Countess Vera 23

Countess Vera 23

"What strange prescience came to my father in dying?" she asks herself,

in wonder. "How strangely his words were shaped to fit the awful

reality. I must punish Marcia Cleveland through her dearest affections,

he said. All her heart is centered on Ivy, and when I claim Leslie

Noble from her and cover her head with that awful shame, my father's

wishes will be fulfilled. And lest I should falter in my dreadful task,

he added that last clause, no matter at what cost to myself. Oh, God!

what will Philip say when he learns the truth? The way is plain before

me how to keep my vow. I, who loathe and despise Leslie Noble, must

claim him before God and man as my husband, and humiliate Ivy Cleveland

to the dust. In no other way can I punish Marcia Cleveland and avenge

my mother's wrongs."

 

"In no other way," the fountain seems to echo, as it splashes musically

down, and Lady Vera, turning coward now in the face of the terrible

future, prays in bitterest agony: "Oh, God! if I could die--die here

and now, with Philip's last fond kiss still warm upon my lips, before I

have to speak the dreadful words that will doom us to a living death in

life."

 

With an effort she shakes off, presently, the horror and dread and

shrinking repugnance with which she looks forward to the fulfillment of

her oath.

 

"Mother, forgive me," she weeps. "Do I not remember all your bitter

wrongs and mine, and how often my young heart burned to avenge them?

And shall I shrink back now when the flaming sword is in my hand, and

I am able to crush your enemy into the dust? No, no! What matter if it

breaks my heart? My gentle mother, yours was broken, too. And though I

tread on burning plow-shares, I will keep my oath of vengeance."

 

No faltering; no looking back now. Something of her father's haughty

spirit is infused into Lady Vera's soul. Her dark eyes light with the

strange fire that burns on the altar of her heart, and when her lover

comes anxiously to seek her, she has recovered all her usual calmness,

and greets him with a smile.

 

"You are better, dear?" he exclaims.

 

"Yes, and we will return to the ball-room now," she answers, resting

her icy fingers lightly against his arm.

 

Passing from the subdued light of the conservatory into the glare of

the ball-room, they come face to face with Leslie, with Ivy hanging on

his arm, flushed and heated from the dance. Lady Vera lifts her head

with stag-like grace, and looks steadily into their eyes, but beyond an

insolent stare from Ivy, and a glance of warm admiration from the man,

they give no sign of recognition. Lady Vera passes on, and Lady Clive

comes up to her, laughing.

 

"My dear, you have seen our country people--the rich Americans," she

says. "How do you like them?"

 

"I will tell you some day," she answers, in a strange tone, yet with a

careless smile.

 

Still later in the evening Lady Spencer seeks out the countess.

 

"Dear Lady Fairvale, will you allow me to introduce to you our American

guests?" she asks. "They are most anxious to know the beauty of the

season."

 

Lady Vera, growing pale as her white robe, draws her slight form

proudly erect.

 

"Pray, pardon my rudeness, Lady Spencer," she answers, coldly. "But I

must decline. I do not wish to know them."

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXIII.

 

 

Society, which likes nothing better than a bit of gossip, commented

considerably on the Countess of Fairvale's refusal to know the rich

Americans. There were some who blamed her and thought she was over-nice

and proud. The American Consul vouched for their respectability, and

their style of living attested to their wealth. What more could she

desire? Everyone else received them on equal terms. Why did Lady Vera

hold out so obstinately against speaking to them? It could only be a

girl's foolish whim--nothing more, for she assigned no reason for her

refusal.

 

But it created some little embarrassment at first. People did not

like to invite the countess and the Americans together for fear of an

unpleasant collision. They could not slight Lady Vera, and they did

not wish to offend the Americans. The affair was quite unpleasant, and

created some little notoriety.

 

"And after all, Lady Vera's mother was an American, and she was born in

the United States herself. Why should she hold herself above one of her

own country people?" said one of the knowing ones.

 

No one could answer the question, and least of all the Americans

themselves, who were secretly galled and humiliated almost beyond

endurance by the scorn and indifference of the proud and beautiful

young girl.

 

Mr. Noble was sorely chafed by Lady Vera's course. He had conceived a

great admiration for her, and desired to hear her talk, that he might

learn if her voice as well as her face resembled his dead wife, Vera,

the girl who had committed suicide rather than be an unloving wife.

