Countess Vera 4

Countess Vera 4

Mrs. Cleveland makes a step forward, resolving in her own mind "to

shake the breath out of that stubborn girl," but even her wicked nature

is awed by the still presence of death in the room, and she desists

from her heartless purpose, and, retreating to the door, pauses with

her hand on the latch to say, icily:

 

"Your mother's funeral will take place from the Epiphany Church this

afternoon. Mourning garments will be sent to your room for you to wear."

 

Vera springs to her feet with a heart-wrung cry:

 

"So soon! Oh, my God, you will not bury her out of my sight to-day,

when she only died last night!"

 

Mrs. Cleveland's haughty features are convulsed with anger.

 

"Hush, you little fool!" she bursts out, angrily. "Do you think that

dead people are such enlivening company that one need keep them in the

house any longer than is necessary to provide a hearse and coffin? Only

died last night, forsooth! Well, she is as dead now as she will be a

hundred years hence, and the funeral will take place this afternoon.

You will be ready to attend, if you understand what is good for

yourself."

 

So saying, she sweeps from the room, slamming the door heavily behind

her.

 

Alas, the bitterness of poverty and dependence. Vera throws herself

down by the side of the bed, and weeps long and bitterly, until

exhausted nature succumbs to the strain upon it, and she sleeps deeply,

heavily, dreamlessly, wrapped in a dumb, narcotic stupor rather than

healthful slumber. She is hustled out of the way at length that her

mother may be placed in the plain coffin that has been provided for

her, and a few hours later--oh, so piteously few--she is standing by

that open grave in Glenwood, hearing the dull thud of the earth, and

the patter of the rain upon the coffin, and the solemn voice of the

minister, repeating in tones that sound faint and far away to her dazed

senses, "Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust."

 

From her carriage, where she sits impatiently waiting the conclusion

of the sacred service, Mrs. Cleveland watches the scene, frowning

impatiently at the sight of Leslie Noble supporting Vera on his arm,

and holding his umbrella carefully over her, reckless of the rain-drops

that patter down on his uncovered head and face. Mrs. Cleveland does

not like the look of it at all. She regards Leslie as Ivy's own

especial property. Leslie is too kind-hearted. Why should he trouble

himself over Vera Campbell, her despised niece, who is no better

than a servant to Ivy, her idolized daughter. She does not like the

look of it at all, and when Leslie hands the sobbing girl into the

carriage, and takes a seat by her side instead of Mrs. Cleveland's, the

matron's vexation rises into almost uncontrollable rage. Biting her

lips fiercely, she resolves that as soon as they reach home she will

give the young man a broad hint to cease his little kindnesses in that

quarter.

 

The occasion comes very soon. It is almost dark when they reach home.

The gas is lighted and a cheerful fire glows in the luxurious parlor.

 

Mr. Noble leads his passive companion deliberately in, and installs her

in a cushioned seat before the fire. With deft fingers he removes the

heavy veil and hat, the black shawl, and the wet gloves, and chafes in

his own warm clasp the half-frozen little fingers.

 

"Upon my word!" drawls a thin little voice, full of anger and surprise.

 

Mr. Leslie, glancing up, sees Ivy reclining on a couch, and regarding

the scene with supercilious surprise commingled with anger. Mrs.

Cleveland, who has followed them into the room, stands still, a mute

statue of rage and dismay.

 

"I--I should like to know the meaning of this, Mr. Noble," she gasps at

length, haughtily. "I do not allow that girl in my parlor! Let her go

to the servants' room. They are good enough for the likes of her."

 

Mr. Leslie turns his pale, handsome face round with an air of surprise.

 

"She is your sister's child," he says, with reproach in every tone of

his voice.

 

"Yes, to my sorrow," Mrs. Cleveland flashes out. "Add to that that she

is a pauper and an ingrate! Vera Campbell, get up and go to your own

room. _You_ ought to know your place if Mr. Noble does not!"

 

Vera rises silently, and standing still a moment, looks up into Leslie

Noble's face. The supreme moment of her triumph has arrived. With a

nervous tremor she looks up into his face for courage to sustain her in

the trying ordeal of the Clevelands' wrath before its vials are poured

out upon her shrinking head.

 

But the __EXPRESSION__ of the handsome, troubled face does not exactly

satisfy her. He is not looking at her. His eyes are fixed on Ivy

Cleveland's pretty face with its pink cheeks and turquoise-blue eyes.

