It is very lovely down in the country at Fairvale Park in the golden
summer weather. A pang goes through Lady Vera's heart as she recalls
Sir Harry Clive's warning, and thinks of losing this grand, picturesque
place, the only true home she has ever known. Her sweetest, tenderest
memories of her father are twined around the spot.
Bereft of this, she must indeed be desolate. Not even one spot of
brightness will remain in the cold and cruel darkness that has settled
over her life.
Perhaps it is this thought that drives her, as soon as she is at home
again, to seek diligently through her father's papers for some writing
bearing on the subject of her supposed death and burial.
Sir Harry Clive has so confidently believed in the existence of some
such document, that it is with a pang of the bitterest disappointment
she sees the first day pass with no tangible success, though her brain
is tired, and her eyes weary with poring over the contents of his desk.
"I have found nothing, although I have closely scrutinized every little
bit of paper," she tells Sir Harry, when they meet at dinner, in a tone
of sad disappointment.
"You have examined all the papers?" he asks, with disappointment equal
to her own.
"All, except an old memorandum-book, which I intend to look over
to-morrow," she answers, "though I scarcely think it will result in
anything. Do you think it worth my while to examine it?"
"Yes. It is a forlorn hope, at least, and we must try everything.
Strange that your father should have neglected so important a duty,"
the baronet continues, musingly.
"Poor papa! You must remember, his mind was all distraught by grief,"
Lady Vera answers, with rising tears. "He thought only of his sorrows
and his longed-for vengeance on the destroyer of his wedded happiness.
We must forgive him for his want of thought."
"You must not think that I am blaming him, dear Lady Vera. Nothing is
further from my thoughts," Sir Harry answers, gently, but there is
a shade of anxiety on his brow that does not clear away during the
evening.
He is full of sorrow for the fair young countess, full of fears that he
will not speak aloud, for he has heard far more of Raleigh Gilmore's
intentions than he would even hint to Vera or to Lady Clive. He knows
that she will have to make a fight for title, name and fortune, and
that her case before the law is so terribly weak that there is large
danger of her being cast out from her inheritance, and branded as
adventuress and impostor.
But of all that is in his mind Sir Harry says nothing. Why should he
grieve her more, he thinks, looking at the pale, suffering young face,
on whose white and wasted lineaments the traces of sorrow were so
plainly and sadly outlined.
"Upon her face there was the tint of grace,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears."
The next day, taking the old memorandum-book, she goes for a solitary
ramble. Lady Clive is going for a drive with her children, so she will
not be missed.
A favorite resort of Lady Vera's is a silvery little lake on the green
border of the wide, level park. Water-lilies with their wide green
leaves and waxen-white petals rock softly on the bosom of the lake, and
feathery-green willows fringe it softly round. Lady Vera finds a quiet,
sequestered seat with her back against a willow tree, and applies
herself to her task, turning page after page softly and unweariedly in
the pursuit of her object.
A weary quest. The simple, leather-bound memorandum volume, with plain
gold clasps, had been Earl Fairvale's bosom companion in the days when
he was simple Lawrence Campbell. Patiently Vera reads on and on, and
the morning sun mounts higher in the heavens, the water ripples softly
at her feet, the wind sighs in the grass and the willows.
But it is not the most delightful reading in the world, studying the
dull entries of an old memorandum-book. Lady Vera's sweet patience
begins to flag at last. Her red lips quiver with disappointment and
suspense. She shuts the book with one taper finger between the pages
and leans her golden head back against the tree, wearily.
"There is nothing here--absolutely nothing," she tells herself, sadly,
all unconscious that but one thin leaf intervenes between her and
success. "I shall lose all," she continues, with a choking sob; "I have
lost my lover and all my happiness. Now I shall have to lose my name,
my title, my home, all the lavish wealth to which I have become so
accustomed that I shall not know how to do without it. All my life I
have seemed to be the foot-ball of fate. Sorrow is ever near me. It is
like Philip's song. Oh, how often I recall it:
"'As the blade wears the scabbard,
The billow the shore,
So sorrow doth fret me
Forevermore!'"
She rests a little, letting the tears steal unchecked down her pale
cheeks, while her bosom heaves with emotion--a little while, and then
she dashes the blinding drops away, chiding herself for her weakness.
"I am childish and silly; I must remember I have not got to the end of
the book yet. Time enough to despond then," she says, bending to her
task with renewed ardor and energy.
The dark eyes under the shady fringe of the lashes rove patiently
down the page--they finish it, and find nothing--the white, taper
finger turns another leaf, and lo! there at the top of the page, this
mysterious entry:
"OCT. 30th, 188--, Mem. To-day presented Joel McPherson, sexton at
Glenwood Cemetery, Washington, D. C., with a check for a thousand
dollars, as a slight testimonial of my undying gratitude for his
skill and co-operation with me in the act by which my darling
daughter, Vera, was restored to me from the grave itself, in which
she had been immured alive."
A cry breaks from the lips of the overjoyed girl--the tears start
afresh--this time the shining drops of gladness.
