Transcriber’s Notes:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_), and text
enclosed by equal signs is in bold (=bold=).
Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.
* * * * *
SELECT LIBRARY No. 231
NEVA’S THREE LOVERS
_BY_
MRS. HARRIET LEWIS
[Illustration]
Neva’s Three Lovers
_A NOVEL_
BY
MRS. HARRIET LEWIS
AUTHOR OF
“Adrift in the World,” “The Bailiff’s Scheme,” “The Belle of the
Season,” “Cecil Rosse,” “The Haunted Husband,” “Sundered
Hearts,” and numerous other books published in the
EAGLE, NEW EAGLE, and SELECT Libraries.
[Illustration]
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York
* * * * *
Copyright, 1871 and 1892
By Robert Bonner’s Sons
Neva’s Three Lovers
* * * * *
NEVA’S THREE LOVERS.
CHAPTER I. THE GAME WELL BEGUN.
Sir Harold Wynde, Baronet, was standing upon the pier head at Brighton,
looking idly seaward, and watching the play of the sunset rays on the
waters, the tossing white-capped waves, and the white sails in the
distance against the blue sky.
He was not yet fifty years of age, tall and handsome and stately, with
fair complexion, fair hair, and keen blue eyes, which at times beamed
with a warm and genial radiance that seemed to emanate from his soul.
The rare nobility of that soul expressed itself in his features. His
commanding intellect betrayed itself in his square, massive brows. His
grand nature was patent in every look and smile. He was a widower with
two children, the elder a son, who was a captain in a fine regiment in
India, the younger a daughter still at boarding-school. He possessed a
magnificent estate in Kent, a house in town, and a marine villa, and
rejoiced in a clear income of seventy thousand pounds a year.
As might be expected from his rare personal and material advantages,
he was a lion at Brighton, even though the season was at its height,
and peers and peeresses abounded at that fashionable resort. Titled
ladies--to use a well-worn phrase--“set their caps” for him; manœuvring
mammas smiled upon him; portly papas with their “quivers full of
daughters,” and with groaning purses, urged him to dine at their houses
or hotels; and widows of every age looked sweetly at him, and thought
how divine it would be to be chosen to reign as mistress over the
baronet’s estate of Hawkhurst.
But Sir Harold went his ways quietly, seeming oblivious of the hopes
and schemes of these manœuverers. He had had a good wife, and he had
no intention of marrying again. And so, as he stood carelessly leaning
against the railing on the pier head, under the gay awning, his
thoughts were far away from the gaily dressed promenaders sauntering
down the chain pier or pacing with slow steps to and fro behind him.
The sunset glow slowly faded. The long gray English twilight began to
fall slowly upon promenaders, beach, chain pier, and waters. The music
of the band swallowed up all other sounds, the murmur of waters, the
hum of gay voices, the sweetness of laughter.
But suddenly, in one of the interludes of the music, and in the midst
of Sir Harold’s reverie, an incident occurred which was the beginning
of a chain of events destined to change the whole future course of the
baronet’s life, and to exercise no slight degree of influence upon the
lives of others.
Yet the incident was simple. A little pleasure-boat, occupied by two
ladies and a boatman, had been sailing leisurely about the pier head
for some time. The boatman, one of the ordinary pleasure boatmen who
make a living at Brighton, as at other maritime resorts, by letting
their crafts and services to chance customers, had been busy with
his sail. One of the ladies, a hired companion apparently, sat at
one side of the boat, with a parasol on her knee. The other lady, as
evidently the employer, half reclined upon the plush cushions, and
an Indian shawl of vivid scarlet lavishly embroidered with gold was
thrown carelessly about her figure. One cheek of this lady rested upon
her jewelled hand, and her eyes were fixed with a singular intentness,
a peculiar speculativeness, upon the tall and stalwart figure of Sir
Harold Wynde.
There was a world of meaning in that long furtive gaze, and had the
baronet been able to read and comprehend it, the tragical history we
are about to narrate would never have happened. But he, wrapped in his
own thoughts, saw neither the boat nor its occupants.
