Countess Vera; or, The Oath of Vengeance

She sits down in a quiet corner, and Lord Gordon insists on fanning her, and showing her a new portfolio of engravings. This is his last evening with her, and like the reckless moth that he is, he singes his wings in the flame of her beauty.

Someone calls him away at last, and the girl's heart gives a great, muffled throb of relief. She is alone for the moment, in the quiet alcove, half hidden by the white lace curtain. Will Captain Lockhart come to her now? she asks herself, with a wildly-beating heart.

He sees her sitting there in her black dress and lily-white beauty, the light shining down on her golden head and star-like face. Some impulse stronger than his pride moves him to cross the room to her side. She glances up with a smile so dazzling in its joy, that Tennyson's lines rush into his mind:

"What if with her sunny hair,And smile as sunny as cold,She meant to weave me a snareOf some coquettish deceit,Cleopatra-like, as of old,To entangle me when we met,To have her lion roll in a silken net,And fawn at a victor's feet?"

He sits down in Lord Gordon's vacant chair, the little stand with the portfolio of new engravings and a vase of roses just between them. The countess takes one of the crimson roses and plays with it to hide her nervousness. She does not think how beautiful her slender, white hands look playing with the red leaves of the rose.

The handsome soldier is for once embarrassed. That smile which she had thought would tell him all has only puzzled him.

"Is she only a coquette, after all?" he asks himself. "Is she trying to draw me into the toils again that she may see how great is her power?"

With that thought he grows cold and hard toward her.

"Lady Vera, do you know that you are very cruel to that poor rose?" he asks.

"Am I? I did not mean to be," she answers, gently, looking down at the torn petals strewing her lap. "I did not really think what I was doing."

"You had better give it to me, I will care for it more tenderly," he pursues.

"Not this, but a sweeter one," she answers, with a beating heart.

Her white hands flutter over the vase a moment, and she selects a lovely scarlet one just opening into perfect bloom.

Bending her head with regal grace, she touches the rose to the crimson flower of her lips and holds it toward him.

Something in the strange significance of the action strikes him oddly. An eager, impetuous speech springs to his lips, but Miss Montgomery, who has seen the rose given, comes hastily up to them, interrupting him.

"Lord Gordon has been telling me of those beautiful new engravings. May I look at them, Lady Vera, if I do not interrupt your tete-a-tete?" she asks with sweet unconsciousness.

"Certainly. Pray take my seat," Lady Vera answers with icy coldness, moving away.

Captain Lockhart is about to follow her when the fair marplot claims his assistance in adjusting the stereoscope to the right focus.

Before she releases him the attention of Lady Vera is claimed by Sir Roger Mansfield, who admires her immensely.

She leans back in her chair listening to his lively sallies of wit and humor with a languid smile, in apparent forgetfulness of the episode of the roses.

"It was only a bit of careless coquetry. I was a fool to think she meant anything by it," the captain tells himself, angrily, turning away.

Fifteen minutes later they are all separating for the night, and Captain Lockhart and Lord Gordon make their adieux to the ladies because they must take the early train for London in the morning before the household is astir.

Lady Vera stands quietly waiting her turn. She has wished Lord Gordon farewell and bon voyage with a smile, and she summons all her pride to bear her up in her parting with Captain Lockhart.

He has left her for the last one, perhaps with some care that hers shall be the last hand he clasps, the last eyes he looks into on leaving England.

"Lady Vera, I have to thank you at parting that you have helped to make my stay in England very pleasant," he says, offering his hand, with his soldierly grace.

No reproaches for the pain she has caused him, the wrecked heart he carries away from the field whereon he was vanquished.

Only the brave, soldierly smile, and the courtly words. He wears the scarlet rose proudly on his breast, though he feels it to be a token of defeat.

Lady Vera lays her hand on his and tries to say something very calm and friendly, but the words die on her white lips.

She is very pale; he cannot help from seeing that. Her voice is very gentle, but so low he fails to catch the words.

She does not look up at him; that is what pains him most. How is he to know that the lowered lids veil the terrible pain in the dark eyes she cannot lift to meet his yearning glance.