"Eureka! I have found it!" she quotes, with a low and happy laugh, and
bending her graceful head, she kisses the precious record made by that
beloved hand now mouldering into dust.
It is some little time before she grows quite calm. The happy
excitement of joy has made her pulse beat and her heart burn. At last,
with the book still lying open on her lap, and her head leaned back
against the tree, the tired lids fall over the dark eyes, she relapses
into pleasant musings over this happy chance, and so--drops asleep,
little dreaming of the baleful presence hovering so near her.
The winds sigh past her cheek, fanning it softly with a touch as soft
as a kiss; the silver waters murmur at her feet, lulling her into
sweeter, softer slumber. And no instinct warns her of the baleful gaze
that watches her through the screen of the bending willows, nor of the
stealthy footsteps creeping, serpent-like, nearer and nearer, until the
eager gaze peers over her shoulder at the precious page spread open on
her knee.
* * * * *
The sun climbs higher, broad noonday throws a lance of golden light
into Vera's shady retreat and shines into her face. She wakes with a
start, and springs to her feet.
"I have been asleep! How came I here?" she cries; then suddenly she
remembers. "I was looking over papa's book, and I found the record of
my burial and my rescue from the grave. Where is it, now? It lay open
on my lap when I fell asleep. I hope it has not fallen into the lake."
A hurried survey of the green, mossy bank convinces her that such must
be the case. The memorandum-book is nowhere to be seen. Most probably
it has been precipitated into the water by her startled spring to her
feet on awaking.
"How could I have been so careless?" she cries, in poignant grief and
dismay. "I should have gone straight to the house and shown Sir Harry
my important discovery. But I remember every word of it just as it was
written. Perhaps that will do as well. I will go and seek Sir Harry at
once and tell him all."
Carelessly donning her wide-brimmed sun-hat she leaves the spot, little
dreaming that she has been ruthlessly robbed of her treasure.
"Are you sure--quite sure that you have not dreamed the whole thing,
Lady Vera?" Sir Harry Clive asks her, incredulously, when she told him
her story.
The sensitive color mantles her delicate cheek.
"I am perfectly certain of what I have stated," she answers. "It was
only after I had found the entry that I fell asleep a few delicious
moments. It must have been the greatness of the reaction from suspense
and grief to success and joy that caused my sudden, overwhelming
drowsiness. I remember that I kissed the precious words a few minutes
before I fell asleep. I read them over and over. Listen, Sir Harry, I
am quite sure I can repeat every word with perfect accuracy now."
Slowly she repeats:
"OCT. 30th, 188--. Mem. To-day presented Joel McPherson, sexton at
Glenwood Cemetery, Washington, D. C., with a check for a thousand
dollars, as a slight testimonial of my undying gratitude for his
skill and co-operation with me in the act by which my darling
daughter, Vera, was restored to me from the grave itself, in which
she had been immured alive."
As she slowly utters the words, Sir Harry jots them down in his
own memorandum-book. There is a puzzled look on his broad, fair,
intelligent brow.
"If only you had not fallen asleep," he says, regretfully. "But, dear
Lady Vera, this sounds so much like the vagaries of sleep. It seems
real to you, I know, but I am almost afraid to pin my faith on it."
"The lake is not deep; I will send one of the servants to dive for
the book. I am sure he will find it. Then I shall convince you of my
credibility," she answers, quietly, as she leaves the room.
As she has said, the lake is not deep, and several of the men-servants
at Fairvale Park are skillful swimmers, but for all that they cannot
find the earl's memorandum-book beneath the shallow waves. All trace of
it is gone.
"Are you quite sure you carried it down to the lake with you?" the
baronet asks, unfeignedly perplexed.
"I am quite sure," she replies, with decision. "It lay open on my lap
when I fell asleep."
"Can any one have stolen it?" he asks, unconsciously hitting the truth.
"Impossible," she answers. "I am sure if any one had come near me, I
should have awakened. I am a very light sleeper."
"There is something very mysterious about its loss. I am quite
confident it did not fall into the lake," muses Sir Harry Clive.
Lady Vera, on the contrary, is quite sure that it did, but she does not
urge her belief, feeling a little wounded by his incredulous air, but
after a little, she says, thoughtfully:
"I am so sure that what I have told you is the truth and no dream, Sir
Harry, that I shall write to this Joel McPherson in America, and offer
him a large reward to come to England and explain that strange entry in
the lost memorandum-book. What do you think of my plan?"
"It can do no harm," he answers, after a moment's thought, "and it
might be a good plan."
"Then I shall lose no time in executing it," she answers, decisively.
The baronet detains her to say, hesitatingly:
"Do not think me officious, Lady Vera, if I suggest that you advertise
the loss of the earl's memorandum-book, and offer a suitable reward for
its recovery. It is just possible that some strolling tramp has quietly
pilfered it while you lay sleeping, attracted by the golden clasps."
"It may be," Lady Vera answers, incredulously, but she duly writes out
the advertisement, and it is forwarded without delay to the county
papers.