The little craft crept in quite near to the pier head--so near as to
be but a few rods distant--when the boatman shifted his helm to go
about and stand upon the other tack. The small vessel gave a lurch,
the wind blowing freshly; the lady with the Indian shawl started up,
with a shriek; there was an instant of terrible confusion; and then the
sail-boat had capsized, and her late occupants were struggling in the
waters.
In a moment the promenaders of the chain pier had thronged upon
the pier head. Cries and ejaculations filled the air. No one could
comprehend how the accident had occurred, but one man who had been
watching the boat averred that the lady with the shawl had deliberately
and purposely capsized it. _And this was the actual fact!_
Sir Harold Wynde was startled from the trance-like musings by the
lady’s shriek. He looked down upon the waters and beheld the result of
the catastrophe. The boat’s sail lay half under water. The boatman had
seized the lady’s companion and was clinging to the upturned boat. The
companion had fainted in his arms, and he could not loosen his hold
upon her unless he would have her drown before his eyes. The lady, at
a little distance from her companions in peril, tangled in her mass of
scarlet and gold drapery, her hat lost, her long hair trailing on the
waves, seemed drowning.
Her peril was imminent. No other boats were near, although one or two
were coming up swiftly from a distance.
The lady threw up her white arms with an anguished cry. Her glance
sought the thronged pier head in wild appealing. Who, looking at her,
would have dreamed that the disaster was part of a well-contrived
plan--a trap to catch the unwary baronet?
As she had expected from his well-known chivalrous character, he fell
into the trap. His keen eyes flashed a rapid glance over beach and
waters. The lady was likely to drown before help could come from the
speeding boats. Sir Harold pulled off his coat and made a dive into the
sea. He was an expert swimmer, and reached the lady as she was sinking.
He caught her in his arms and struck out for the boat. The lady became
a dead weight, and when he reached the capsized craft her head lay back
on his breast, her long wet tresses of hair coiled around him like
Medusean locks, and her pale face was like the face of a dead woman.
Sir Harold clung to the side of the boat opposite that on which the
boatman supported his burden. And thus he awaited the coming of the
boats.
Among the eager thronging watchers on the pier head above was a tall,
fair-faced man, with a long, waxed mustache, sinister eyes and a
cynical smile. He alone of the throng seemed unmoved by the tragic
incident.
“It was pretty well done,” he muttered, under his breath--“a little
transparent, perhaps, and a trifle awkward as well, but pretty well
done! The baronet fell into the trap too, exactly as was hoped. Your
campaign opens finely, my beautiful Octavia. Let us see if the result
is to be what we desire. In short, will the baronet be as unsuspicious
all the way through?”
Sir Harold certainly was unsuspicious at that moment. The helpless
woman in his arms aroused into activity all the chivalry of his
chivalric nature. He held her head above the creeping waves until the
foremost boat had reached him. His burden was the first to be lifted
into the rescuing craft; the lady’s companion followed; the baronet and
the boatman climbing into the boat last, in the order in which they are
named.
The capsized boat was righted and its owner took possession of her. The
rescuing craft transported the baronet and the two ladies to the beach.
The lady companion had recovered her senses and self-possession, but
the lady employer lay on the cushions pale and motionless.
On reaching the landing, a cab was found to be in waiting, having
been summoned by some sympathizing spectator. The companion, uttering
protestations of gratitude, entered the vehicle, and her mistress was
assisted in after her. The former gathered her employer in her arms,
crying out:
“She is dead! She is dead! I have lost my best friend--”
“Not so, madam,” said Sir Harold, in kindly sympathy. “The lady has
only fainted, I think. To what place shall I tell the cabman to drive?”
“To the Albion Hotel. Oh, my poor, poor lady! To die so young! It is
terrible!”
Sir Harold made some soothing response, but being chilled and wet, did
not find it necessary to accompany to their hotel the heroines of the
adventure. He gave their address to the cabman, watched the cab as it
rolled away, and then breaking loose from the crowd of friends who
gathered around him with anxious interrogatories, he secured his coat
and procured a cab for himself and proceeded to his own hotel.
