Neva Wynde sat until a late hour upon the deck, watching the play of
the moonlight on the waters, the leaping white crests of the waves,
and the white furrow plowed by the _Arrow_ as she sped onward over the
waters on her way to the northward.
The prophetic gloom settled down yet more darkly upon the young girl’s
soul. A bitter, homesick yearning filled her heart--a yearning for her
father’s love to shield her, her father’s arm to lean upon, and her
father’s wisdom to counsel her.
Ah, could she but have known that far away upon other seas, but under
starlit skies, and speeding as fast as steam and wind could bear him,
her father whom she so mourned as dead--her father was hurrying toward
his home, with the same homesick longing in his breast, the same
yearning, to clasp her in his arms, together with the false wife he so
idolized!
And could that false wife have but guessed the truth, as she paced the
yacht’s deck arm in arm with her husband, conspiring against the peace
and happiness of Neva, much of grief and terror that was lying in wait
for the baronet’s daughter, and much of guilt and wickedness that the
two conspirators were planning, might have been avoided. But neither
knew nor guessed the truth, and long before Sir Harold could arrive in
England, Neva’s fate was likely to be decided by herself or her enemies.
At a late hour the young heiress went to her state-room, Mrs. Craven
Black bidding her a careless good-night as she passed. Mrs. Black’s
French maid Celeste was in the cabin, yawning and out of temper, and
she accompanied Neva to her room and assisted her to disrobe. Neva
soon dismissed her, finished her night toilet, and knelt to pray by
her small port window, through which she could see the dusky azure sky
gemmed with stars, and the white waves glorified by the shimmering pale
moonlight.
Neva crept into her narrow berth, leaving her lantern on the wall
burning. She could not sleep. A feverish unrest was upon her. The first
shadow of distrust of Octavia Black had flung its gloom across her
pathway. Until this night she had been full of innocent child-like
faith in the woman her father had deemed as pure as an angel. Sir
Harold’s praises of his second wife had been received by Neva without
allowance, and without suspicion that he might be deceived. She had an
implicit reliance upon his judgment, but now she questioned, with a
terrible pang, if he had not been deceived.
“I cannot believe Mrs. Black when she says that papa was determined
to marry me to a man of whom my father knew nothing, save that he had
committed a noble deed upon impulse. And when I refused to believe
the story, there was a look on Mrs. Black’s face I have never before
seen there, a look as of convicted treachery and falsehood. I distrust
her--I almost fear her! I am sorry I came with her. And if it be true
that she is false and treacherous, I am reconciled at last to papa’s
horrible death. He could never have borne the knowledge of her real
character!”
She sighed, and turned restlessly on her pillow.
“I believe Craven Black to be a villain,” her thoughts ran presently.
“He made love to me when he was already engaged to marry my father’s
widow. I am sure he hates me now. Perhaps he has perverted her mind
against me? Perhaps she never liked me? I was never allowed to come
back to my own home after she entered it, not even when dear papa
died, and my heart seemed breaking, until Madame Dalant wrote that my
school-days should terminate, and that I ought to be allowed to enter
society. Mrs. Black has a caressing manner toward me, and flatters me,
but I am sure she does not love me. Perhaps the two are my enemies?
If so, how completely I am in their power, having even left my
faithful maid behind me, at Mrs. Black’s request. I fear I have been
blind--blind!”
Poor Neva was now thoroughly alarmed. She remembered a score of
incidents, scarcely noticed at the time that went far to confirm the
truth of her sudden suspicion that Mr. and Mrs. Craven Black were her
enemies and that they were conspiring against her. She struggled with
her conviction, calling herself foolish, romantic and ungrateful, but
the conviction remained.
The fact that the yacht had been engaged for the voyage to Yorkshire,
when she expected to go by train, and that she had not been told
of the proposed route until her arrival in London, recurred to her
unpleasantly, and as something of sinister moment.
The fact also, that Mrs. Craven Black had a keen personal interest in
Neva’s marriage to Rufus Black, now for the first time obtruded itself
upon the young girl.
“Rufus is Craven Black’s son,” she said to herself, “and if I were
married to Rufus, Craven Black would probably assume control of all my
property! I acquit Rufus of any share in the conspiracy, but he is so
weak of will that he would not dare to resist his father, who could
appropriate half my income to his own use. Can this be Craven Black’s
design? Can Craven Black have forged that last letter purporting to
come from papa? And does Octavia know his designs, and willingly aid
him to carry them out? I must study them closely, without seeming to do
so. I must be on my guard.”
