"As the sword wears the scabbard,
The billow the shore,
So sorrow doth fret me
Forevermore."
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 Water
When 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?"
"I will have some white dresses, I think," Lady Vera promises.
"Some of those sweet embroidered things!" Lady Clive exclaims, enthusiastically. "She will look lovely in them—don't you think so, Philip?"
"She looks lovely in anything," answers the loyal lover, and Lady Vera shivers and represses a sigh. Now and then a shadow from the nearing future falls darkly over her spirit. The memory of her vow of vengeance falls like an incubus over her spirit. What will Philip say to this strange vow of hers, she asks herself over and over.
She gives Worth carte blanche for the dresses, and in a few weeks they go up to London, already filling up with fashion and beauty. No one knows how regretfully Lady Vera looks back upon the happy hours she has spent at Fairvale Park with her happy lover. They see that her face is graver, but they do not guess her thoughts. How should they? No one dreams of that oath of vengeance bequeathed her by her dead father. No one knows how often she whispers to herself in the still watches of the wakeful nights:
"Soon I shall be face to face with Marcia Cleveland, and must punish her for her wicked sins. How shall I strike her best? What form will my vengeance take?"
Invitations began to pour in upon them as soon as they were fairly settled at Clive House. Lady Clive decides to attend Lady Spencer's grand ball.
Sir Harry objects.
"There will be a crush," he says. "Lady Spencer always asks everybody."
"Precisely why I am going," responds his vivacious wife. "Crowds always amuse me. Besides, we will see almost everybody who will be here for the season."
"Your countrymen, those rich Americans, will be there," Sir Harry insinuates, maliciously.
"I can stand that, too," Lady Clive retorts. "I am not to be daunted by trifles. Besides, I want Philip and Vera to see those people."
Lady Vera says not a word, but her heart beats high, and there is some little triumph mingled with her thoughts.
"Will Mrs. Cleveland and her daughter know me?" she asks herself. "Will they recognize the poor girl whom they injured and insulted so cruelly in the wealthy and honored Countess of Fairvale?"
She selects one of her loveliest dresses—a silvery white brocade, trimmed with a broidery and fringe of gleaming pearls. No jewels mar the rounded whiteness of her perfect arms and stately throat. The waving, golden hair is piled high upon her graceful head, with no ornament save a cluster of velvety white pansies.
"They say that my enemies' jewels are almost barbaric in their splendor. I will show them that I am lovely enough to leave my jewels at home," she tells herself, with some little girlish triumph.