The announcement of Sir Harold Wynde’s death in India, so soon too
after the death of his son and heir, produced a shock throughout his
native county of Kent, and even throughout England; for, although the
baronet had been no politician, he had been one of the best known men
in the kingdom, and there were many who had known and esteemed him, who
mourned deeply at his tragic fate.
The London papers, the _Times_, the _Morning Post_, and others, came
out with glowing eulogies of the grand-souled baronet whose life had
been so noble and beneficent. The local papers of Kent copied these
long obituaries, and added thereto accounts of the pedigree of the
Wynde family, and a description of the young heiress upon whom, by the
untimely deaths of both father and brother, the great family estates
and possessions, all excepting the bare title, now devolved.
The retainers of the family, the farmers and servants--those who had
known Sir Harold best--mourned for him, refusing to be comforted.
They would never know again a landlord so genial, nor a master so
kindly: and although they hoped for much from his daughter, yet, as
they mournfully said to each other, Miss Neva would marry some day,
and the chances were even that she would give to Hawkhurst a harsh and
tyrannical master.
The little village of Wyndham, near Hawkhurst, the very ideal of a
Kentish village, had been mostly owned by Sir Harold Wynde. To him
had belonged the row of shops, the old inn with its creaking sign,
and most of the neat houses that stood in gardens along the single
street. It was Sir Harold who had caused to be built the little new
stone church, with its slender spire, and in this church the mourning
villagers gathered to listen to the sermon that was preached in
commemoration of the baronet’s death.
Lady Wynde was not present to listen to this sermon. Her gray
companion, attired in deep mourning, with the entire household of
Hawkhurst, was there, and the young clergyman made a feeling allusion
to “the bereaved young widow, sitting alone in her darkened chamber and
weeping for her dead, refusing like Rachel of old, to be comforted.”
Many of the kindly women present shed tears at this picture, but
Artress smiled behind her double mourning vail. She knew that Lady
Wynde was lying upon a sofa in her luxurious sitting-room at Hawkhurst,
busy with a French novel, and she knew also that not one tear had
dimmed her ladyship’s black eyes since the news had come of Sir
Harold’s horrible fate.
Neighbors and friends thronged to Hawkhurst to offer their condolences
to the young widow. For the first week she was reported inconsolable,
and refused to see any one; but a box of the most elegant and
fashionable mourning having come down from London, Lady Wynde began
to receive her visitors. She affected to be quite broken down by her
bereavement, and for weeks did not go out of doors. And when, finally,
being urged to take care of her health and to become resigned to her
loss, she took morning drives, her equipage looked like a funeral one,
her carriage and horses being alike black, and her own face being
shrouded in double folds of sombre crape.
Artress had written to Sir Harold’s daughter immediately upon the
arrival of the news of Sir Harold’s death, but the letter had been
cold and practical, and contained merely the terrible announcement,
without one line to soften its horror. About a week later, no letter
having been received from Neva, Lady Wynde wrote a very pathetic
letter, full of protestations of sympathy, and setting forth her own
mock sorrow as something genuinely heart-rending, and declaring herself
utterly prostrated in both body and mind. Her ladyship offered her
condolences to the bereaved daughter, assuring her that henceforth they
“must be all the world to each other,” and concluded her letter by
the false statement that it had been the late Sir Harold’s wish that
his daughter should remain at her Paris school a year longer, and, as
the wishes of the dead are sacred, Lady Wynde had sacrificed her own
personal feelings in the matter, and had consented that Neva should
remain another year “under the care of her excellent French teachers.”
“That disposes of the girl for a year,” commented Lady Wynde, as she
sealed the missive. “I won’t have her here to spy upon me until the
year of mourning is over, and I am free to do just as I please.”
So the letter was dispatched, and the baronet’s daughter was condemned
to continue her school tasks, even though her heart might be breaking.
There was no leisure for her in which to weep for the fate of her noble
father; no one who had known him with whom she might talk of him; and
only in the long and lonely night times was she free to weep for him,
and then indeed her pillow was wetted with her tears.
