Countess Vera 21
"Vera, you will lay aside your mourning, dear, I hope," she says. "Do
you know that those black dresses make you look too sad and thoughtful
for your years? Do send Worth an order for something brighter--will you
not?"
"I will have some white dresses, I think," Lady Vera promises.
"Some of those sweet embroidered things!" Lady Clive exclaims,
enthusiastically. "She will look lovely in them--don't you think so,
Philip?"
"She looks lovely in anything," answers the loyal lover, and Lady Vera
shivers and represses a sigh. Now and then a shadow from the nearing
future falls darkly over her spirit. The memory of her vow of vengeance
falls like an incubus over her spirit. What will Philip say to this
strange vow of hers, she asks herself over and over.
She gives Worth _carte blanche_ for the dresses, and in a few weeks
they go up to London, already filling up with fashion and beauty. No
one knows how regretfully Lady Vera looks back upon the happy hours she
has spent at Fairvale Park with her happy lover. They see that her face
is graver, but they do not guess her thoughts. How should they? No one
dreams of that oath of vengeance bequeathed her by her dead father. No
one knows how often she whispers to herself in the still watches of the
wakeful nights:
"Soon I shall be face to face with Marcia Cleveland, and must punish
her for her wicked sins. How shall I strike her best? What form will my
vengeance take?"
* * * * *
Invitations began to pour in upon them as soon as they were fairly
settled at Clive House. Lady Clive decides to attend Lady Spencer's
grand ball.
Sir Harry objects.
"There will be a crush," he says. "Lady Spencer always asks everybody."
"Precisely why I am going," responds his vivacious wife. "Crowds always
amuse me. Besides, we will see almost everybody who will be here for
the season."
"Your countrymen, those rich Americans, will be there," Sir Harry
insinuates, maliciously.
"I can stand that, too," Lady Clive retorts. "I am not to be daunted by
trifles. Besides, I want Philip and Vera to see those people."
Lady Vera says not a word, but her heart beats high, and there is some
little triumph mingled with her thoughts.
"Will Mrs. Cleveland and her daughter know me?" she asks herself. "Will
they recognize the poor girl whom they injured and insulted so cruelly
in the wealthy and honored Countess of Fairvale?"
She selects one of her loveliest dresses--a silvery white brocade,
trimmed with a broidery and fringe of gleaming pearls. No jewels mar
the rounded whiteness of her perfect arms and stately throat. The
waving, golden hair is piled high upon her graceful head, with no
ornament save a cluster of velvety white pansies.
"They say that my enemies' jewels are almost barbaric in their
splendor. I will show them that I am lovely enough to leave my jewels
at home," she tells herself, with some little girlish triumph.
CHAPTER XX.
At Darnley House on the night of Lady Spencer's ball, all the devices
of art and the aid of two well-nigh distracted maids are called in
to beautify Mrs. Leslie Noble for her _debut_ in London fashionable
society. Her small, pale, faded face is rejuvenated by _rouge_ and
powder, the hair-dresser furnishes a tower of straw-gold puffs to crown
her own sparse locks, and add dignity and hight to her low stature. Her
dress is a _chef-d'oeuvre_ of the Parisian man milliner--palest blue
satin, with diaphanous, floating draperies of blue embroidered crape.
A magnificent diamond necklace clasps her small throat. Bracelets of
diamonds shine on her wrists, diamonds blaze in her hair, diamond
clasps hold the azure draperies in place. From head to foot the small
blonde sparkles with splendor, and her weak soul thrills with vanity.
She is determined to create a sensation, and to have the incense of
admiration poured at her shrine.
When she has fretted and worried through the process of dressing, and
slapped the face of one maid, and scolded the other one into floods of
tears, she sends for her mother to come into the dressing-room.
There is a little delay, and then Mrs. Cleveland sails in, gorgeous
in crimson brocade and rubies, her black eyes shining with triumphant
satisfaction at her own really fine appearance. But Ivy, absorbed in
her own self, has no admiration to spare for her mother.
"I sent for you, mamma, to ask you how I look," she says. "These stupid
women have worried me into a fever. They can do nothing right. Tell me,
do you think any of these proud, titled dames will outshine me in the
ball-room to-night?"
Mrs. Cleveland's glance roves critically over the resplendent figure.
All the appliances of wealth and art cannot hide the fretful,
ill-natured look on the small, thin face, nor the shrewish light in the
pale-blue eyes.
