Countess Vera 20

Countess Vera 20

She freezes over so suddenly and subtly that he is mystified.

 

"Pray sit down, Colonel Lockhart," with the coolest courtesy. "All this

while I have kept you standing."

 

He accepts the offered chair and his altered position brings in range

of his sight Mrs. Vance dozing blissfully in a luxurious arm-chair.

 

"My companion," Lady Vera explains.

 

The blue eyes look at her pleadingly, with a half-smile in them.

 

"Pray do not disturb her dreams on my account. I shall be going

directly."

 

She sits down listlessly enough on the piano-stool facing him. Some of

the first glow of brightness has faded from her face, showing him the

subtle change six months has made in it. The once bright cheek is pale

and clear, the dark eyes look darker still by contrast with the dark

purple shadows lightly outlined beneath them. He marvels, but dares not

speak of it.

 

"I am very glad Lady Clive is coming; I have been expecting her some

time," she observes.

 

"I thought you were glad to see me at first," he answers, plaintively,

"but now you have frozen over again."

 

"You took me by surprise," she replies, with dignity. "I thought you

were not coming to England this winter. Lady Clive wrote me something

like that."

 

"I did not intend to come; I knew it was wiser to stay away. 'A burnt

child dreads the fire' you know. But something drew me against my will.

It was like your song, Lady Vera:

 

"'I strove to tear thee from my heart,

The effort was in vain;

The spell was ever on my life,

And I am here again.'"

 

The warm color flies into her face again. The lines recall that night

when she had tried to show him her heart, and the caprice of a coquette

had come between them. She asks, with irrepressible pique:

 

"Was Miss Montgomery glad to see you?"

 

"Glad? Why should she be?" he asks her, wondering if that strange

discord in her voice can really be pique and jealousy. Spite of Lady

Vera's pride, it sounds marvelously like it.

 

"She liked you, I thought," she answers, flushing under the steady fire

of his eyes.

 

"Did she? I am sure I did not know it," he fibs, unblushingly. "I never

thought of any other save you, Lady Vera. You were my only love. I have

carried the rose you gave me ever since that night when we parted so

coldly."

 

He comes nearer to her side, and taking the withered rose from his

breast, holds it out before her gaze. She looks up and sees the old,

warm love-light shining on her from the deep blue eyes. The sight makes

her brave to speak.

 

"Yet if you had understood the message of the rose, we need not have

parted at all," she falters, low and softly, with crimson blushes

burning her lovely face.

 

"Vera, my love, my queen!"

 

He has bowed on one knee before her that he may look into the dark eyes

so sweetly veiled beneath the drooping lashes. A rapture of happiness

quivers in his voice.

 

"Lady Vera, tell me, do you mean that you repented after all? Did you

find that my devotion had not been lavished in vain, and that you could

give me love for love? Was that the message of the rose, my beautiful

darling?"

 

No answer from the sweet, quivering lips, but that swift, quickly

withdrawn glance from the dewy eyes tells Lady Vera's story plainer

than words to her lover's heart.

 

The rose has carried its tender message at last, in spite of a hundred

Miss Montgomerys, and if the sleepy chaperon should open her placid

eyes now she would be shocked beyond recovery, for Colonel Lockhart,

with all the boldness of a soldier, has drawn his darling into the

shelter of his arms, and pressed the golden head close against the

brave and loyal heart that beats for her alone.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIX.

 

 

Imagine Lady Clive's delight when she learns that her brother is to

marry her favorite, Lady Vera.

 

"It is what I most wished upon earth," she says, "but I had despaired

of ever having my heart's desire. You never acted much like lovers, you

two."

 

"You see I never intended to marry, so I did not encourage lovers,

then," Lady Vera explains.

 

"And _now_?" Lady Clive inquires, with a roguish twinkle of her bright,

blue eyes.

 

"_Now_ I have changed my mind," the countess exclaims, evasively.

 

"Lovely woman's divine prerogative," laughs her friend. "But do you

know that malicious people will say that you have quite thrown yourself

away in marrying a plain, untitled American?"

 

"I am quite indifferent to what they will say," the young countess

replies, serenely. "I shall have secured my own happiness, and that is

the main point. For the rest, I am not anxious over titles. You know I

am part American myself."

 

"Yes, I know, but this is the first time I have ever heard you allude

to it," Lady Clive replies. "I fancied you were ashamed of the Yankee

strain in your blood."

 

The sensitive color rushes warmly into Lady Vera's cheek.

 

"I was," she admits, "but I had no need to be. My mother was one of

the fairest, sweetest, and purest of America's daughters. Yet I had

a prejudice against the people of her native land and mine, a girl's

prejudice that made me unjust to the many because I hated a few. Some

day I will tell you about my life in America, Lady Clive, and you will

understand me better, perhaps."

 

"Shall you go back to the United States with Phil, or shall you prefer

a life in England?" Lady Clive inquires.

 

"We have not settled that yet," the young girl answers, blushing.

 

Her face has grown very thoughtful as she speaks. A moment later she

asks, in an altered voice:

 

"Who were those American people whom you met in Switzerland, Lady

Clive?"

 

Lady Clive seemed to reflect.

 

"You mean those vulgarly rich people?" she inquires.

 

"Yes."

 

"My dear, I have quite forgotten what they were called. I have such a

poor memory for names. But no matter. You will see them in London this

winter," Lady Clive replies.

 

And again the vexing question which she has forgotten since yesterday,

recurs to Lady Vera's mind:

 

"What form will my vengeance take?"

 

But no faintest idea comes to her of the terrible truth. If anyone were

to whisper it to her in these first hours of her great new happiness,

it would surely strike her dead. The shock of pain would be too great

for endurance.

 

But fate withholds the blow as yet, and some golden days of peace and

happiness dawn for Lady Vera.

 

With Lady Clive's arrival she inaugurates a little reign of gaiety that

rejoices the heart of Mrs. Vance. She gives and receives invitations.

Colonel Lockhart rides over daily to spend long hours by his lady's

side, reading, singing, talking to each other in the low, sweet tones

of lovers. Lord Gordon consoles himself with Miss Montgomery, who

secretly confides to him that she "cannot imagine what Colonel Lockhart

sees in that haughty Lady Fairvale."

 

"She is beautiful," Lord Gordon answers, loyal to his old love yet.

 

"I do not admire her style. She is too slim--too American in her

looks," Miss Montgomery rejoins. She is inclined to _embonpoint_

herself, and envies every slender woman she sees.

 

Lord Gordon does not dispute her charge. He is too wise for that. But

in his heart he wonders why Lady Vera had reconsidered her rejection

of his friend, and wishes that he had been the happy man blest by her

preference.

 

Lady Vera, on her part, has quite forgotten the coquette's existence

in her serene, new happiness. Philip is her love, her lord, her king.

She forgets all else save him who holds her heart. The light comes back

to her eyes, the roundness and color to her cheek. She is dazzlingly

lovely in the new beauty that love brings to her face.

 

The days pass, and they begin to talk of going up to London. The lovely

fall weather is over, and mists and rain obscure the sky. They are

glad to huddle around the glowing fires in the luxurious rooms, and

Lady Clive's thoughts begin to turn on the subject most dear to the fashionable woman's heart--new dresses.