Countess Vera 19

Countess Vera 19

"We have some Americans here. You know I usually adore everything

that hails from the land of the free, being one of them myself. But,

really, I could not fraternize with these people. The man was well

enough, but the wife and the mother-in-law--well, dearest Vera, the

English language has no term strong enough to express my antipathy.

They are abominably rich, I believe. I hear that they have bought and

refurnished Darnley House with a view to spending the season in London.

If they do you will meet them, as you have promised to come to Clive

House for the season.

 

"Do you care to hear about Philip, poor, dear boy? They sent him out

on the plains, poor dear, to fight the Indians, wretched creatures,

this summer. He has been wounded in the shoulder, and promoted to a

colonelcy for bravery. Lord Gordon is coming over in time for the

hunting season, I hear, but Philip will not promise to get leave and

come with him.

 

"Dear Vera, I wish you would have come with us. I know you are moped to

death in your grand, but lonely home, with prim old Mrs. Vance for your

duenna. As soon as we go home to Sunny Bank and rest up a little, we

mean to take you by storm, Sir Harry, and I, and all the children."

 

Lady Vera smiles over that last threat. The news is very welcome. She

fancies how much brighter Fairvale Park will seem with Lady Clive's

happy children chasing the deer in the wide, green park, and gathering

the lilies from the peaceful lake. She takes no interest in the story

of the rich Americans, but later on a letter comes to her from New

York, which, oddly enough, instantly recalls Lady Clive's letter to her

mind.

 

The letter is from the New York detective whom her father had employed

to track his enemy to her hiding-place. Lady Fairvale having retained

him in her employ, he writes, briefly and respectfully:

 

"I have traced the Clevelands at last only to lose them again. They

have been living in Florida all the while. The daughter has married a

rich man, and this summer they came to New York, and soon after sailed

for England. I learn that they are now traveling in Switzerland with

great _eclat_, so that your ladyship will scarcely fail to hear of

them."

 

Lady Vera is walking slowly by the beautiful lake, brooding deeply over

this letter. She does not see the white lilies nodding their heads

among the broad, green leaves, nor the soft breeze dimpling the placid

water into tiny laughing wavelets. She is thinking of Lady Clive's

story of the rich Americans, to whom she had conceived an antipathy.

 

"They must be one and the same," she tells herself, "but I cannot write

to Lady Clive and ask her, because she is traveling all the while,

and gives me no address. But I shall see them in London, as they will

be there for the season. And so Ivy has married since her old lover,

Leslie Noble, died. I wonder whom she has beguiled into taking her?

Whoever he may be, I pity him, being tied to such a shrew! Well, well,

the time for my vengeance is near at hand. What shape will it take, I

wonder?"

 

A wind, colder than that which ruffles the lilies on the lake, seems to

chill her graceful form, as she recalls the words of her vow:

 

"I swear, by all my hopes of happiness, that I will punish that woman

through her dearest affections--that, at any cost to myself, I will

avenge my mother's wrongs! They are rich, arrogant, prosperous. How

can I hurt them?" she muses. "What blow can I strike at their stony

hearts that will avenge the wrongs of the dead? Shall I tell the

world the story of my mother's wrongs and mine? Marcia Cleveland and

her cruel daughter would only laugh me to scorn if I did. Yet I must

think of some plan to humble them. I am bound by my oath to the dead.

All is blank before me yet; I cannot see one step before me to the

accomplishment of my task. Would it be wrong to ask God to help me to

punish those wicked and cruel women?"

 

What form will her vengeance take? Day and night the lonely young

countess broods over that puzzling question. She forms a hundred

schemes and abandons them all. Some of them are too dreadful. Her pure,

delicate nature recoils from them. She grows pale and thin brooding

over this vexing question. It banishes for a time even the remembrance

of Captain Lockhart from her mind. She scarcely eats or sleeps. Long

hours she wanders by the quiet lake, up and down, up and down, like a

sentry on his post, heedless of Mrs. Vance's remonstrances on her pale

and altered looks.

 

"You live too much alone, I fear," the kind chaperon remonstrates. "It

is not well for the young to live so quiet and isolated a life as you

are doing, my dear. You should accept the invitations of the county

families, and entertain them in return."