It was not until he had had a comfortable bath, and was seated in dry
attire in his private parlor, that Sir Harold remembered that he did
not know the name of the lady he had served, or that he had not even
seen her face distinctly.
“She is as ignorant of my name and identity,” he thought, “as I am of
hers. If the incident could be kept out of the papers, I need never be
troubled with the thanks of her husband, father, or brother.”
But the incident was not kept out of the papers. Sir Harold Wynde,
being a lion, had to bear the penalty of popularity. The next morning’s
paper, brought in to him as he sat at his solitary breakfast, contained
a glowing account of the previous evening’s adventure, under the
flaming head line of “Heroic Action by a Baronet,” with the sub-lines:
“Sir Harold Wynde saves a lady’s life at the risk of his own. Chivalry
not yet dead in our commonplace England.” And there followed a highly
imaginative description of the lady’s adventure, her name being as yet
unknown, and a warm eulogy upon Sir Harold’s bravery and presence of
mind.
The baronet’s lip curled as he read impatiently the fulsome article.
He had scarcely finished it when a waiter entered, bringing in upon a
silver tray a large squarely enveloped letter. It was addressed to Sir
Harold Wynde, was stamped with an unintelligible monogram, and sealed
with a dainty device in pale green wax. As the baronet’s only lady
correspondent was his daughter at school, and this missive was clearly
not from her, he experienced a slight surprise at its reception.
The waiter having departed, Sir Harold cut open the letter with his
pocket knife, and glanced over its contents.
They were written upon the daintiest, thickest vellum paper unlined,
and duly tinted and monogrammed, and were as follows:
ALBION HOTEL, Tuesday Morning.
“SIR HAROLD WYNDE: The lady who writes this letter is the lady whom
you so gallantly rescued from a death by drowning last evening.
I have read the accounts of your daring bravery in the morning’s
papers, and hasten to offer my grateful thanks for your noble and
gallant kindness to an utter stranger. Life has not been so sweet
to me that I cling to it, but yet it is very horrible to go in one
moment from the glow and heartiness of health and life down to the
very gates of death. It was your hand that drew me back at the
moment when those gates opened to admit me, and again I bless you--a
thousand thousand times, I bless you. Alas, that I have to write to
you myself. I have neither father, lover, nor husband, to rejoice in
the life you have saved. I am a widow, and alone in the wide world.
Will you not call upon me at my hotel and permit me to thank you far
more effectively in person? I shall be waiting for your coming in my
private parlor at eleven this morning.
“Gratefully yours,
“OCTAVIA HATHAWAY.”
The baronet read the letter again and again. His generous soul was
touched by its sorrowful tone.
“A widow and alone in the world!” he thought. “Poor woman! What
sentence could be sadder than that? She is elderly, I am sure, and
has lost all her children. I do not want to hear her expressions of
gratitude, but if I can make the poor soul happier by calling on her I
will go.”
Accordingly, at eleven o’clock that morning, attired in a gentleman’s
unexceptionable morning dress, Sir Harold Wynde, having sent up his
card, presented himself at the door of Mrs. Hathaway’s private parlor
at the Albion Hotel, and knocked for admittance.
The door was opened to him by the lady’s companion, who greeted him
with effusiveness, and begged him to be seated.
She was a tall, angular woman, with sharp features, whose
characteristic expression was one of peculiar hardness and severity.
Her lips were thin, and were usually compressed. Her eyes were a light
gray, furtive and sly, like a cat’s eyes. Her pointed chin gave a
treacherous cast to her countenance. Her complexion was of a pale,
opaque gray; her hair, of a fawn color, was worn in three puffs on each
side of her face, and her dress was of a tint to match her hair. Sir
Harold conceived an instinctive aversion to her.
“Mrs. Hathaway?” he said politely, with interrogative accent.
“No, I am not Mrs. Hathaway,” was the reply, in a subdued voice, and
the furtive eyes scanned the visitor’s face. “I am only Mrs. Hathaway’s
companion--Mrs. Artress. Mrs. Hathaway has just received your card. She
will be out directly.”
The words were scarcely spoken when the door of an inner room opened,
and Mrs. Hathaway made her appearance.
