to thank you at parting that you have helped to make
my stay in England very pleasant," he says, offering his hand, with his
soldierly grace.
No reproaches for the pain she has caused him, the wrecked heart he
carries away from the field whereon he was vanquished.
Only the brave, soldierly smile, and the courtly words. He wears the
scarlet rose proudly on his breast, though he feels it to be a token of
defeat.
Lady Vera lays her hand on his and tries to say something very calm and
friendly, but the words die on her white lips.
She is very pale; he cannot help from seeing that. Her voice is very
gentle, but so low he fails to catch the words.
She does not look up at him; that is what pains him most. How is he to
know that the lowered lids veil the terrible pain in the dark eyes she
cannot lift to meet his yearning glance.
Others are looking on, and Vera, Countess of Fairvale, is too proud to
wear her heart on her sleeve. The message of the rose has failed, and
there is now no other sign to tell him that she loves him and would
fain take back the denial of yesterday.
So he goes, wounded by the coldness of her parting, yet wondering a
little why the hand that lay a moment in his own had felt so icy cold.
Ah, if he only had guessed the truth. But nothing was further from
Captain Lockhart's thoughts than that Lady Vera loved him and longed to
let him know the truth.
He carried back with him to his native land the memory of a fair face
and a heart that seemed colder than the beautiful iceberg to which he
had likened her in the bitterness of his pain.
For Lady Vera, she glides from the room, calm and cold to all outward
seeming, but filled with the bitterness of a great despair.
The long night passes in a weary vigil, and the handsome soldier never
dreams whose dark eyes watch his departure next morning while the words
of his song echo through her heart and brain.
"As the sword wears the scabbard,
The billow the shore,
So sorrow doth fret me
Forevermore."
CHAPTER XVII.
Long before the next season began in London, loud-tongued Madam Rumor
was talking of the rich Americans who had bought Darnley House, that
splendid mansion, from its ruined owner, and refitted it anew with
almost princely magnificence, and filled it with troops of obsequious
servants who held it in charge while the owners courted pleasure
abroad.
The most ridiculous stories were abroad concerning these people.
They were said to possess unlimited wealth; their diamonds were
believed to equal Queen Victoria's; it was confidently reported and
universally believed that they owned mines of gold and diamonds in
Nevada and California.
If the rumors had been traced back to their source it would have been
found that the American ladies themselves had artfully promulgated
these reports, but this was not known.
The stories usually came from the servants of Darnley House, and
confidently accepted, for are not hirelings always supposed to know the
affairs of their masters and mistresses?
Society was on the _qui vive_ for the beginning of the season when,
it was said, the Americans expected to take possession of their
magnificent residence, and astonish the world with their splendor and
_eclat_.
Meanwhile the three Americans with whom gossip made so free, were
disporting themselves in the delights of leisurely travel, taking in
Germany, Italy and Switzerland, in their round of pleasure.
Lady Clive, meeting them in Switzerland, had written thus to the
Countess of Fairvale, who contrary to all persuasion had gone home
to Fairvale Park to spend the summer quietly with a prim, elderly gentlewoman as chaperon:
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