About three weeks after the receipt of the letter from India announcing
Sir Harold’s death, the baronet’s solicitor at Canterbury received
a note from the widow, requesting him to call at Hawkhurst on the
following day. He obeyed the summons, bringing with him a copy of
Sir Harold’s will, made, as will be remembered, upon the day of the
baronet’s departure from England. Lady Wynde, clad in the deepest
weeds of woe, and attended by Artress, also in mourning, received the
solicitor in the library, a grand apartment with vaulted ceiling, and
lofty walls lined with books in uniform Russia leather bindings.
“I have sent for you, Mr. Atkins,” said Lady Wynde, when the customary
greetings had been exchanged, “to learn if poor Sir Harold left a will.
I had his desk searched, and no document of the sort can be found. If
he made no will, I am anxious to know how I am to be affected by the
omission.”
Mr. Atkins, a thin, small man, with a large, bald head, looked
surprised at the simple directness of this speech. He had expected to
find her ladyship overcome with grief, as report portrayed her; but
her eyes were as bright and tearless, her cheeks as red, her features
as composed, as if the business in hand were of the most trivial and
unimportant description. Atkins, who had appreciated Sir Harold’s grand
nature, felt an aversion to Lady Wynde from this moment.
“She didn’t care for him,” he mentally decided on the instant. “She’s
an arrant humbug, and poor Sir Harold’s love was wasted on her. Upon
my soul, I believe all she cared about him was for the title and his
money.”
Lady Wynde’s sharp eyes did not fail to perceive the unfavorable
impression she had made. She bit her lip fiercely, and her cheeks
flushed hotly. Her brows arched themselves superciliously, and Mr.
Atkins, marking her impatience, hastened to answer:
“Sir Harold left a will, my lady. It was drawn up at my office at
Canterbury upon the day on which he left England for India. You will
remember that he left Hawkhurst in the morning and drove to Canterbury.
He came direct to my office, and dictated and signed his will. He
then proceeded directly to the station and went by train to Dover, and
crossed to Calais. The will was left in my keeping and is, there can be
no question, the last will and testament of Sir Harold Wynde.”
“I presume no one will care to question the will,” said Lady Wynde
coldly, “although Sir Harold was in a very excited frame of mind that
morning, on account of the news of his son’s illness, and the pain
of leaving his home and me. Nevertheless, I dare say he was quite
competent to dictate a will. I sent you the particulars of Sir Harold’s
death, with some of the letters detailing the sad event which I have
received from India. There being no possible doubt of his awful fate,
it is time to prove his will. I wish you to give me some idea of its
contents.”
The solicitor drew out a long leathern pocket-book and took from it a
neatly folded paper.
“I have here a copy of the will,” he said briefly. “Is it your
ladyship’s wish to have the will formally read, in the presence of
witnesses?”
“No, that is unnecessary. Leave out the usual useless preamble and
tell me what disposition my husband made of his property--the freehold
farms, the money in bank, the consols, the bonds and mortgages? All
these he was free to leave to whom he pleased. I desire to know to whom
he did leave them.”
There was a greediness in the looks and tones of Lady Wynde that
chilled Atkins. In her anxiety to learn the contents of the will, her
ladyship half dropped her mask and displayed something of her true
character, and he was quick to read it.
“Sir Harold Wynde, in expectation of the death of his son and heir,”
replied Atkins, in his most formal tones, “bequeathed all the property
you have mentioned, all his real and personal property, to his
daughter, Miss Neva Wynde.”
“All to her?” muttered Lady Wynde. “_All_, you say?”
“All, my lady. Miss Wynde also inherits Hawkhurst and the entailed
property. She is one of the richest heiresses in England.”
“And--and my name is not mentioned?”
“Sir Harold declares that you are provided for by the terms of the
marriage settlement. You have Wynde Heights for your dower house and
four thousand pounds a year during your life, with no restrictions in
regard to a second marriage--a very liberal provision I consider it.”
“And a very shabby one I consider it,” cried Lady Wynde, with a black
frown. “Sir Harold’s daughter seventy thousand pounds a year, and I
have a paltry four. It is a shame, a miserable, burning shame!”
“It is unjust, scandalous!” muttered Artress.