Sir Harold stood up, bowing.
The lady was by no means the elderly, melancholy personage he had
expected to see. She was about thirty years of age, and looked
younger. She had a tall, statuesque figure, well-rounded and inclined
to _embonpoint_. She carried her head with a certain stateliness.
Her hair was dressed with the inevitable chignon, crimped waves, and
long, floating curl, and despite the monstrosity of the fashion, it
was decidedly and undeniably picturesque. Her face, with its clear
brunette complexion, liquid black eyes, Grecian nose, low brows, and
faultless mouth, was very handsome. There was a fascination in her
manners that was felt by the baronet even before she had spoken.
She was not dressed in mourning, and it was probable, therefore, that
her widowhood was not of recent beginning. She was clothed in an
exquisitely embroidered morning dress of white, which trailed on the
floor, and was relieved with ornaments of pale pink coral, and a broad
coral-colored sash at her waist.
“_This_ is Mrs. Hathaway, Sir Harold,” said the gray looking lady’s
companion.
The lady sprang forward after an impulsive fashion, and clasped the
baronet’s hands in both her own. Her black eyes flooded with tears.
And then, in a broken voice, she thanked her preserver for his gallant
conduct on the previous evening assuring him that her gratitude would
outlast her life. Her protestations and gratitude were not overdone,
and unsuspecting Sir Harold accepted them as genuine, even while they
embarrassed him.
He remained an hour, finding Mrs. Hathaway charming company and
thoroughly fascinating. The companion sat apart, silent, busy with
embroidery, a mere gray shadow; but her presence gave an easy
unconstraint to both the baronet and the lady. When Sir Harold took his
departure, sauntering down to the German Spa, he carried with him the
abiding memory of Mrs. Hathaway’s handsome brunette face and liquid
black eyes, and thought himself that she was the most charming woman he
had met for years.
From that day, throughout the season, the baronet was a frequent
visitor at Mrs. Hathaway’s private parlor. The gray companion was
always at hand to play propriety, and the tongues of gossips, though
busy, had no malevolence in them. Sir Harold had his own horses
at Brighton, and placed one at Mrs. Hathaway’s disposal. The widow
accepted it, procured a bewitching costume from town, and had daily
rides with the baronet. She also drove with him in his open, low
carriage, and bowed right and left to her acquaintances upon such
occasions with the gracious condescension of a princess. She sailed
with him in his graceful yacht, upon day’s excursions, her companion
always accompanying, and rumor at length declared that the pair were
engaged to be married.
Sir Harold heard the reports, and they set him thinking. The society of
Mrs. Hathaway had become necessary to him. She understood his tastes,
studying them with a flattery so delicate that he was pleased without
understanding it. She read his favorite books, played his favorite
music, and displayed talents of no mean order. She was fitted to adorn
any position, however high, and Sir Harold thought with a pleasant
thrill at his heart, how royally she would reign over his beautiful
home.
In short, questioning his own heart, he found that he had worshiped
his dead wife, who would be to him always young, as when he had buried
her--but with the passion of later manhood, an exacting, jealous
yearning affection, which gives all and demands all. With his children
far from him, his life had been lonely, and he had known many desolate
hours, when he would have given half his wealth for sympathy and love.
“I shall find both in Octavia,” he thought, his noble face brightening.
“I shall not wrong my children in marrying her. My son will be my heir.
My daughter’s fortune will not be imperilled by my second marriage.
Neva is sixteen, and in two years more will come home. How can I do
better for her than to give her a beautiful mother, young enough to
win her confidence, old enough to be her guide? Octavia would love my
girl, and would be her best chaperon in society, to which Neva must be
by and by introduced. I should find in Octavia then a mother for my
daughter, and a gentle loving wife and companion for myself. But will
she accept me?”
He put the question to the test that very evening. He found the
handsome widow alone in her parlor, the gray companion being for once
absent, and he told her his love with a tremulous ardor and passion
that it would have been the glory of a good woman to have evoked from a
nature so grand as Sir Harold’s.
The fascinating widow blushed and smiled assent, and her black-tressed
head drooped to his shoulder, and Sir Harold clasped her in his arms as
his betrothed wife.