There is tenderness, regret and trouble in the rather weak though

handsome face.

 

"Go, Vera," Mrs. Cleveland reiterates, sternly and impatiently.

 

Then Leslie's eyes fall on the slight, black-robed figure standing in

silent, proud humility by his side.

 

He stoops over her, not to caress her, as for a moment she vaguely

fancied, but to whisper in her ear:

 

"Do as she bids you this time, Vera. Go to your room and sleep soundly

to-night. I will have it out with her now, and in the morning I will

take you away."

 

She flashes one quick glance into his troubled eyes, bows her head, and

goes mutely from the room. But something in that look haunts Leslie

Noble ever after. It seemed to him as if those dark eyes said to him

plainer than words could speak: "You are a coward. Are you not afraid

to acknowledge your wife?" He is right. The look in her eyes has been

palpable contempt.

 

She goes from the room, but only to enter the room adjoining the

parlor, and conceal herself behind the heavy, dark-green hangings. So

this is the grand triumph her imagination has pictured for her. This is

the weak way in which her husband takes her part against the world.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IV.

 

 

When Vera has gone from the room, an embarrassed silence falls. Mrs.

Cleveland is wondering what to say next. It is no part of her plan to

offend Leslie Noble. She prefers to conciliate him. For Leslie himself,

he is wondering in what terms he shall convey the truth to his arrogant

relative and her haughty daughter.

 

"You must not take offense, Leslie, at my interference in this case,"

Mrs. Cleveland stammers at length. "I know your kind, easy nature, and

I cannot tamely see you imposed upon by that wretched girl, who is the

most ungrateful and hard-hearted creature you could imagine, and only

fit to herd with the low and vulgar."

 

"I do not understand you," Mr. Noble answers, resting his arms on the

back of the chair, and turning on her a white, perplexed face.

 

"She comes of bad stock," answered Mrs. Cleveland. "Her mother, my

sister, married most wretchedly beneath her. The man was a low,

drunken, brutal fellow, with nothing under Heaven to recommend him but

a handsome face. As might have been expected, he abused and maltreated

his wife, and then deserted her just before the birth of his daughter,

who resembled him exceedingly in character as well as in person."

 

Leslie Noble winces. Pride of birth is a strong point with him. He is

exceedingly well-born himself. The story of this drunken, wife-beating

fellow thrills him with keenest disgust.

 

"Where is the fellow now--dead?" he asks anxiously.

 

"No, indeed; at least, not that I ever heard of," Mrs. Cleveland

answers. "I have no doubt he is alive somewhere, in state prison,

perhaps, and he will turn up some day to claim his daughter, and drag

her down to his own vile depths of degradation."

 

Mr. Noble is silent from sheer inability to speak, and Mrs. Cleveland

resumes, with apparent earnestness:

 

"I have my doubts whether I am acting right in keeping the girl

here. She is a dead expense to me, and the most ungrateful and

violent-tempered creature that ever lived. Would you believe that she

flew at poor, dear little Ivy, and boxed her ears this morning? My pity

and affection for my sister induced me to give them a home as long as

she lived, but now that her influence is withdrawn from Vera, she will

be perfectly unmanageable. I think I shall send her away."

 

"Where?" inquires Mr. Noble, trying to keep his eyes from the pink and

white face of Ivy, who is listening intently to every word, without

speaking herself.

 

"To some place where she may earn her own living, or, perhaps, to the

House of Correction. She sadly needs discipline," is the instant reply.

 

Leslie Noble's face turns from white to red, and from red to white

again. What he has heard has utterly dismayed him.

 

"I wish that I had known all this yesterday, or last night," he

mutters, weakly.

 

"Why?" Mrs. Cleveland asks, startled by the dejected tone.

 

Leslie Noble looks from her to Ivy, who has started into a sitting

posture, and fixed her blue eyes on his face.

 

"Because I have something shocking to tell you," he answers, growing

very pale. "You must not be angry with me, Mrs. Cleveland, nor you,

Ivy. It would not have happened if I had known all that I know now."

 

"Oh, what can you mean?" screams Ivy, startled into speech by her vague

fear.

 

"You remember that I declined the Riverton's ball last night on the

score of a violent headache?" he says, looking gravely at her.

 

"Yes, and I missed you _so_ much. I did not enjoy the ball _one bit_," she murmurs, sentimentally.