With thoughts like these, Neva tossed upon her pillow for hours, until
long after Craven Black and his bride had retired to their state-room,
and silence had fallen upon the cabin, and the creaking of a block, or
the rattling of cordage, or a voice or footstep on the little deck,
sounded through the night with startling loudness, and as something new
and strange.
At last she fell asleep, but her slumber was not refreshing, and she
was looking very pale and worn when, after a careful toilet in the
morning, she came out into the cabin.
The breakfast was spread upon the table and Mr. and Mrs. Craven Black
were seated upon a divan, conversing in whispers. They started guiltily
at Neva’s appearance, and Mrs. Black cried out gayly:
“Good-morning, my dear. You are a laggard this morning. It is ten
o’clock, and I have already taken a constitutional on deck. It’s a
fine, bracing air.”
“I hope I have not kept you waiting,” said Neva courteously.
“Did you think us barbarous enough to eat our breakfast before your
coming?” cried Craven Black, with exaggerated courtesy. “Sorry not to
see you looking better. Did you pass a pleasant night?”
“I did not sleep very well,” answered Neva quietly.
She took her place at the table, and Craven Black waited upon her and
his wife with careful attention. The breakfast consisted of stewed
chicken, coffee, bread, fancy biscuits, and delicate fruits, including
oranges, grapes, and peaches, and Neva brought to the meal an appetite
sharpened by the sea air.
“I suppose we shall sleep at Wynde Heights to-night?” said Neva,
forcing a cheerfulness she did not feel. “We must reach Yorkshire at
our present rate of sailing long before evening. Do you purpose landing
at Scarborough, or Whitby, or Stockton, Mr. Black?” she asked. “All
three are railway stations, and we can go on to the Heights without
delay.”
The husband and wife exchanged significant glances.
“Neva, dear,” said Mrs. Black caressingly, “would you care if we do
not go to Wynde Heights? You know the place so little, and have no
acquaintances in the neighborhood; and I have none, and I dread a
visit to the Yorkshire dower house as something dull and stupid beyond
comparison.”
Neva looked at the speaker with startled eyes.
“Are we not on our way to Wynde Heights, Mrs. Black?” she demanded, in
surprise.
“Yes, dear, if you insist upon adhering to the strict letter of our
original plan,” answered Mrs. Black. “But I am sure you will not be
so hard-hearted and cruel. I no longer want to go to Wynde Heights,
and Craven thinks a stay there would be a bore; but of course, if you
insist upon it, we will sacrifice our own pleasure to yours.”
Neva struggled with her bewilderment.
“I supposed we were on our way to Wynde Heights,” she said, “but do not
suppose I desire to go there, if you prefer to go elsewhere. It is your
wish and pleasure, Mrs. Black, that must be consulted. Would you prefer
a watering place, or a visit to the German coast?”
“Neither,” said Mrs. Black. “I am _so_ relieved, dear Neva, for I
feared you would oppose my wishes, and I think if a woman ought ever
to have her own way, it should be on her bridal tour. Craven has been
telling me of the only piece of property he owns in the world, a
worthless old Highland estate, valueless except for the shooting, with
a dear old tumble-down house which no one will rent, and I fairly long
to see it. It’s quite natural, I think, for a bride to desire to visit
her husband’s property, and this came to Craven through his Scottish
ancestors, the Macdonalds, and it has a host of curious legends and
ghost stories, and such a charming, romantic name--Wilderness--that I
am impatient to go there; and Craven says, if you do not object we will
go on to Wilderness.”
“Where is this place?” asked Neva.
“In Rosshire. There are post-offices convenient, so that you can write
back daily, if you like.”
“But our coming will be unexpected,” objected Neva. “The servants at
Wynde Heights are prepared for our coming, but no one will look for us
at Wilderness.”
“There is an old couple residing there,” said Craven Black, “and
everything will be done to make our stay pleasant at my old ‘Castle
Rackrent.’ I confess I should like to take my bride to the old
place--it is years since I was there--and a week could be very
pleasantly passed in mountain excursions, rows on the loch, and rides
to the village. Can I say nothing to melt the stern resolution I see
expressed in your face, Miss Neva?”
