While Craven Black was successfully pursuing his machinations to
destroy the happiness of two young lives, Lady Wynde had been active
in carrying out her part in the infamous plot against Neva. The little
packet of forged letters which had cost Lady Wynde’s fellow-conspirator
a night of toil, and which had been sent to Hawkhurst by a special
messenger, had been safely delivered into the hands of Mrs. Artress,
who had been waiting at the gate lodge to receive it. It had so
happened that not even the lodge keeper had witnessed the reception
of the packet, and she had dismissed the messenger, and carefully
concealed the packet upon her person, and returned to the house and to
the presence of her mistress.
Lady Wynde had not yet risen. She lay in the midst of her white bed,
with her black hair tossing upon her ruffled pillow, one white and
rounded arm lying upon the scarlet satin coverlet, and with a profusion
of dainty frills and laces upon her person. A small inlaid table stood
at her bedside, supporting a round silver tray, upon which gleamed
a silver _tete-a-tete_ set of the daintiest proportions, and at the
moment of her companion’s entrance her ladyship was sipping her usual
morning cup of black coffee, which was expected to tone and strengthen
her nerves for the day.
She dropped her tiny gold spoon, and looked up eagerly and expectantly,
and Artress, closing the door, drew forth the packet with an air of
triumph.
“I have received it,” said the gray companion, “and no one is the
wiser for it. The messenger thinks it a book, and the people at
the lodge did not even see it. We are in the usual luck, Octavia.
Everything goes well with us.”
“I am glad that Craven did not fail me,” murmured Lady Wynde. “I feared
he might find the task too heavy for him. But he is always prompt. Open
the packet, Artress.”
The companion obeyed, bringing to light the double letter, the one
Craven Black had forged being securely lodged within the last letter
Sir Harold Wynde had written to his wife from India.
Lady Wynde saw that the inner letter, addressed to Neva, was securely
sealed, read the forged postscript to the letter addressed to her, and
placed both under her pillow, with a complacent smile.
“Craven is a clever fellow,” she muttered. “And how much he loves
me, Artress. Not many men could have seen the woman they loved marry
another, but Craven and I have been worldly wise, and we shall reap
the reward of our self-denial. If we had married three years ago,
we should have been poor now, mere hangers on upon the outskirts of
society, tolerated for the sake of our connections, but nothing more.
But we determined to play a daring game, and behold our success. I am
again a widow, with four thousand a year and a good house while I live,
and I can lay up money if I choose while I continue the chaperon of
my husband’s daughter. And if our game continues to prosper, and Neva
marries Rufus Black, Craven and I will make ten thousand a year more
for the remainder of our lives. Rufus will have to sign an agreement
giving us that amount out of Neva’s income. Think of it Artress;
fourteen thousand a year!”
“Of which if you win it, I am to have five hundred,” said Artress, her
gray face flushing. “And if you do not win the ten thousand, I am to
have two hundred pounds a year settled upon me for life. Is not that
our bargain?”
Lady Wynde nodded assent.
“And,” continued Artress, “I am to enter society with you, to remain
with you as your guest instead of companion. I have been necessary to
you in playing this game. I have lived with you some three years now,
and though people know that I am a lady born, no one suspects that I
am own cousin to Craven Black, and soon to be your cousin by marriage.
We have joined our forces and wits together in this game, and we shall
enjoy our success together.”
This, then, was the secret of the connection between the two women so
unlike each other, yet so in unison in their schemes. Mrs. Artress was
the cousin of Craven Black, and being poor as well as unscrupulous,
she was his most faithful ally in his stupendously wicked schemes. The
interests of the three conspirators were indeed identical.
“I believe I will rise,” said Lady Wynde. “I am impatient to give this
letter to Neva, and to see how she receives it. Do you suppose she is
up?”
“She has been up these two hours,” answered Artress. “She has been
all over the house, has talked with the butler and the servants, has
visited the stable and gardens, and has even been into the park. She
means to assert her dignity as mistress of Hawkhurst, and to win the
hearts of her dependents, so that in case she disagrees with you they
will support her.”
Lady Wynde frowned darkly.
“Miss Neva is not yet of age, and so, although she owns Hawkhurst,
there may be a question whether she is its mistress, or whether I, who
am her guardian and her father’s widow, am mistress here.”
Her ladyship pulled the bell cord at her bed head, summoning her maid.
