Countess Vera 28

Countess Vera 28

"Why are you here?" she asks, with scant courtesy and freezing contempt.

 

"To claim my wife," is the answer that rises impetuously to his lips,

but he restrains himself, feeling that so abrupt an avowal would be

poor policy in the face of her raging scorn.

 

"Lady Fairvale, surely you expected me to call after all that passed

_that_ night," he answers, in a low, smooth, deprecating voice, fixing

his soft, dark eyes pleadingly on her proud face.

 

"No, I did _not_ expect you to call," she flashes back scornfully.

"What can you possibly want of me? Did you not hear me say that night

that I scorned and hated you? Why, then, do you presume to intrude

yourself upon me?"

 

"I bring you news, my fair lady," he answers, still calmly and gently,

as if not resenting her scorn. "I have cabled to Washington, and

yesterday I received a reply."

 

"A reply," she echoes, faintly, and for a moment there is silence,

while he regards her with eager admiration, noting every graceful,

womanly charm so becomingly enhanced by the beautiful, white

morning-dress. After that interval he speaks.

 

"Yes, I have received my reply," he answers; "you were right, Lady

Fairvale, though God knows what strange mystery lies around your

supposed death and your rescue from the grave. But they have opened the

coffin in which I swear I beheld Vera Campbell Noble buried, and--_it

is empty_. I can no longer doubt that you are, indeed, my wife."

 

She stares at him with whitened lips, and a shudder of horror chills

her heart. Such truth is stamped upon his face that it seems impossible

to doubt. Yet she asks herself, with little, awsome chills creeping

over all her frame, is it possible that she, Vera, has actually lain in

the gloom and darkness of the grave? Has that warm, throbbing flesh,

instinct with life and vitality, been closed around with the blackness

of the coffin? Has the black earth been heaped upon her living form?

What fearful mystery is this?

 

"Tell me," she says, almost piteously, "is it true that Vera Campbell

died and was buried? Will you answer it?"

 

His face expresses the most honest surprise.

 

"Are you Vera Campbell, and pretend to doubt it?" he answers. "This is

a mystery I cannot fathom. The girl, Vera, whom I made my wife by her

mother's wish, committed suicide, and was buried in Glenwood. This I

swear by this holy book," lifting a Bible lying on the table beside

him, and pressing his lips upon it. "If you would go to America, Lady

Fairvale, you would see the monument I erected in Glenwood to the

memory of my wife!"

 

And again there is silence while Lady Vera, standing silently with

little thrills of icy coldness creeping over her frame, shudders to

herself. So they had buried her while she lay in that trance-like

slumber. How had her father resurrected her, and why had he held it a

secret?

 

Wondering at her silence, he speaks again.

 

"I have answered your question truly and fairly, Lady Vera. Let me ask

you one in turn. Are you really ignorant of the fact that you have

undoubtedly been buried alive?"

 

She shivers, palpably. All the warmth of the summer sunshine cannot

keep back the icy winds that seem to blow over her like arctic waves.

 

"I never even imagined anything so horrible," she answers. "I

distinctly remember my maddened attempt at suicide. There were two

small vials in my mother's medicine chest. One meant death, the other

sleep. I chose the poison, as I thought; drank it, and lay down to

die. But I had made a mistake. I fell into a deep, narcotic sleep. I

awakened in the dawn of another day and found myself in a small, humble

room, watched over by a man who declared himself to be my father. I

know no more than this."

 

"Yet he, undoubtedly, rescued you from the grave and concealed the fact

from some motive of his own," Leslie Noble answers. "It was a mistaken

kindness on his part. There are those who are ready to doubt your

identity on the score of your ignorance of that strange event in your

life, Lady Vera--some who would insinuate that you are an impostor and

have no right to the title you bear. But I am not one of those carping

disbelievers. I am quite convinced that you are really the Vera we

believed to be dead so long, and I am ready to acknowledge you and to

make reparation and atonement for the unconscious wrong I have done

you."

 

"To make atonement--how?" Lady Vera asks him, with a curling lip and

scornful eye.

 

Her scorn disconcerts him for a moment. His face flushes and his eyes

fall, then he rallies, facing her with assumed calmness and humility

that but poorly hide the eagerness of his heart.

 

"In the only way possible, of course," he answers. "By repudiating and

putting aside the lady whom I married after your supposed death, and by

installing you in your rightful place. Will you come home to me, Vera,

my beautiful wife? Darnley House shall open wide its door to receive

you, and there is no more beautiful home in London. It is elegant

enough for you, even, my haughty princess."

 

She stares at him speechless with anger and amazement.

 

"Will you come to me, Vera?" he repeats, half opening his arms and

speaking very tenderly.

 

She retreats before him as he advances. Her face flames with anger.

 

"How dare you--how dare you?" she pants, brokenly. "I scorn you, Leslie

Noble! Surely you know that. Why, you are less to me than the dust

beneath my feet."

 

"I am your husband by your own confession," he answers, sullenly, and

with the fire of baffled purpose blazing in his eyes.

 

"Yes, you are my husband," she answers, with a scorn intense enough to

blight him where he stands. "You are my husband, but you have no rights

over me that I shall acknowledge, be sure of that. You forfeited all

claim on my respect in that hour when you stood tamely by and suffered

my enemies to insult and revile me, while you, my husband, uttered no

word to defend me from their wicked abuse."

 

"I was a fool, and blind then," he answers. "I was weakly dominated and

ruled by a passion for Ivy Cleveland, which, God knows, I have rued and

repented long ago. I know her now for what she is, a selfish, heartless

woman, and her mother, a devil incarnate. I have told them that there

is no bond between us, and that they must go. If you will forgive me

and come home to me, Vera, I will devote my life to your happiness."

 

"If that is all you came for, you may go," she answers, icily. "I shall

never be nearer to you than I am at this moment. I should never have

confessed my secret, I should never have claimed you, whom I hate and

scorn, for my husband, but that it was the only way to keep my oath

of vengeance to my dying father. But I have done with you now. The

greatest kindness you can show me, Leslie Noble, is never to let me see

your hated face again on earth."

 

Leslie Noble's face grows dark with passion and shame. To be defied

and scorned by this beautiful girl is something that would make most

men cower and feel humiliated, and though this man has had the most of

his finer feelings dulled and blunted by his life with the Clevelands,

still some faint instinct of shame stirs in him at her words and looks.

But rage overpowers it.

 

"In your supreme scorn for me, Lady Fairvale, you seem to lose sight of

one stubborn fact," he answers, in low, menacing tones. "I have been

humbly pleading with you for what I may lawfully claim as my right."

 

"Your right!" she echoes, retreating toward the door as if she could

not bear another word.

 

"Yes, my right," he answers, following and placing himself between her

and the door. "Do not go, Lady Fairvale; stay and hear me out. You are

my wife; your place is in my home and by my side. What is there to

hinder me from taking possession of you?"

 

There is a dull menace in his look and tone, but Lady Vera's high

courage does not falter.

 

"Would you attempt such a thing against my will?" she inquires, fixing

on him the scornful gaze of her proud, dark eyes.

 

"I have fallen in love with you, Vera, I would dare much before I would

give up the hope of winning your heart in return," he answers, doggedly.

 

The angry color flames into her cheeks.

 

"Then you are simply mad," she answers. "Have I not told you that I

hate and despise you, and that I hope never to see your face again

after this hour? Were you the last man on earth, I should never give

you even one kind thought.""Perhaps you have given your love elsewhere," he sneers. "Rumor assigns Colonel Lockhart the highest place in your favor."