“September seems late for the Highlands,” said Neva.
“But this is exceptionally lovely weather,” urged Mrs. Black. “And
we only want to stay there a week. I see you mean to destroy all our
pleasure, Neva, and condemn us to follow your lead.”
“You are mistaken,” said Neva gravely. “I have no desire to urge my own
wishes in the matter. This project of visiting the Highlands takes me
by surprise, but I have nothing to urge against it. I wish, however,”
she added coloring, “that you would land me at some convenient point on
the coast, and permit me to return to Hawkhurst--”
“What! Alone and unattended?” cried Mrs. Black. “You wish to desert us,
when I count upon your companionship and society? If you insist upon
returning to Hawkhurst, Neva, of course you can go, and we will go with
you. But this selfish tyranny--forgive me--is not like your generous
self. I would not have believed you so ungracious. My pleasure is quite
spoiled. Craven, dear, let us turn back to London.”
Mr. Black arose to go on deck.
Neva detained him by a gesture, her proud face flushing.
“You need not turn back upon my account,” she said half haughtily. “I
will accompany Mrs. Black to the Wilderness. I have no wish to appear
ungracious, but you will remember that my friends do not know where I
am, and may be anxious about me.”
“Oh, Neva!” cried Mrs. Black reproachfully. “Are we not your best
friends? But I am too happy in your concession to find fault with your
phraseology. Craven, we will go to your dear old Wilderness, and if I
like it, I’ll fit it up for a shooting-box, and next year we will come
up here the gayest party that ever visited the ‘land o’ cakes.’”
Neva did not linger in the cabin, but went out on deck, and walked to
and fro for exercise, while her eyes scanned the waters and the horizon.
The yacht was far out upon the wide North Sea, or German Ocean, a mere
speck in the wild waste of waters. There were sails gleaming in the
distance in the clear September sunshine, but no shores were visible.
The wind was blowing fair and free, the sky was clear, the air crisp
and chilly, but nevertheless agreeable.
Neva walked alone until she grew tired, and then sat down in her
folding deck chair and thought until her brain was wearied. Mr. and
Mrs. Black joined her, and talked and chatted for some hours. Luncheon
was served on the deck, and the afternoon wore on as the morning had
done.
Night again settled down upon the sea, so bright with moonlight and
starlight that it was not less lovely than the day had been. Neva went
to bed early, and slept profoundly, not being even visited by dreams.
The next day passed as the other had done, but the coast was not
yet seen. The wind proved variable upon this day, but Craven Black
consulted his charts frequently, and talked with the sailors, and
Mrs. Black yawned, and declared that a sea voyage was charming, but
intolerably dull.
A third night dragged by, and Neva began to be anxious to get into
port. She knew that Lord Towyn must be looking for a letter from her,
and she desired to inform him of Mrs. Black’s change of plan of travel,
and of her own whereabouts.
Upon the fourth day after leaving London, the graceful little yacht
stood in for the land. Mrs. Black and Neva, as usual, spent the day on
deck. About noon the _Arrow_ sped into Moray Frith, in the wake of a
steamer bound for Inverness and the Caledonian canal, and followed by
one or two sailing vessels which were allowed to pass the swifter yacht.
“Do we go into Inverness?” asked Neva, as she looked at the chart which
Craven Black was exhibiting to her and his wife.
“No,” answered Black. “Look at the chart, Miss Wynde. Do you see those
narrow straits that connect Moray Frith with Cromarty Frith? We thread
those straits, and a not very pleasant excursion it is either. Once
safe in Cromarty Frith, we have plain sailing. I expect to sleep at
Wilderness to-night.”
The yacht in good time threaded the straits, and came out into the
calmer waters of the loch-like Cromarty Frith, sailing up a portion of
its distance, and then obeying the skillful hand at the helm, it shot
into a deep stream or river, and went on into the very shadow and heart
of the wild mountain region.
It seemed to Neva, as she looked around her in wonder, awe and delight,
that the chaos of the primeval creation yet reigned here. She saw no
villages, no hamlets, no houses, no signs of habitation--nothing but
grim mountain peaks and ranges, frowning cliffs, and inaccessible
rocks. The very vegetation was sparse and stunted, the few trees wildly
clinging to niches in the bare rocks, being dwarfed and sickly. Upon
higher peaks in the distance, Neva saw glittering crowns of snow, but
nearer all was deadness, desolation, chaos.
