The invitations for Mrs. Vernon's lawn-party had been issued at least a
fortnight, and but few people had declined them.
It was well known that she gave charming entertainments, and people
were always eager to attend. A lawn-party, too, was so romantic,
"too sweet for anything," declared the young women who adored those
out-of-door entertainments where the most flagrant flirtations were
possible, and where the plainest faces acquired a certain beauty from
the blended light of lamp-light and moonlight, and the flickering
leaf-shadows cast by the over-arching trees.
Older people dreaded the night-air and the dew, but to these the
drawing-rooms were always open, so that no one dreamed of declining
Mrs. Vernon's elegant cards.
Lady Clive was present that evening, her fair and stately beauty, so
like her brother's, thrown into perfect relief by a robe of blue and
silver, with pale, gleaming pearls around her graceful throat and white
arms.
Lady Vera wore white satin and tulle, with water-lilies here and there,
a beautiful dress that was most becoming to her, and made her look
regal as a young princess.
A flush of excitement glowed upon her cheeks, and her eyes were bright
and restless with a strange look of expectancy and almost dread in
their beautiful depths.
The constant thought in her mind was:
"I shall see my enemies to-night. What will be the result? They pretend
to regard me as a perfect stranger. What shameless audacity. I cannot
understand how they can carry it out so boldly. And yet God knows that
but for my oath of vengeance I would never speak. Ivy might have my
husband and welcome. Yet I would give much to know whose death it was I
read in that American paper. Leslie Noble's father, perhaps, though I
had some vague idea that he was dead long ago."
Colonel Lockhart is present too, this evening, ever watchful, ever near
his darling, though without the least appearance of intrusiveness.
Other lovers take his place by her side, but as usual she is calm and
cold to all.
She is done with love and lovers, she tells herself with sad self-pity.
All her future life will lie in the dun, gray twilight of sorrow.
"As the blade wears the scabbard,
The billow the shore;
So sorrow doth fret me
Forevermore!"
It is late in the evening before Colonel Lockhart ventures to address
her.
Then something in her glance has drawn him to her side, in spite of his
determination not to intrude upon her.
Lady Eva Clarendon and Miss Montgomery are present, and both have laid
some claims to his attention. In spite of herself, Lady Vera cannot
keep the pain out of her eyes, and Philip, watching her with the
keenness of love, is quick to see it. In a moment he is by her side.
"Will you promenade with me?" he asks, deferentially.
* * * * *
A sudden smile of irrepressible pleasure lights the beautiful face. She
loves him dearly, and it is so hard to give him up.
Rising, she lays her white hand on his arm, and they move away together
down a quiet path under the shade of the leafy trees hung with
gayly-colored lamps, whose checkered light throws their faces now in
brightness, now in shadow.
The scene, the hour, is full of romance. Tall marble vases here
and there are crowded with fragrant flowers, whose sweetness makes
breathing a perfect delight. The moon is at its full, pouring down a
flood of pure white radiance that makes the glimmering light of the
lamps seem garish and unnecessary. Soft music rises, blent with the
sound of happy voices, and a nightingale has perched itself on a rose
tree near by, and is
"Pouring his full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art."
They walk slowly on, speaking little, but with hearts that tremble
with mingled pain and pleasure. The presence of each to the other is
perilously sweet. In his mind runs the refrain of a song she had sung
that evening:
"Beloved eye! beloved star,
Thou art so near and yet so far."
Suddenly, in turning a curve in the path, they come face to face with a
couple walking from the opposite direction--Leslie Noble and his wife.
The small blonde is attired in an elaborate costume of white and green,
and the snaky fire of emeralds blaze round her throat and wrists.
Her pale eyes glare with a snaky anger, too, as they light upon the
beautiful young countess, looking bride-like in her rich, white dress,
and the white lace scarf that she has carelessly thrown over her golden
hair.
With an impulsive movement Ivy disengages her hand from her husband's
arm, and places herself directly in Vera's way, her pale eyes flashing
with rage, her head held high, her slight figure drawn erect, making
the most of her insignificant stature.
"Lady Fairvale," she exclaims, insolently, "they tell me you refuse to
know me or my husband, or my mother. Will you tell me the reason why?"
There is a dead pause, and Leslie Noble tries to drag his wife away,
but she defies him.
"I shall not go!" she answers, sharply. "I told you I would do it. I
have asked this proud lady the reason of her scorn, and I am waiting
for an answer."
Lady Vera faces her a moment in scornful silence, but her pallid
cheeks, her intense gaze, and her curling lips, all betray the tumult
in her breast. She turns to Captain Lockhart, with a soul's despair in
her lovely eyes.
"Philip, will you go away, and leave me alone with this woman?" she
asks, pleadingly.
It seems to him that Vera does not know what is best for herself. How
can he go away, and leave her to bear the brunt of this coarse woman's
fury alone?
"Forgive me for refusing you, dear," he whispers back, "but it is
better that I should stay. I cannot leave you without a friend by your
side."
A look of futile despair flashes over the lovely face, but she urges
him no more. Her eyes turn from his handsome, tender face to meet Ivy's
angry, insolent gaze.
"I ask you again, Lady Fairvale," exclaims the small fury, "why do you
refuse to speak to us?"
"Oh, God, give me strength," Lady Vera prays, silently, "to keep the
oath of vengeance made to my dying father!"
The memory of her parent's cruel wrongs flashes into her mind and
steels her heart. She remembers her mother's broken heart, her father's
ruined life, her own joyless, slavish girlhood, driven by these two
women who now stand glaring stonily upon her, for Mrs. Cleveland,
coming in search of her daughter, has become a sudden and amazed
spectator of the curious scene.
"I will tell why I hold myself above you," Lady Vera answers, in a
voice that quivers with scornful indignation. "It is because you are
false and vile--a guilty woman, and a shameless sinner!"
"How dare you traduce me thus?" Mrs. Noble shrieks, in anger and
amazement.
"I dare, because I speak the truth before God," her enemy answers,
fearlessly. "How dare you claim to be Leslie Noble's wife, when you
know that I, his first wife, Vera Campbell, am living?"