Others are looking on, and Vera, Countess of Fairvale, is too proud to wear her heart on her sleeve. The message of the rose has failed, and there is now no other sign to tell him that she loves him and would fain take back the denial of yesterday.

So he goes, wounded by the coldness of her parting, yet wondering a little why the hand that lay a moment in his own had felt so icy cold.

Ah, if he only had guessed the truth. But nothing was further from Captain Lockhart's thoughts than that Lady Vera loved him and longed to let him know the truth.

He carried back with him to his native land the memory of a fair face and a heart that seemed colder than the beautiful iceberg to which he had likened her in the bitterness of his pain.

For Lady Vera, she glides from the room, calm and cold to all outward seeming, but filled with the bitterness of a great despair.

The long night passes in a weary vigil, and the handsome soldier never dreams whose dark eyes watch his departure next morning while the words of his song echo through her heart and brain.

"As the sword wears the scabbard,The billow the shore,So sorrow doth fret meForevermore."

CHAPTER XVII

Long before the next season began in London, loud-tongued Madam Rumor was talking of the rich Americans who had bought Darnley House, that splendid mansion, from its ruined owner, and refitted it anew with almost princely magnificence, and filled it with troops of obsequious servants who held it in charge while the owners courted pleasure abroad.

The most ridiculous stories were abroad concerning these people.

They were said to possess unlimited wealth; their diamonds were believed to equal Queen Victoria's; it was confidently reported and universally believed that they owned mines of gold and diamonds in Nevada and California.

If the rumors had been traced back to their source it would have been found that the American ladies themselves had artfully promulgated these reports, but this was not known.

The stories usually came from the servants of Darnley House, and confidently accepted, for are not hirelings always supposed to know the affairs of their masters and mistresses?

Society was on the qui vive for the beginning of the season when, it was said, the Americans expected to take possession of their magnificent residence, and astonish the world with their splendor and eclat.

Meanwhile the three Americans with whom gossip made so free, were disporting themselves in the delights of leisurely travel, taking in Germany, Italy and Switzerland, in their round of pleasure.

Lady Clive, meeting them in Switzerland, had written thus to the Countess of Fairvale, who contrary to all persuasion had gone home to Fairvale Park to spend the summer quietly with a prim, elderly gentlewoman as chaperon:

"We have some Americans here. You know I usually adore everything that hails from the land of the free, being one of them myself. But, really, I could not fraternize with these people. The man was well enough, but the wife and the mother-in-law—well, dearest Vera, the English language has no term strong enough to express my antipathy. They are abominably rich, I believe. I hear that they have bought and refurnished Darnley House with a view to spending the season in London. If they do you will meet them, as you have promised to come to Clive House for the season.

"Do you care to hear about Philip, poor, dear boy? They sent him out on the plains, poor dear, to fight the Indians, wretched creatures, this summer. He has been wounded in the shoulder, and promoted to a colonelcy for bravery. Lord Gordon is coming over in time for the hunting season, I hear, but Philip will not promise to get leave and come with him.

"Dear Vera, I wish you would have come with us. I know you are moped to death in your grand, but lonely home, with prim old Mrs. Vance for your duenna. As soon as we go home to Sunny Bank and rest up a little, we mean to take you by storm, Sir Harry, and I, and all the children."

Lady Vera smiles over that last threat. The news is very welcome. She fancies how much brighter Fairvale Park will seem with Lady Clive's happy children chasing the deer in the wide, green park, and gathering the lilies from the peaceful lake. She takes no interest in the story of the rich Americans, but later on a letter comes to her from New York, which, oddly enough, instantly recalls Lady Clive's letter to her mind.

The letter is from the New York detective whom her father had employed to track his enemy to her hiding-place. Lady Fairvale having retained him in her employ, he writes, briefly and respectfully:

"I have traced the Clevelands at last only to lose them again. They have been living in Florida all the while. The daughter has married a rich man, and this summer they came to New York, and soon after sailed for England. I learn that they are now traveling in Switzerland with great eclat, so that your ladyship will scarcely fail to hear of them."

Lady Vera is walking slowly by the beautiful lake, brooding deeply over this letter. She does not see the white lilies nodding their heads among the broad, green leaves, nor the soft breeze dimpling the placid water into tiny laughing wavelets. She is thinking of Lady Clive's story of the rich Americans, to whom she had conceived an antipathy.