“It looks as if this part of the earth had been abandoned by God and
shunned by man,” she thought. “The utter dreariness is oppressive and
terrible.”
The _Arrow_ felt her way on up the river, the banks growing steeper and
narrower, the rocks and cliffs more frowning, and the waters blacker.
Mrs. Black began to look nervous, and to express a fear that the vessel
would presently be caught in the narrowing throat of rocks, but her
husband smiled reassuringly, and a little later the yacht shot into a
little placid mountain loch, shut in by towering mountains, the waters
looking black with the everlasting shadows of the hills bending above
them.
Both the ladies breathed freer at this unlooked for termination to
their voyage. Half way up the loch the yacht came to anchor, and a boat
was lowered to convey the passengers ashore.
“But, Craven,” said Mrs. Black wonderingly, “I see no house.”
“Look half way up the mountain side,” said her husband, pointing with
his finger. “Do you see that broad ledge set thick with black looking
trees, firs, larches and mountain pines? Back of the ledge, at a
distance of half a mile, rises the high mountain peak. Well, on that
wild looking ledge, perched in mid-air, as one might say, an outlaw
ancestor of mine who fought on the losing side in one of the Scottish
wars, and was compelled to flee for his life, built an outlaw’s den, in
which he spent his last years and finally died. The house has since
been improved and enlarged--”
“But, my dear Craven,” interrupted Octavia, “the Wilderness cannot
be upon that ledge, up this steep pile of rocks. Why, the ledge is
inaccessible, unless to yonder eagle. We cannot get up there without
wings.”
“You comprehend why I could never let nor sell the place,” said Craven
Black. “But we can get up the cliff. There is a narrow footpath, not
especially dangerous, but rather fatiguing. The men will bring up the
luggage, and we will walk up. The boat is ready. Come.”
He assisted his wife into the boat, and then Neva. The maid came next.
Dressing bags followed. Mr. Black sprang in, and two of the sailors
pulled lustily for the shore.
The passengers were landed at a projecting rock at the water’s edge,
and Craven Black, ordering the seamen to remain where they were until
he should send a servant to them, conducted his wife, Neva and the
maid, by a narrow, steep and tortuous path, up the precipitous face of
the cliff. The dreary night fell before they had gained the ledge, but
the soft moonlight flecked their path with gleams of brightness, and at
last they stood upon the ledge, high up among the mountains, with the
loch lying like a tarnished jewel far below at their feet.
“We are buried alive here, _mon Dieu_!” gasped the little French woman,
staring around her. “We are in a tomb!”
Neva’s heart echoed the words.
The wide plateau, with its thickly growing trees on every side, looked
very grim in the moonlight, obscured as that light was by the towering,
frowning mountains. In the midst of the plateau stood an old stone
house, long and low, and hideously ugly in its proportions, having a
frowning and grim appearance well in keeping with its surroundings.
The front door of this house was opened, and lights gleamed from the
windows, and forms were seen hovering near the dwelling in watchful
expectation.
“It looks as if we were expected!” said Neva, in surprise. “The house
is not closed, as you said, Mr. Black!”
Octavia Black laughed with a strange, mocking cadence that struck a
chill to Neva’s heart.
“Give Neva your arm, my dear,” she said gayly. “What an idea of yours
that we are expected, Neva! Why, we only decided to come while we were
on the sea. I am nearly famished, and hope some one will prepare supper
for us and give us something better than oatmeal.”
As the new-comers drew near the house, the forms Neva had seen
disappeared. The travelers ascended the single step to the low broad
porch, and entered the wide hall of the dwelling. This hall was lighted
by a lantern suspended from the ceiling, and had a stone floor, a stone
staircase, and doors upon each side opening into the living rooms of
the house.
The travelers halted in the midst of the hall, and at the same moment
the parlor door opened, and a woman came out with smiles of welcome--a
woman clad in bright-colored garments, but with ash-colored hair and
complexion.
This woman was Mrs. Artress!
Neva recognized her with a sudden horror. She knew in that instant that
her visit to the Wilderness had been pre-arranged by her enemies--that
her wildest suspicions of the falseness and perfidy of Octavia Black
had fallen short of the truth--that she had been snared in a trap--that
she was a prisoner!