Countess Vera; or, The Oath of Vengeance

Alex. McVeigh Miller

Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller

Countess Vera / or, The Oath of Vengeance

CHAPTER I

"Dead!"

Leslie Noble reels backward, stunned by the shuddering horror of that one word—"Dead!" The stiff, girlish characters of the open letter in his hand waver up and down before his dazed vision, so that he can scarcely read the pathetic words, so pathetic now when the little hand that penned them lies cold in death.

"Dear Leslie," it says, "when you come to bid me good-bye in the morning I shall be dead. That is best. You see, I did not know till to-night my sad story, and that you did not love me. Poor mamma was wrong to bind you so. I am very sorry, Leslie. There is nothing I can do but die."

There is no signature to the sad little letter—none—but they have taken it from the hand of his girl-wife, found dead in her bed this morning—his bride of two days agone.

With a shudder of unutterable horror, his glance falls on the lovely, girlish face, lying still and cold with the marble mask of death on its beauty. A faint tinge of the rose lingers still on the delicate lips, the long, curling fringe of the lashes lies darkly against the white cheeks, the rippling, waving, golden hair falls in billows of brightness over the pillow. This was his unloved bride, and she has died the awful and tragic death of the suicide.

Let us go back a little in the story of this mournful tragedy, my reader, go back to the upper chamber of that stately mansion, where, on a wild night in October, a woman lay dying—dying of that subtle malady beyond all healing—a broken heart.

"Vera, my darling," says the weak, faint voice, "come to me, dear."

A little figure that has been kneeling with its face in the bed-clothes, rises and comes forward. The small, white face is drenched with tears, the dark eyes are dim and heavy.

"Mamma," the soft voice says, hopefully, "you are better?"

The wasted features of the invalid contract with pain.

"No, my little daughter," she sighs, "I shall never be any better in this world. I am dying."

A stifled cry of pain, and the girl's soft cheek is pressed to hers in despairing love.

"No, mamma, no," she wails. "You must not die and leave me alone."

"Alone?" the mother re-echoes. "Beautiful, poor and alone in the great, cruel world—oh, my God!"

"You cannot be dying, mamma," the girl says, hopefully. "They—Mrs. Cleveland and Miss Ivy—could not go on to their balls and operas if you were as bad as that!"

Something of bitter scorn touches the faded beauty of the woman's face a moment.

"Much they would care," she says, in a tone of scorn. "At this moment my sister and her proud daughter are dancing and feasting at the Riverton's ball, utterly careless and indifferent to the fact that the poor dependent is lying here all alone, but for her poor, friendless child."

"You were no dependent, mamma," the girl says, with a gleam of pride in her dark eyes. "You worked hard for all we have had. But, mamma, if—if you leave me, I will not be Ivy Cleveland's slave any longer. I shall go away."

"Where, dear?" the mother asks, anxiously.

"Somewhere," vaguely; "anywhere, away from these wicked Clevelands. I hate them, mamma!" she says, with sudden passion in her voice and face.

"You do not hate Leslie Noble?" Mrs. Campbell asks, anxiously.

"No, mamma, for though he is akin to them he is unlike them. Mr. Noble is always kind to me," Vera answers, musingly.

"Listen to me, Vera, child. Mr. Noble l—likes you. He wishes to marry you," the mother exclaims, with a flush of excitement in her eyes.

"Marry me?" Vera repeats, a little blankly.

"Yes, dear. Are you willing?"

"I—I am too young, am I not, mamma?"

"Seventeen, dear. As old as I was when I married your father," Mrs. Campbell answers with a look of heart pain flitting over the pallid face.

"I have never thought of marrying," Vera goes on musingly. "He will not be angry if I refuse, will he, mamma?"

"But, Vera, you must not refuse," the invalid cries out, in a sudden spasm of feverish anxiety. "Yo