"They must be one and the same," she tells herself, "but I cannot write to Lady Clive and ask her, because she is traveling all the while, and gives me no address. But I shall see them in London, as they will be there for the season. And so Ivy has married since her old lover, Leslie Noble, died. I wonder whom she has beguiled into taking her? Whoever he may be, I pity him, being tied to such a shrew! Well, well, the time for my vengeance is near at hand. What shape will it take, I wonder?"

A wind, colder than that which ruffles the lilies on the lake, seems to chill her graceful form, as she recalls the words of her vow:

"I swear, by all my hopes of happiness, that I will punish that woman through her dearest affections—that, at any cost to myself, I will avenge my mother's wrongs! They are rich, arrogant, prosperous. How can I hurt them?" she muses. "What blow can I strike at their stony hearts that will avenge the wrongs of the dead? Shall I tell the world the story of my mother's wrongs and mine? Marcia Cleveland and her cruel daughter would only laugh me to scorn if I did. Yet I must think of some plan to humble them. I am bound by my oath to the dead. All is blank before me yet; I cannot see one step before me to the accomplishment of my task. Would it be wrong to ask God to help me to punish those wicked and cruel women?"

What form will her vengeance take? Day and night the lonely young countess broods over that puzzling question. She forms a hundred schemes and abandons them all. Some of them are too dreadful. Her pure, delicate nature recoils from them. She grows pale and thin brooding over this vexing question. It banishes for a time even the remembrance of Captain Lockhart from her mind. She scarcely eats or sleeps. Long hours she wanders by the quiet lake, up and down, up and down, like a sentry on his post, heedless of Mrs. Vance's remonstrances on her pale and altered looks.

"You live too much alone, I fear," the kind chaperon remonstrates. "It is not well for the young to live so quiet and isolated a life as you are doing, my dear. You should accept the invitations of the county families, and entertain them in return."

"I am in mourning," Lady Vera objects, wearily.

"But I do not mean for you to be very gay, my dear Lady Vera. If you would even invite some young lady of your own age to come and visit you it would be so much livelier for you. There is Miss Montgomery, for instance. She is at Sir William Spencer's. I dare say she would come if you invited her."

"I detest Miss Montgomery," Lady Vera replies, with unusual pettishness.

"Someone else, then; anyone whom you could like," Mrs. Vance suggests.

"There is no one," Lady Vera answers. "I expect Lady Clive soon. We shall have a little gaiety then. I will have no one else before that."

"I do not think you are well, Lady Vera. You have lost your color, you are growing thin, your eyes look large in your face. Will you not consult a physician?" Mrs. Vance goes on, resolutely.

"No; for I am perfectly well," Lady Vera answers, impatiently. "Pray do not take up idle fancies about me, Mrs. Vance."

So the good lady, sighing, desists, and Countess Fairvale "gaes her ain gait."

The bright days of September wane and fade, and October comes in bright and sunny.

Every day now Lady Vera looks for Lady Clive to come. Her spirits grow brighter at the thought.

Sitting in the grand drawing-room one pleasant evening, with Mrs. Vance nodding placidly in a corner, and the soft breeze fluttering the lace draperies at the open windows, she touches the keys of the grand piano, pouring out her sad young soul in plaintive melodies. Song after song thrills out upon the air, each one sadder and sweeter than the last, as though

"The anguish of the singer made the sweetness of the strain."

Very beautiful looks Lady Vera in her thin, black robe, with knots of pure white pansies at her throat and waist, very beautiful and girlish still, though she is almost twenty, and a woman's sorrow is written all over her lovely, mobile face, that rises like some fair, white lily above her somber robe.

Memory is busy at her heart to-night. She has forgotten the Clevelands for a little while, and is thinking of her princely-looking soldier lover far away beneath those American skies where her own young life was passed.

She loves him still. In vain the nobles of her father's land sue for her favor.

All her heart is given to that untitled lover who comes of a land

"Where they bow not the knee,Save to One unto whom monarchs bow down."

