Countess Vera 22

Countess Vera 22

For surely since Adam and Eve were paired in the Garden of Eden, no

more beautiful pair had been created than these two!

 

Colonel Lockhart, to humor a whim of his sister's, appeared in the

splendid and becoming uniform of a colonel in the United States Army.

His martial form and handsome face appeared princely in his becoming

garb, and his fine, dark-blue eyes were sparkling with pride and

happiness as they rested on the lovely girl who hung upon his arm with

all the confidence of first, pure, innocent love.

 

"She is as lovely as a dream," Mrs. Cleveland had said to her daughter,

and Ivy, with a gasp of envy, is fain to acknowledge the truth.

 

Tall, slenderly formed, with

 

"Cheek of rose and brow of pearl,

Shadowed by many a golden curl,"

 

with dark eyes radiating light beneath the drooping, ebon lashes, with

neck and arms moulded like the gleaming white marble of a sculptor's

masterpiece, and guiltless of all adornment; with that silvery robe

sweeping about the stately form as if the mist of the sea had enveloped

her, Lady Vera looks and moves "a queen," gracious, lovely, smiling,

as if the shadow of a great despair were not brooding over that golden

head.

 

"Not a jewel, scarcely a flower, and yet more perfect than an artist's

dream," Mrs. Cleveland whispers maliciously to her overbearing daughter.

 

But Ivy forgets to be angry at the little thrust. She stares at the

beautiful vision, pale to the very lips.

 

"Leslie was right," she murmurs, like one dazed. "She frightens me, she

is so like--so like that dead girl, Vera. Do you not see it, mamma?"

 

"Yes, but why should a mere chance likeness frighten you?" Mrs.

Cleveland retorts, with subdued scorn.

 

Lady Vera has not seen her enemies yet. A group of admirers has closed

around her, and for a little while she forgets that she will meet here

the heartless and vindictive woman who destroyed the happiness of her

parents. Her lover claims her hand for the dance, and she passes from

their sight a little space.

 

Colonel Lockhart is radiant with joy and pride. The hum of admiration

that follows his darling everywhere is music in his ears.

 

"My darling, do you see how every eye follows you?" he whispers, fondly.

 

But Lady Vera laughs archly in the happiness of her heart.

 

"You are mistaken. They are only admiring your uniform," she retorts,

gayly, and the soldier thinks to himself that surely the smile upon the

crimson lips is the gladdest and sweetest that ever rejoiced a lover's

heart.

 

But it fades suddenly, the glad, sweet smile, and the blush upon the

rounded cheek.

 

The dance is over, and they are lingering together by a stand of rare

and fragrant flowers.

 

Suddenly the blush and smile fade together. A strange, stern look comes

into the dark eyes, she drops the rose that her lover has just placed

in her hand.

 

"Vera," he asks, looking anxiously at her, "what ails you, dear? You

have grown so grave."

 

She looks up at him with strange eyes, from which the light and joy of

a moment ago have faded as if they had never been.

 

"Philip, who is that woman over there, in the crimson brocade and

rubies?" she asks, indicating the person by a slight inclination of her

head.

 

His glance follows hers.

 

"That woman--yes, someone told me awhile ago that she was a

countrywoman of mine, a Mrs. Cleveland. The one next her, in the

diamonds, is her daughter."

 

Lady Vera is silent a moment, gazing steadily at the unconscious two.

 

She has recognized them instantly, and only asked the question to "make

assurance doubly sure." Some of the bitterness in the heart rises up to

her face. Her lips curl in scorn.

 

Colonel Lockhart regards her anxiously, puzzled by the inexplicable

change in her face.

 

"What is it, Vera? Do you know these people?" he asks.

 

"How should I know them?" she asks, trying to throw off the weight that

has fallen on her heart.

 

"Are you ill, then? These flowers are too heavy and sweet, perhaps.

Shall I take you away?" he inquires.

 

"Not yet," she answers.

 

She continues gazing steadily at Mrs. Cleveland and her daughter. To

her heart she is saying over and over:

 

"I am face to face with my enemies at last. What form will my vengeance

take?"

 

In a moment that question that she has asked herself so many times is

terribly answered.

