Neva Wynde had arrived in London, by the morning express train from
Canterbury, in the care of Mr. and Mrs. Craven Black, and from the
moment in which she had emerged with them from the railway station, all
clue to her movements was suddenly and mysteriously lost.
What had become of her? How had she so singularly disappeared?
These questions, which filled the souls of Neva’s lover and guardians
with such unspeakable terror and anxiety and which they so signally
failed in their efforts to solve, we now purpose answering for the
benefit of the reader.
On alighting from the crowded morning train, Craven Black hurried his
bride, her maid and Neva into a waiting cab, superintended the mounting
of the luggage to the stout cab roof, and gave the order to be driven
to Gravesend, adding more explicit directions in an undertone. He then
entered the vehicle, and the vehicle rolled from the station.
“Where are we going, Mrs. Black?” asked Neva, looking from the cab
windows. “I fancied Mr. Black said Gravesend.”
“So he did, my dear,” said Mrs. Craven Black placidly. “Didn’t I tell
you that we are going to Yorkshire by water? September is such a lovely
month, and this is such lovely weather, and it’s quite the thing to
take a sea trip for a bridal tour, and I prevailed upon Craven to
charter--is not that the word--a beautiful little yacht, which we are
to have three months if we want it. We shall have a glorious voyage
down the Thames and up the Channel, and through the great German ocean.
The very idea stirs all my love of romance. Doesn’t it affect you in
the same manner!”
“But Wynde Heights is not near the sea,” objected Neva, in surprise.
“It’s not two hours distant by rail, and it will be delightful to get
up yachting parties by ourselves, and go off for a two-days’ excursion;
don’t you think so? Don’t throw cold water upon my little plans for
happiness, I beg of you, my dear Neva,” cried Mrs. Craven Black
imploringly. “There is no reason why we shouldn’t be perfectly happy,
if you won’t interpose objections, Neva.”
Thus adjured, Neva took care to “interpose” no more objections. She had
no liking for nor trust in Craven Black, but Mrs. Craven Black had been
her father’s beloved and honored wife, and Neva still believed in her.
That the pair could mean her harm never once occurred to her. Neither
did she realize how completely she was in their power. She had left
her maid at home, at Mrs. Black’s solicitation, the latter declaring
that one maid would suffice for both, and that she especially disliked
Meggy West, the girl who attended upon Neva. Thus the young heiress of
Hawkhurst was absolutely friendless and helpless, in the hands of her
enemies.
They had a long drive to Gravesend. On arriving at their destination,
they alighted at a pier at which a small boat with two oarsmen was
lying. These men were dressed in blue sailor custom, each having an
arrow embroidered on the breast of his jacket. Mr. Black went up to
them, accosting them familiarly.
“What boat do you belong to?” he demanded.
“To the _Arrow_, sir, lying out yonder,” said one of the men, pointing
to a graceful yacht lying in the stream, her sails unfurled, and
looking ready for flight. “We are waiting for Mr. Craven Black.”
“I am he. It’s all right, my men. Octavia, my love, let me assist you
into the boat. Miss Wynde, this way.”
The maid was left to scramble in by herself. The luggage was deposited
in the boat; Mr. Black took his seat, and the rowers pulled off for the
yacht.
The process of transferring passengers and luggage to the deck of the
_Arrow_ was speedily and safely accomplished. Mrs. Black was ecstatic
in her commendations of the arrangements of the little vessel, and
occupied the attention of Neva while Mr. Black conversed with the
sailors and their captain, and the vessel was gotten under way.
The _Arrow_ was no means a new vessel but she had been recently painted
and fitted with new sails, and presented a very trim appearance.
She was of about twenty tons burden. She had belonged to a member
of the Royal Yacht Club, but had been advertised to be sold for a
comparatively small sum, her owner having had built for him a vessel
of greater size and speed. Craven Black had seen, a week before, the
advertisment offering the _Arrow_ for sale, and warranting her ready
to put to sea at an hour’s notice; and a part of the business of Mrs.
Artress in town had been to purchase the vessel.