Almost unconsciously she touches the keys and sings one of our best loved songs:

"On the banks of Allan WaterWhen the sweet spring-tide did fall,There I saw the miller's daughter,Fairest of them all!For his bride a soldier sought her,And a winning tongue had he;On the banks of Allan Water,None so gay as she!"On the banks of Allan Water,When brown autumn spread his store,There I saw the miller's daughter,But she smiled no more!For the summer grief had brought her,And the soldier false was he;On the banks of Allan Water,None so sad as she!"

"Nay, nay, Lady Vera, a libel on the soldier," a voice cries over her shoulder.

She springs up wildly, with a startled cry:

"Captain Lockhart!"

CHAPTER XVIII

It is Philip Lockhart, indeed, towering above her, tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, as if her yearning thoughts had embodied themselves. Lady Vera cannot keep the joy out of her voice and face.

"Is it really you?" she cries, touching him gently with one soft, white hand, her dark eyes moist with gladness.

"It is really Philip Lockhart," he laughs. "I am avant-coureur for Nella, who will descend upon you to-morrow, bag and baggage, with all the little imps. Will you pardon me, Lady Fairvale, for my impudence in entering by the open window? Your sweet music tempted me."

"The pleasure of seeing you so unexpectedly might well condone a greater offense," she answers, smiling.

Then she blushes deeply, for the beautiful, dark-blue eyes look down into her own, gravely and thoughtfully.

"Thank you," he answers; "I had grave doubts of a welcome, and you set my mind at ease. The truth is I came down with Lord Gordon to Sir William Spencer's for the hunting, and Nella desired me to call and apprise you of her meditated descent upon your fold."

She freezes over so suddenly and subtly that he is mystified.

"Pray sit down, Colonel Lockhart," with the coolest courtesy. "All this while I have kept you standing."

He accepts the offered chair and his altered position brings in range of his sight Mrs. Vance dozing blissfully in a luxurious arm-chair.

"My companion," Lady Vera explains.

The blue eyes look at her pleadingly, with a half-smile in them.

"Pray do not disturb her dreams on my account. I shall be going directly."

She sits down listlessly enough on the piano-stool facing him. Some of the first glow of brightness has faded from her face, showing him the subtle change six months has made in it. The once bright cheek is pale and clear, the dark eyes look darker still by contrast with the dark purple shadows lightly outlined beneath them. He marvels, but dares not speak of it.

"I am very glad Lady Clive is coming; I have been expecting her some time," she observes.

"I thought you were glad to see me at first," he answers, plaintively, "but now you have frozen over again."

"You took me by surprise," she replies, with dignity. "I thought you were not coming to England this winter. Lady Clive wrote me something like that."

"I did not intend to come; I knew it was wiser to stay away. 'A burnt child dreads the fire' you know. But something drew me against my will. It was like your song, Lady Vera:

"'I strove to tear thee from my heart,The effort was in vain;The spell was ever on my life,And I am here again.'"

The warm color flies into her face again. The lines recall that night when she had tried to show him her heart, and the caprice of a coquette had come between them. She asks, with irrepressible pique:

"Was Miss Montgomery glad to see you?"

"Glad? Why should she be?" he asks her, wondering if that strange discord in her voice can really be pique and jealousy. Spite of Lady Vera's pride, it sounds marvelously like it.

"She liked you, I thought," she answers, flushing under the steady fire of his eyes.

"Did she? I am sure I did not know it," he fibs, unblushingly. "I never thought of any other save you, Lady Vera. You were my only love. I have carried the rose you gave me ever since that night when we parted so coldly."

He comes nearer to her side, and taking the withered rose from his breast, holds it out before her gaze. She looks up and sees the old, warm love-light shining on her from the deep blue eyes. The sight makes her brave to speak.

"Yet if you had understood the message of the rose, we need not have parted at all," she falters, low and softly, with crimson blushes burning her lovely face.

"Vera, my love, my queen!"

He has bowed on one knee before her that he may look into the dark eyes so sweetly veiled beneath the drooping lashes. A rapture of happiness quivers in his voice.

"Lady Vera, tell me, do you mean that you repented after all? Did you find that my devotion had not been lavished in vain, and that you could give me love for love? Was that the message of the rose, my beautiful darling?"