 

"I am in mourning," Lady Vera objects, wearily.

 

"But I do not mean for you to be very gay, my dear Lady Vera. If you

would even invite some young lady of your own age to come and visit you

it would be so much livelier for you. There is Miss Montgomery, for

instance. She is at Sir William Spencer's. I dare say she would come if

you invited her."

 

"I detest Miss Montgomery," Lady Vera replies, with unusual pettishness.

 

"Someone else, then; anyone whom you could like," Mrs. Vance suggests.

 

"There is no one," Lady Vera answers. "I expect Lady Clive soon. We

shall have a little gaiety then. I will have no one else before that."

 

"I do not think you are well, Lady Vera. You have lost your color,

you are growing thin, your eyes look large in your face. Will you not

consult a physician?" Mrs. Vance goes on, resolutely.

 

"No; for I am perfectly well," Lady Vera answers, impatiently. "Pray do

not take up idle fancies about me, Mrs. Vance."

 

So the good lady, sighing, desists, and Countess Fairvale "gaes her ain

gait."

 

The bright days of September wane and fade, and October comes in bright

and sunny.

 

Every day now Lady Vera looks for Lady Clive to come. Her spirits grow

brighter at the thought.

 

Sitting in the grand drawing-room one pleasant evening, with Mrs. Vance

nodding placidly in a corner, and the soft breeze fluttering the lace

draperies at the open windows, she touches the keys of the grand piano,

pouring out her sad young soul in plaintive melodies. Song after song

thrills out upon the air, each one sadder and sweeter than the last, as

though

 

"The anguish of the singer made the sweetness of the strain."

 

Very beautiful looks Lady Vera in her thin, black robe, with knots of

pure white pansies at her throat and waist, very beautiful and girlish

still, though she is almost twenty, and a woman's sorrow is written all

over her lovely, mobile face, that rises like some fair, white lily

above her somber robe.

 

Memory is busy at her heart to-night. She has forgotten the Clevelands

for a little while, and is thinking of her princely-looking soldier

lover far away beneath those American skies where her own young life

was passed.

 

She loves him still. In vain the nobles of her father's land sue for

her favor.

 

All her heart is given to that untitled lover who comes of a land

 

"Where they bow not the knee,

Save to One unto whom monarchs bow down."

 

Almost unconsciously she touches the keys and sings one of our best

loved songs:

 

"On the banks of Allan Water

When the sweet spring-tide did fall,

There I saw the miller's daughter,

Fairest of them all!

For his bride a soldier sought her,

And a winning tongue had he;

On the banks of Allan Water,

None so gay as she!

 

"On the banks of Allan Water,

When brown autumn spread his store,

There I saw the miller's daughter,

But she smiled no more!

For the summer grief had brought her,

And the soldier false was he;

On the banks of Allan Water,

None so sad as she!"

 

"Nay, nay, Lady Vera, a libel on the soldier," a voice cries over her

shoulder.

 

She springs up wildly, with a startled cry:

 

"Captain Lockhart!"

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVIII.

 

 

It is Philip Lockhart, indeed, towering above her, tall,

broad-shouldered, handsome, as if her yearning thoughts had embodied

themselves. Lady Vera cannot keep the joy out of her voice and face.

 

"Is it really you?" she cries, touching him gently with one soft, white

hand, her dark eyes moist with gladness.

 

"It is really Philip Lockhart," he laughs. "I am _avant-coureur_ for

Nella, who will descend upon you to-morrow, bag and baggage, with all

the little imps. Will you pardon me, Lady Fairvale, for my impudence in

entering by the open window? Your sweet music tempted me."

 

"The pleasure of seeing you so unexpectedly might well condone a

greater offense," she answers, smiling.

 

Then she blushes deeply, for the beautiful, dark-blue eyes look down

into her own, gravely and thoughtfully.

 

"Thank you," he answers; "I had grave doubts of a welcome, and you

set my mind at ease. The truth is I came down with Lord Gordon to Sir

William Spencer's for the hunting, and Nella desired me to call and apprise you of her meditated descent upon your fold."