Among his friends of high and low degree, Craven Black possessed one
who was thoroughly disreputable, but who had proved useful to him
at too many periods of his life to be thrown aside. This person
had formerly been a lawyer, but had been stricken from the rolls
for illegal or dishonorable practice, and was a needy hanger-on and
parasite of Craven Black. This person had been called upon to assist
Mrs. Artress in the examination of the yacht, and had purchased the
boat in his own name, paying therefor a sum of money provided by
Mrs. Craven Black out of the jointure acquired by her marriage with
Sir Harold Wynde. This ex-lawyer had also engaged three experienced
sailors, one of whom had been a mate on an India vessel, and whom he
hired as captain of the _Arrow_, and these three men were now in charge
of the little yacht.
These sailors, we may as well mention here, had been chosen for other
qualifications than good seamanship. The ex-lawyer, in the days when he
had been qualified to practice his profession, had been called upon to
defend the three against a charge of mutiny, preferred against them
by their captain. The charge had been proved, they had been convicted,
and were now fresh from two years’ imprisonment. The ex-lawyer had come
upon them at a drinking shop, after their release, and only a few days
before, and knowing their reckless character, had engaged them for a
cruise of the _Arrow_.
Such was the character of the seamen in charge of the yacht; and in
such manner had the yacht itself been acquired by Craven Black.
As the vessel moved forward down the stream, the sails filling, Mrs.
Black said to her young charge:
“Let us go below, Neva, and take a look at our quarters. The luggage
and my maid have gone down.”
Neva assented, and the two went into the cabin, which was found to be
newly fitted up, and smelling unpleasantly of fresh paint. The cabin
was small, affording room only for the table and divans around it, but
there were three neat little state-rooms, newly carpeted and newly
furnished with mattresses, blankets, bed-linen, towels, camp chairs,
and all toilet appurtenances. One of these state-rooms was appropriated
by Mr. and Mrs. Black, the second by Neva, and the third was assigned
to the maid, a French woman completely won to the interests of her
mistress.
“We shall be very comfortable here, Neva,” said Mrs. Black, with
gayety. “The sea air will bring the roses to your cheeks. I think
you’ve not been looking well lately.”
“I wish you had told me that we were to go to Yorkshire by sea,” said
Neva gravely.
“How could I suppose, my dear child, that you cared whether you went
by train or by boat?” demanded Mrs. Black, in seeming surprise. “Your
dear papa told me once that you were a fine sailor, and I planned this
voyage as a little surprise to you--that’s the truth, Neva.”
“You are very kind,” said the young girl, “but I would have preferred
to know it beforehand. My friends will be anxious about me if I do not
write as soon as I promised.”
“Your friends?” and Mrs. Black arched her brows. “Are we not your
friends?”
“You are, madam, I trust, but you are not my only friend. I leave
those behind me who are dear to me, and who have a right to know my
movements.”
Mrs. Black looked significantly down upon the great diamond that
sparkled in limpid splendor upon Neva’s finger. She had noticed the
jewel before, but had refrained from alluding to it.
“Is that ring the gift of one who has a right to know your movements?”
she asked, smiling.
Neva blushed, but gravely assented.
“It is from Rufus Black?” asked the elder lady, well knowing to the
contrary.
“No, madam,” said Neva bravely, “it is the gift of Lord Towyn, and is
the emblem of our betrothal.”
Mrs. Black bit her lips fiercely, but made no response. There was a
hardness in her glittering eyes, and a cruel compression of her lips,
that boded ill for the engagement thus proclaimed to her.
One of the seamen was an excellent cook and steward, and presently
a luncheon was spread in the cabin which proved very tempting to
appetites sharpened by sea air. Mrs. Artress had provided such an
abundance of delicate stores that a cook was scarcely required. There
were tin boxes of assorted biscuits, jars of pickles, boxes of fruits
of every kind attainable in Covent Garden market, dried and crystalized
fruits, smoked salmon, jerked beef and venison, pickled reindeers’
tongues, and cheeses, cakes and fancy breads in every variety.
After the luncheon, the ladies went on deck, Mr. and Mrs. Craven Black
paced to and fro, arm in arm, and Neva leaned idly upon the rail,
watching the fleeting shores and the frequent sails and steamers, and
tried to shake off the shadow of distrust and gloom that would creep
over her soul.