“Sir Harold thought the sum sufficient, and I must say I agree with
him,” declared Atkins. “Your ladyship was contented with the provision
at your marriage. If the allowance was unsatisfactory, why did you not
expostulate with Sir Harold at that time? Why wait until he is dead to
accuse him of injustice?”
“We will not argue the matter,” said Lady Wynde superciliously. “I
shall not contest the will. And now about my rich young step-daughter.
Who are her appointed guardians?”
There was a perceptible anxiety in her manner, which Atkins noticed
with some wonder. He referred to his copy of the will, which was open
in his hands.
“Sir Harold appointed yourself, my lady, the personal guardian of his
daughter,” he said slowly. “Miss Wynde is to reside at Hawkhurst under
your care until she becomes of age or marries. Upon the occurrence of
either of those events your ladyship is to retire to Wynde Heights,
or to whatsoever place you may prefer, leaving Miss Wynde absolute
mistress of Hawkhurst. Of course if Miss Wynde desires you to remain
after her marriage, or the attainment of her majority, you are at
liberty to do as you please. I think you comprehend Sir Harold’s
meaning. If it is not precisely clear, I will read the will--”
“Do not!” interrupted Lady Wynde impatiently. “I abhor all that
tedious phraseology. I understand that I am Miss Wynde’s sole personal
guardian, that I am to direct her actions, introduce her into society,
and that she is to give me the simple, unhesitating obedience of a
daughter. Is this not so?”
“It is,” assented Atkins, rather hesitatingly. “Sir Harold expresses
the hope that his widow and his daughter will love each other; and that
your ladyship will give to his orphan child a mother’s tenderness and
affection.”
“Sir Harold knew that he could depend upon my kindness to his child,”
said Lady Wynde hypocritically. “I promised him before he went away to
be a mother to her, although I shall be but a young mother, to be sure.
I shall be very good to the poor girl, whom I love already. I don’t
know anything about law, Mr. Atkins, but is not some other guardian
also necessary--some one to see to the property, you know?”
“There are three trustees appointed to look after the estate during
Miss Wynde’s minority,” answered Atkins. “Sir John Freise is one.
You know him well, my lady, and a more incorruptible, honest-souled
gentleman than he does not exist. He is a man of fine business
capacity, and Sir Harold could not have chosen better. I am also a
trustee, and I can answer for my own probity, and for my great devotion
to the interests of Miss Wynde.”
“And the third trustee--who is he?”
“The young Earl Towyn. He is the son of one of Sir Harold’s dearest
friends, as you probably know, and his youth admirably balances Sir
John’s age.”
Lady Wynde looked thoughtful. Her gray companion bent over her work,
embroidering a black monogram upon a black-bordered handkerchief, and
did not look up. Her ashen-hued lashes lay on her ashen cheeks, and she
looked dull, spiritless, a mere gray shadow, as we have called her, but
Atkins, studying her face, had an uncomfortable impression that under
all that coldness a fire was burning.
“She’s more than she looks to be,” he thought keenly. “I wonder Sir
Harold tolerated her in his house. How singularly she resembles a cat!”
Lady Wynde presently broke the silence.
“I understand the situation of affairs,” she said, “and I am obliged
to you for your prompt attendance upon my summons, Mr. Atkins. I shall
leave my money affairs in your hands. I desire my jointure to be paid
into the bank and placed to my credit, so that I may draw upon it when
I please. There is nothing more, I think.”
“I would like to make a few inquiries about Miss Wynde, if you please,
my lady,” said Atkins, with quiet firmness. “I understand that she
is not at home. Has she not been summoned from her school since her
father’s death?”
“She has not,” answered Lady Wynde haughtily.
“Pardon me, madam, but are you not about to summon her?”
“I am not. Miss Wynde will remain this year at school. Her studies must
be interrupted upon no account at this time.”
“Not even by her father’s death?” asked Atkins bitterly. “Sir Harold
mentioned to me his desire to have her at home--”
“Sir Harold Wynde is no longer master of Hawkhurst,” interposed Lady
Wynde, with increased superciliousness. “I believe, by the terms of
the will, that I am mistress here during Neva’s minority. Let me tell
you, Mr. Atkins, that I am my step-daughter’s sole personal guardian,
and that I will submit to no dictation whatever in my treatment of the
girl. If my husband had sufficient confidence in me to make me his
daughter’s guardian, the trustees whom he himself appointed have no
need nor right to comment upon my actions or interfere in my plans.