"Your dress is faultless--I do not believe anyone will be more
magnificent than you," she answers; "but try to look more complaisant,
do, Ivy. You have no idea how that fretful look mars the beauty of
your face. Remember you will have some formidable rivals to-night. The
grandest and most beautiful women in London will be at Lady Spencer's
ball."
"I am as pretty as any of them," Mrs. Noble cries, irascibly. "I don't
see why I am to be cautioned against my looks so much. An angel would
lose her temper. There was Leslie to-day, telling me to look for my
laurels, for the beauty of last season would be there, and carry all
before her?"
"The Countess of Fairvale--yes, I have heard that she would be there,"
Mrs. Cleveland answers. "I am quite curious to see her. She is as
lovely as a dream, they say, a dark-eyed blonde with golden hair."
"Leslie saw her portrait at Delany's--the great artist, you know," Mrs.
Noble answers. "Would you believe he had the insolence to tell me she
reminded him of that wretched creature--Vera Campbell?"
"_She_ had dark eyes and fair hair, you remember," Mrs. Cleveland
answers, carelessly.
"Yes, but the idea of comparing her to a great beauty like this Lady
Fairvale--that girl who was no better than a servant!" Mrs. Noble
cries, indignantly.
"Well, well, there is no use to be jealous of the dead. Vera Campbell
was beautiful, certainly, but Leslie never cared for her, you know,"
Mrs. Cleveland answers, impatiently.
"Precious little he cares for me, either," her daughter complains. "He
pretended to love me once, but he has dropped even the pretense long
ago!"
"What does it matter? You are his wife, and spend his money all the
same," Mrs. Cleveland answers, heartlessly. "Come, Ivy, if you mean
to attend the ball to-night, it's time to be off. For Heaven's sake,
smooth those ugly frowns off your face before we reach Lady Spencer's,
or people will think you old and ugly in spite of your diamonds."
Ivy's pale eyes flash with rage at the cool reminder, but she is wise
enough to know that her mother is speaking for her good. She dabs on
a little more pearl powder, takes up her white satin cloak lined with
snowy swan's-down, and with a fond, farewell glance into the mirror,
turns to go.
"You need not fear for me, mamma," she says, summoning a smile to her
painted lips. "I shall be as bright and smiling as the Countess of
Fairvale herself. But I wonder where Leslie can be! He drank so much
wine at dinner that I am afraid he is in no condition to attend us."
A door opens suddenly to her right, and Mr. Noble appears in full
evening dress, his face somewhat flushed, but looking otherwise none
the worse for the wine his wife deplores. He looks ungraciously at his
resplendent wife.
"So you have got on all your war-paint," he sneers. "How ridiculously
over-dressed you are, Ivy. You make one think of a jeweler's
show-window. A pity you could not have bored a hole through your nose,
and hung a diamond there, too."
"A pity you drank enough wine at dinner to make you a drunken boor,"
she retorts angrily.
CHAPTER XXI.
Dazzling vistas of gorgeous rooms; a blaze of light and flowers
everywhere: men and women in festive attire; over all, the throb and
swell of the gay, sweet, maddening dance-music.
Lady Spencer's ball is in full blast, and as Sir Harry Clive predicted,
it is a "crush." But after all everyone seems to be enjoying it, even
Mrs. Noble, who, in a conspicuous position, and surrounded by a small
circle of diamond-admirers, deems herself an acknowledged belle, and
gives herself pleasant and coquettish little airs, accordingly.
"I have seen no one any prettier than I am," she confides to her
mother, in a delighted whisper. "If that Lady Fairvale is here
she cannot be a very great beauty. Doubtless she has been greatly
overrated. I fancy that girl over there in the pink satin and opals
must be she. You observe she has fair hair with dark eyes."
"No; for that is Lady Alice Fordham, I am told," Mrs. Cleveland
answers. "I do not think the beauty has arrived yet."
"Staying late in order to create a sensation," Mrs. Noble sneers, then
returning to her own admirers, forgets the distasteful subject for
awhile in airing her own graces with the laudable intent of aggravating
her husband, who has retired to a distant part of the room in supreme
disgust.
But suddenly in Mrs. Noble's vicinity an eager whisper runs from lip
to lip, all eyes turn in one direction, a lady and gentleman advancing
down the center of the room are the cynosure of all eyes--Lady Fairvale
and Colonel Lockhart. Mrs. Noble catches her breath in unwilling admiration.
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