At six o’clock, dinner was served in the cabin. This second meal
resembled the one that had preceded, but there were also roast beef,
roast fowls, and vegetables, and wines. The swinging lamp was lighted
in the cabin, which looked as comfortable as a yacht cabin can be
made to look. There is, at best, a dreariness about a ship’s cabin or
state-room which no art can conquer. And this cabin was no exception to
the rule. Neva was glad to throw a shawl around her and go out again
upon the deck.
The moon was shining when she sat down at one side of the boat in her
folding deck chair, and the pale flood of silvery light illumined the
white-capped waves, and the dark abysses of the waters, the sails of
vessels making into port, and the dusky little steamers, making the
whole scene a picture full of glorious lights and shadows, but a scene
that seemed a picture rather than a reality.
The yacht was out in the North Sea now, battling with the short,
chopping waves, but impelled onward by a fine breeze. She was well
ballasted, seaworthy, and a swift sailer. What more could be desired by
the guilty pair whose hearts beat exultantly at their evil success, as
they regarded the unconscious victim of their machinations.
“She has no suspicion,” murmured Craven Black, as he promenaded the
deck, his wife leaning on his arm.
“None whatever. She is too guileless herself to suspect guile in
others. And she trusts me implicitly,” laughed Octavia Black softly.
“That old dotard, her father, did you and me a good turn when he so
frequently urged his daughter to obey me and love me, and try to win my
love. I declare, Craven, it’s enough to make the old fellow come out of
his grave, to confront us; isn’t it now?”
“If I were superstitions, I might think so,” said Black.
“If he did come out of his grave, he’d be slightly astonished at
finding how I had cajoled and hoodwinked him, eh, Craven?” said the
woman mockingly. “I’d like him to find out the truth where he is; I
would, indeed. I hated the man; and to think you were jealous of him
even when you urged me to marry him! Oh, Craven? Do you know, dear,
speaking of jealousy, I was once jealous of Neva Wynde?”
“I did not know it.”
“No? Well, I was. It was absurd, of course. I fancied you fell in love
with her the first time you saw her.”
Craven Black’s heart stirred guiltily, and his fair cheek flushed. His
love for Neva Wynde was not altogether dead yet. It smouldered in his
breast, and although at times he believed that he felt an absolute
hatred for her, yet all the while a spark of the old passion remained
that circumstances might again fan into a flame.
“We’re likely to have more trouble than we looked for,” said Mrs.
Black, changing the subject, without awaiting a reply to her previous
remark. “Neva owned to me since we came on board that she is engaged to
Lord Towyn.”
“I suspected it when I saw that new ring she wears. But go to her now,
Octavia. She will suspect us of plotting against her if we whisper
together longer.”
Mrs. Black relinquished her husband’s arm, and went to Neva’s side,
drawing a deck chair beside her.
“Enjoying the moonlight, Neva?” she asked. “And thinking of the earl,
of course? I have not yet wished you joy of your future husband, and
I suppose I ought to do so now. But first I would like to ask you if
you have irrevocably chosen to obey your own wishes in regard to your
marriage, rather than to regard the last wishes of your father?”
“I am not certain what were my father’s wishes,” said Neva, with a
strange gravity, looking afar over the waters with her eyes of red
gloom.
“Not certain? My dear child, you puzzle me. Did I not give into your
own hands your father’s last letter to you, received by me from India
in the same mail that brought me the awful news of his death?”
“You gave me a letter purporting to be from my father, Mrs. Black,”
said the young girl, looking now at her companion, “but are you sure
that it was not changed by any one while in your possession? Do
not think I would hint one word against your watchful care of it,
or--or--your good faith with me; but I am not altogether convinced that
papa wrote that letter. Lord Towyn, on reading it, immediately declared
it a forgery.”
Mrs. Black started.
“Did you show it to Lord Towyn?” she demanded.
“Yes, and he has it now in his possession, and will submit it to Sir
John Freise and Mr. Atkins for their inspection and opinion,” answered
Neva.
Octavia Black’s dark cheeks paled in the moonlight, and a sudden terror
gathered in her hard black eyes.