Permit me to assure you that I will brook no interference, and if you
try to sow dissension between Neva and me you are proving unfaithful to
Sir Harold--as well as oblivious of your own interests.”
Mr. Atkins sighed, and murmured an apology. He soon after took his
leave, and drove away in the chaise in which he had come. His heart
was very heavy and his face overcast as he emerged from the Hawkhurst
grounds into the highway, and journeyed toward Canterbury.
“It was a sorry day for Neva Wynde when her father died,” he murmured,
looking back at the grand old seat--“a sorry day! This handsome
black-eyed Lady Wynde, that everybody is praising for an angel of love
and devotion to her husband, is at heart a demon! She means mischief,
though I can’t see how. Poor Neva is booked for trouble!”
Enough of honest Mr. Atkins’ sentiments had been apparent in his
countenance to prejudice Lady Wynde against him, and to warn her that
he comprehended something of her real character. As may be supposed,
therefore, she did not again summon him to Hawkhurst.
The days and weeks and months of Lady Wynde’s widowhood passed on
without event. She carried herself circumspectly in the eyes of the
world. No visitors were invited to Hawkhurst, and her ladyship’s visits
to London were few and far between. She seldom went to Canterbury, and
her drives about the neighborhood of Hawkhurst were always of the most
funereal description, with black coach, black horses and black attire,
and a slow gait. Her ladyship was found every Sunday in the baronet’s
great square pew in the little Wyndham church, and as she always sat
with the silken curtains drawn, no one could know that she was not
absorbed in the church services. In short, during the year she had
determined to devote to mourning for her dead husband, the conduct of
Lady Wynde was such as to deepen her popularity throughout the county.
Sir John Freise enthusiastically declared her an angel, her neighbors
praised her, and only honest Mr. Atkins shook his head doubtfully when
her virtues were lauded, and dared to suggest that she might not be all
she seemed.
The year slowly wore away, and midsummer had come again. The languor
of Lady Wynde’s dull existence had begun to give place to a strange
restlessness. Her deep mourning had grown odious in her sight, and
was replaced by the lovely combinations of white and black, the
delicate lavenders and soft gray hues which are supposed to indicate a
mitigated grief. The hideous widow’s cap, not at all becoming to her
ladyship, was exchanged for lavender ribbons in her hair, and jewels
took the place of the orthodox mourning ornaments of jet. In her “half
mourning,” Lady Wynde appeared more than ever a strikingly handsome
woman.
“Artress,” she said one morning to her gray companion, as she looked
out of her sitting-room window upon the fair domain of Hawkhurst, “this
dreaded year is over at last. I have satisfied the demands of society;
I have hoodwinked the jealous and envious eyes of neighbors, and am
free at last. If I were to marry to-morrow, no one could say that I
had not treated the memory of Sir Harold Wynde with respect. With the
sacrifice of but little over two years of my life, I have won a fine
income, a splendid home during Neva’s minority, and the guardianship of
one of the greatest heiresses in England. That office is worth three
thousand a year to me while I hold it. Surely I have played my part
well.”
“You have indeed,” echoed Artress.
“Neva must come home soon, but my own business must be settled before
her advent on the scene. I shall write to Craven immediately. I will
have no further delay.”
She went to a small, beautifully inlaid writing desk, which stood in a
recessed window, and sitting down by it, wrote upon heavy velvet paper
the following words:
“CRAVEN: You may come to me at last. There is no further obstacle
between us.
“OCTAVIA.”
This brief missive she inclosed in a square envelope, and stamped with
pale green wax and her favorite device.
The letter she addressed to The Hon. Craven Black, The Albany, London,
W.
She then touched her bell. To the servant who came at her summons she
gave the letter, ordering it to be posted at Wyndham village without
delay. When her messenger had gone, her ladyship gave a sigh of
consent, and murmured:
“I am about to reap the reward of all my schemes. Craven will be here
to-morrow!”