With a lover’s impetuosity he begged her to marry him at an early day.
She hesitated coyly, as if for months she had not been striving and
praying for this hour, and then was won to consent to marry him a month
thence.
“I am alone in the world, and have no one to consult,” she sighed. “I
have an old aunt, a perfect miser, who lives in Bloomsbury Square,
in London. She will permit me to be married from her house, as I was
before. The marriage will have to be very quiet, for she is averse
to display and expense. However, what she saves will come to me some
day, so I need not complain. I shall want to keep Artress with me,
Sir Harold. I can see that you don’t like her, but she has been a
faithful friend to me in all my troubles, and I cannot abandon her when
prosperity smiles so splendidly upon me. I may keep her, may I not?”
Thus appealed to, Sir Harold smothered his dislike of the gray
companion, and consented that she should become an inmate of his house.
Mrs. Hathaway proceeded to explain the causes of her friendlessness.
She was an orphan, and had early married the Honorable Charles
Hathaway, the younger son of a Viscount, who had died five years
before. The Honorable Charles had been a dissipated spendthrift, and
had left his wife the meagre income of some three hundred pounds a
year. Her elegant clothing was, for the most part, relics of better
days. As to the expensive style in which she lived, keeping a companion
and maid, no one knew, save herself and one other, how she managed to
support it. Her name and reputation were unblemished, and the most
censorious tongue had nothing to say against her.
And yet she was none the less an unscrupulous, unprincipled adventuress.
This was the woman, the noble, gallant baronet proposed to take to
his bosom as his wife, to endow with his name and wealth, to make the
mother and guide of his pure young daughter. Would the sacrifice of the
generous, unsuspected lover be permitted?
It _was_ permitted. A month later their modest bridal train swept
beneath the portals of St. George’s Church, Hanover Square. The bride,
radiant in pearl-colored moire, with point lace overdress, wore a
magnificent parure of diamonds, presented to her by Sir Harold. The
baronet looked the picture of happiness. The miserly aunt of Mrs.
Hathaway, a skinny old lady in a low-necked and short-sleeved dress
of pink silk, that, by its unsuitability, made her seem absolutely
hideous, attended by a male friend, who gave away the bride, was
prominent among the group that surrounded the altar.
Sir Harold’s son and heir was in India, and his daughter had not been
summoned from her boarding-school in Paris. The baronet’s tender father
soul yearned for his daughter’s presence at his second marriage; but
Lady Wynde had urged that Neva’s studies should not be interrupted,
and had begged, as a personal favor, that her meeting with her young
step-daughter might be delayed until her ladyship had become used to
her new position. She professed to be timid and shrinking in regard
to the meeting with Neva, and Sir Harold, in his passionate love for
Octavia, put aside his own wishes, yielding to her request. But he had
written to his daughter, announcing his intended second marriage, and
had received in reply a tender, loving letter full of earnest prayers
for his happiness, and expressing the kindest feelings toward the
expected step-mother.
The words were spoken that made the strangely assorted pair one flesh.
As the bride arose from her knees the wife of a wealthy baronet, the
wearer of a title, the handsome face was lighted by a triumphant glow,
her black eyes emitted a singular, exultant gleam, and a conscious
triumph pervaded her manner.
She had played the first part of a daring game--and she had won!
As she passed into the vestry to sign the marriage register, leaning
proudly upon the arm of her newly made husband, and followed by her few
attending personal friends, a man who had witnessed the ceremony from
behind a clustered pillar in the church, stole out into the square, his
face lighted by a lurid smile, his eyes emitting the same peculiar,
exultant gleam as the bride’s had done.
This man was the tall, fair-haired gentleman, with waxed mustaches,
sinister eyes and cynical smile, who, nearly three months before, had
witnessed from the pier head at Brighton the rescue of Mrs. Hathaway
from the sea by Sir Harold Wynde. And now this man muttered:
“The game prospers. Octavia is Lady Wynde. The first act is played.
The next act requires more time, deliberation, caution. Every move must
be considered carefully. We are bound to win the entire game.”