 

Watching Ivy with her strange, intent gaze, she sees a gentleman come

up to her side.

 

"Am I mad," she asks herself, with terrible calm despair, "or is it

really Leslie Noble?"

 

Her lover unconsciously answers the silent question.

 

"You see that dark, handsome man, Vera?" he says. "His name is Leslie

Noble. He is the husband of the lady in the diamonds."

 

She makes him no answer at first. Her eyes are wide and dark with

horror. All in a moment she sees plainly the awful answer to the

question so often asked of her shuddering heart.

 

"Vera, indeed you are ill. Let me take you away from the heavy scent of

these flowers," her lover pleads.

 

She starts like one waking from a dreadful dream, and clings to his arm.

 

"Yes, take me away," she echoes, in a far-off voice. "There are too

many flowers here, and the light hurts my eyes, and the music my heart."

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXII.

 

 

"My darling, I do not know what to think," Colonel Lockhart exclaims,

anxiously. "A moment ago you were so bright and happy--now you look

pale and startled, and your words are strange and wild. Has anything

frightened you, my darling?"

 

She lifts her heavy, dark eyes almost beseechingly to his own.

 

"Philip, please do not talk to me, now," she says. "Do not ask me any

questions. Only find me a quiet place away from the crowd, where I may

rest awhile. I am ill."

 

"I do not know where to find such a place, unless I take you into the

conservatory. I expect it is quite deserted now," he answers.

 

"We will go there, then," she replies.

 

Troubled at heart, and very anxious over his darling, Colonel Lockhart

leads her down through the long vistas of fragrant bloom to a quiet

seat under a slender young palm tree. There are very few flowers

here--only cool, green thickets of lovely, lace-like ferns, watered by

the sparkling fountain poured from the lifted urn of a marble Naiad.

 

"Will this spot suit you, Vera?" he inquires, anxiously.

 

She bows, and looks at him with her grave, sad gaze.

 

"Philip, you must leave me here alone for half an hour," she says, "I

wish to rest awhile. Then you may come to me."

 

"You look so ill and pale I am almost afraid to leave you alone," he

answers. "May I not remain near you, Vera? I will not talk to you, nor

weary you in any way. I will sit silently and wait your pleasure."

 

"I would rather be alone," she answers, wearily.

 

"Then I will go, my darling, but I shall be very anxious over you. It

will be the longest half hour of my life."

 

He stoops over her, and taking the sweet white face in his hands,

kisses the pale, drawn lips. A stifled sob breaks from her at the

thought that in a little while these kisses will be hers no longer.

 

"You are nervous, dear. Let me send my sister to you," he urges.

 

"I had rather be alone," she answers.

 

"Forgive me, dear. I will go, then," he answers, turning away.

 

The tall form disappears in the green, flowery shrubbery. The echo

of the firm, elastic footstep dies away. Lady Vera is alone at last,

sitting with folded hands and dark, terrified eyes, face to face with

the awful reality of her life's despair.

 

"Leslie Noble, my unloved and unloving husband, is alive and married

to his old love, Ivy Cleveland--how passing strange," she murmurs,

hollowly, to herself. "What strange mystery is here? Did he believe

me dead, as I did him? Or has he, in the madness of his love for Ivy,

recklessly plunged into sin? But if so, why did he bring her here where

they must meet me? There is some strange, unfathomable mystery here

which I cannot penetrate."

 

Alas, poor Vera! the gloom of a subtle mystery wraps thee round,

indeed, and the hand that held the key to the secret is cold in death.

 

Low moans gurgle over her lips, and blend with the murmur of the

fountain as it splashes musically into the marble basin. She is

thinking of her handsome, noble lover between whose heart and hers a

barrier has risen, wide and deep as the eternal Heaven.

 

"I must part from him, my Philip, my love!" she moans, "for in the

sight of God I am Leslie Noble's wife, even though before men he is Ivy

Cleveland's husband."

 

She bows her face in her hands, and bitter, burning tears stream

through her fingers. In all the hours when she has brooded over that

oath of vengeance made by her father's death-bed, no slightest thought has come to her in what terrible way she must keep her vow, and at what fearful cost to her life's happiness.