“Neva,” she exclaimed harshly, “I am astonished at the singular want
of delicacy that prompted your display of your father’s last letter to
Lord Towyn. Of course the earl believes the letter a forgery, since
he purposes marrying you himself. He believes whatever it is to his
interest to believe.”
“Lord Towyn is the soul of honor,” asserted Neva, her cheeks flushing
hotly. “He would tell the truth, whether it might be for or against his
interests.”
“What simple, childlike faith!” murmured Octavia Black, in affected
admiration. “But, my dear child, Lord Towyn is no better than other
men. Did--did he think that _I_ forged Sir Harold’s letter?”
“No, he has too high an opinion of the lady who has been my father’s
wife,” returned Neva proudly, “to think such evil of her. But he
fancied the true letter might have been replaced with a forged one.
Mrs. Artress--Mr. Black--”
She paused abruptly, having been urged into saying more than she had
intended.
“Ah, Lord Towyn thinks them capable of the forgery. Let me tell you,
Neva Wynde, that your father told me with his own lips that he had
once hoped for your marriage with Lord Towyn, but that he desired in
his later days with all his mind and heart that you should marry Rufus
Black.”
“Papa said that--to you?”
“He did. I swear it,” cried the woman, perjuring herself, in her
eagerness to produce the desired impression upon Neva’s mind.
“But Rufus said he did not know papa?”
“That does not affect the fact that Sir Harold knew him,” said Octavia
Black firmly. “Rufus did some brave deed at Oxford--saved a comrade’s
life, or some such thing--and that first fixed Sir Harold’s eyes upon
him. From that moment Sir Harold watched the young fellow’s progress.
He saw him frequently, himself unseen. He studied his character, and he
became resolved upon your marriage to Rufus.”
“But, Mrs. Black, this is incredible!” exclaimed Neva, utterly refusing
to believe the preposterous story, although until this moment her faith
in her companion had remained unshaken. “Papa could not have wished
me to marry a man he did not know personally. He would not have laid
upon me the burden of a command--for that solemnly expressed desire was
little less than a command--to marry a man whom he admired for a single
act of personal courage, but of whose character he was ignorant. I know
papa too well to believe anything like this, Mrs. Black.”
“You accuse me of falsehood then. I say such was his wish!” declared
Octavia, doggedly and sullenly.
Neva looked pained, perplexed, and deeply troubled.
“If this indeed be so,” she murmured, “then he could not have been
in his right mind, terrible as it seems to utter the words. For
there never was a truer, kinder father, or a more noble man, than
papa. He thought my happiness of so much moment that he never would
have dictated my course in such a vital matter as the acceptance or
rejection of a lover, so long as the lover was worthy. I am sorry you
have told me this, Mrs. Black. I am compelled to doubt papa’s complete
sanity, or--or--”
“Or me?” said the handsome Octavia, with an ugly frown. “You ought to
know me too well by this time to doubt me. Old gentlemen frequently
get odd ideas, which seem at variance with their usual character, but
the having them does not prove them insane, only crotchety. As for me,
knowing Sir Harold’s wishes, I did not doubt that you would act upon
them as upon his actual command. Your father told you to obey me in all
things. Is that command to be as lightly set aside?”
“Have I failed to consider your wishes, madam?” asked Neva sorrowfully.
“Not until now. But it is my wish that you should marry Rufus Black.
Nay it is my command.”
Neva’s pure proud face looked very white in the moonlight, as she
answered:
“Then I must fail in my obedience to you now, Mrs. Black. Papa did not
desire me to obey unreasonable commands, to the destruction of my own
happiness. He would consider you unfaithful to the charge he gave you,
could he know that you are urging me to marry Rufus Black. My rejection
of Rufus was final.”
“We will see,” said Mrs. Black, compressing her lips.
In an angry mood, Octavia walked away, joining her husband on the
opposite side of the deck. Neva leaned over the low railing, her face
upturned to the stars, and murmured:
“Perhaps--perhaps, after all, _she_ forged the letter. How strange she
seems to-night. I fear her. I wish I had not come with her. A terrible
gloom is on my soul to-night!”
That gloom grew heavier and darker, and the pure face grew whiter and
more sorrowful as the time went on, and the yacht bowled on toward the
northward, bound--ah whither?