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.