No answer from the sweet, quivering lips, but that swift, quickly withdrawn glance from the dewy eyes tells Lady Vera's story plainer than words to her lover's heart.

The rose has carried its tender message at last, in spite of a hundred Miss Montgomerys, and if the sleepy chaperon should open her placid eyes now she would be shocked beyond recovery, for Colonel Lockhart, with all the boldness of a soldier, has drawn his darling into the shelter of his arms, and pressed the golden head close against the brave and loyal heart that beats for her alone.

CHAPTER XIX

Imagine Lady Clive's delight when she learns that her brother is to marry her favorite, Lady Vera.

"It is what I most wished upon earth," she says, "but I had despaired of ever having my heart's desire. You never acted much like lovers, you two."

"You see I never intended to marry, so I did not encourage lovers, then," Lady Vera explains.

"And now?" Lady Clive inquires, with a roguish twinkle of her bright, blue eyes.

"Now I have changed my mind," the countess exclaims, evasively.

"Lovely woman's divine prerogative," laughs her friend. "But do you know that malicious people will say that you have quite thrown yourself away in marrying a plain, untitled American?"

"I am quite indifferent to what they will say," the young countess replies, serenely. "I shall have secured my own happiness, and that is the main point. For the rest, I am not anxious over titles. You know I am part American myself."

"Yes, I know, but this is the first time I have ever heard you allude to it," Lady Clive replies. "I fancied you were ashamed of the Yankee strain in your blood."

The sensitive color rushes warmly into Lady Vera's cheek.

"I was," she admits, "but I had no need to be. My mother was one of the fairest, sweetest, and purest of America's daughters. Yet I had a prejudice against the people of her native land and mine, a girl's prejudice that made me unjust to the many because I hated a few. Some day I will tell you about my life in America, Lady Clive, and you will understand me better, perhaps."

"Shall you go back to the United States with Phil, or shall you prefer a life in England?" Lady Clive inquires.

"We have not settled that yet," the young girl answers, blushing.

Her face has grown very thoughtful as she speaks. A moment later she asks, in an altered voice:

"Who were those American people whom you met in Switzerland, Lady Clive?"

Lady Clive seemed to reflect.

"You mean those vulgarly rich people?" she inquires.

"Yes."

"My dear, I have quite forgotten what they were called. I have such a poor memory for names. But no matter. You will see them in London this winter," Lady Clive replies.

And again the vexing question which she has forgotten since yesterday, recurs to Lady Vera's mind:

"What form will my vengeance take?"

But no faintest idea comes to her of the terrible truth. If anyone were to whisper it to her in these first hours of her great new happiness, it would surely strike her dead. The shock of pain would be too great for endurance.

But fate withholds the blow as yet, and some golden days of peace and happiness dawn for Lady Vera.

With Lady Clive's arrival she inaugurates a little reign of gaiety that rejoices the heart of Mrs. Vance. She gives and receives invitations. Colonel Lockhart rides over daily to spend long hours by his lady's side, reading, singing, talking to each other in the low, sweet tones of lovers. Lord Gordon consoles himself with Miss Montgomery, who secretly confides to him that she "cannot imagine what Colonel Lockhart sees in that haughty Lady Fairvale."

"She is beautiful," Lord Gordon answers, loyal to his old love yet.

"I do not admire her style. She is too slim—too American in her looks," Miss Montgomery rejoins. She is inclined to embonpoint herself, and envies every slender woman she sees.

Lord Gordon does not dispute her charge. He is too wise for that. But in his heart he wonders why Lady Vera had reconsidered her rejection of his friend, and wishes that he had been the happy man blest by her preference.

Lady Vera, on her part, has quite forgotten the coquette's existence in her serene, new happiness. Philip is her love, her lord, her king. She forgets all else save him who holds her heart. The light comes back to her eyes, the roundness and color to her cheek. She is dazzlingly lovely in the new beauty that love brings to her face.

The days pass, and they begin to talk of going up to London. The lovely fall weather is over, and mists and rain obscure the sky. They are glad to huddle around the glowing fires in the luxurious rooms, and Lady Clive's thoughts begin to turn on the subject most dear to the fashionable woman's heart—new dresses.

"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?"