Mrs. Cleveland, who had desired to know her because she was the fashion

just then, was very angry, too, but Ivy took it the hardest of all. She

considered it a deliberate and malicious affront to herself.

 

"The proud minx!" she said, angrily. "In what is she better than I am

that she should refuse to know me? I shall ask her what she means by

it."

 

"You will do no such thing," Mrs. Cleveland cries out, startled by the

threat. "You would make yourself perfectly ridiculous! We will pass

it over in utter silence, and show her that we cannot be hurt by such

foolish airs as she gives herself."

 

"I am as good as she. I will not be trampled upon!" Ivy retorts,

venomously. "What! is she made of more than common clay because she has

gold hair and black eyes, and a pink and white face like a doll? It

is all false after all, I have no doubt. Her hair is bleached by the

golden fluid, and her red and white bought at Madame Blanche's shop!"

 

"People who live in glass houses should never throw stones,"

interpolates her lord and master, thus diverting her wrath a moment

from Lady Vera and drawing it down upon his own devoted head.

 

* * * * *

 

But no one is more surprised at Vera's course than her lover, Colonel

Lockhart.

 

It is when they have gone home from Lady Spencer's ball, and he detains

her one moment in the drawing-room to say good-night, that he asks her

anxiously:

 

"Vera, my darling, what story lies behind your refusal to know these

people to-night?"

 

He feels the start and shiver that runs over the graceful form as he

holds her hand in his own. She looks up at him with such a white and

despairing face that he is almost frightened.

 

"Oh, Philip," she cries, in a voice of the bitterest pain, "I wish you

had not asked me that question yet. Believe me, you will know too soon."

 

"Then there is a story!" he exclaims.

 

"Yes," she answers, wearily. "But, Philip, let me go now. I am very

tired. You do not know all that I have borne to-night."

 

He folds the beautiful figure closely in his arms, and kisses the white

eyelids that droop so wearily over the sad, dark eyes.

 

"Forgive me for troubling you, darling," he says, tenderly. "I do not

wish to force your confidence, Vera. Only believe me, my own one, every

sorrow that rends your heart causes me unhappiness, too."

 

She lies still against that loyal heart one moment--oh, happy haven

of rest, never to be hers! then struggles from him with one last,

lingering kiss, and goes to her room and her sleepless couch to brood

alone in that dark, dark hour that comes before the dawn, over the

terrible discovery she has made.

 

For Colonel Lockhart the hours pass sleeplessly, too. The shadow of

Vera's unknown sorrow lies heavily upon his heart.

 

He rises early, and long before the late breakfast hour Lady Vera's

maid brings him a sealed note. He tears it hastily open, and her

betrothal ring falls sparkling into his hand.

 

"DEAR PHILIP," she writes, "I return your ring. A terrible barrier

has risen between us that all our love can never bridge over. So we

must part. And, oh! believe me, dearest, it breaks my heart to write

it. One thing I would ask you, Philip--will you go away from here and

save me the sorrow of meeting you again? I can bear my misery and my

impending shame far better if I cannot see you whom I have so fondly

loved, and must so fatefully resign.

 

"YOUR WRETCHED VERA."

 

"Has my darling grown mad?" the handsome soldier asks himself, staring

almost stupidly at the note and the ring in his hand. "What shame can

touch her, my beautiful, pure-hearted one? She is going to be ill,

perhaps, and this is but the vagary of a mind diseased."

 

So he writes back impulsively:

 

"VERA, let me see you for even ten minutes. Surely, my darling, you

do not mean what you say. What shame can touch you, my innocent love?

And why should you wish to send me away? Is it not my right and duty

and desire to stand by your side through all the trials of life?

 

"'Oh! what was love made for if 'tis not the same,

Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?'

 

"Do not ask me to leave you, darling. If indeed sorrow and trouble

are near you, my place is by your side. I will wait for you half an

hour in the library. Do not fail me, dear. I want to put your ring

back upon your finger.

 

"YOUR OWN PHILIP."

 

Lady Vera weeps bitterly over her lover's note.

 

"Ah, he does not know, he does not dream of the fatal truth," she

moans, wildly. "And what can I say to him? I cannot, I will not tell

him. I could not do it. I should die of the shame. He will know too

soon as it is. And yet I must go to him. He will not be denied. Oh! what shall I say to him, my poor boy?"