Artress retired into Lady Wynde’s sitting-room, and upon the appearance
of her attendant, the widow arose and attired herself in a white
morning wrapper with crimson trimmings, and put upon her head a small
square of white lace adorned with crimson bows. She had some time since
discarded her widow’s cap, as “too horribly unbecoming.”
She ascertained that Neva was now in her own rooms, and took her way
thither, the forged letters in her hand. Neva was alone when her
step-mother, after a preliminary knock upon the door, entered her
sitting-room, and she greeted Lady Wynde with a smile and look of
welcome.
Neva was looking very lovely this morning, flushed with her early
exercise, her red-brown eyes strangely brilliant, her red-brown hair
arranged in crimps and braids. She wore a simple dress of white lawn,
made short to escape the ground, and her ribbons and ornaments were
of black. Lady Wynde fancied that Neva’s half-mourning attire was a
reproach to her, and this fancied reproach, coupled with Neva’s bright,
spirited beauty, gave an impulse to her incipient dislike to the girl.
A vague jealousy of Neva’s youth and loveliness had found place in her
heart on the previous evening. Now that faint spark became fanned into
a burning flame. She aspired to be a social queen, and here under her
very roof, and under her chaperonage, was a girl whom she felt sure
would eclipse her. She would not be known in society as the handsome
Mrs. Black, but as the chaperon of the beautiful Miss Wynde.
But, despite her anger and jealousy, nothing could have been more
bland and affectionate than the greeting of Lady Wynde to her
step-daughter. She kissed her with seeming tenderness, and caressed her
bright hair as she said:
“How animated you look, my dear--fairly sparkling! I should fancy that
you have an electric sort of temperament--all fire and glow. Is it not
so? You remind me of your father, Neva. It will be very sweet to have
you with me, but my grief at my husband’s awful death has been so great
that until now I could never bear to look upon his daughter’s face. I
fancied you would look even more like him, and I could not have borne
the resemblance in my first grief.”
Lady Wynde sighed deeply, and sat down upon the blue silken couch,
drawing Neva to a seat beside her.
“I have come in to have a long confidential talk with you, my child,”
resumed her ladyship. “There should be between you and me strangely
tender relations. Your poor dear father desired us to be all the world
to each other, and for his sake, as well as your own, I intend to be a
true and good mother to you.”
“Thank you, madam,” said Neva, gravely, yet gratefully. “I will try to
deserve your kindness, and to be a daughter to you.”
“You do not call me mother,” suggested Lady Wynde, reproachfully.
The young girl colored, and her brilliant eyes were suddenly shadowed.
Her scarlet lips quivered an instant, as she said gently:
“Pardon me, dear Lady Wynde, but one has but one mother. I love my dead
mother as if she were living, even though I know her only through my
dear father’s description of her. I cannot give you her name, and I
think it would hardly be appropriate. You are too young to be called
mother by a grown-up girl. Does it not seem so to you?”
“Possibly you are right. Suit yourself, my dear. I seek only your
happiness. I can be a mother to you, even if you decline to give me the
name.”
“And I can equally be a daughter to you, dear Lady Wynde,” said Neva.
“We shall be like sisters, I trust. And I desire to say that I hope you
will consider yourself as fully mistress of Hawkhurst as when poor papa
was here. I shall not interfere with your rule here, even if I may,
until I attain my majority. While I live, my home shall be a home to my
father’s widow.”
“You are very kind, my dear. All these things will settle themselves
hereafter. I have now to deliver to you a last message from your dear
father--a message, as I might say, from the grave. Your father’s voice
speaks to you from the other world, my dear Neva, and I know that you
will heed its call.”
Her ladyship drew forth the packet of letters, and laid them on Neva’s
knee.
“You have there,” continued Lady Wynde, putting her handkerchief to her
eyes, “the last letter I ever received from my dear husband. You may
read it. You will see that he had a presentiment of his approaching
death; that a gloom hung upon him that he could not shake off. That
letter was written the night before his tragic death.”
Neva opened the letter with trembling hands and read it, even to the
postscript upon the last page which had been forged by the cunning hand
of Craven Black. Her tears fell as she read it.
“The inclosure--ah, you have not seen it,” said Lady Wynde--“is the
letter alluded to in that last page of the letter to me. You see that
it has never been opened. It is a sealed document to me in every sense,
although, as poor Sir Harold often told me of his secret wishes in
regard to your future, I have some suspicion of its contents. Your
father requested me should he die in India, to give you this letter one
year after his death. The appointed time has now arrived, and I deliver
into your hands the last letter your father ever wrote, and which
contains his last sacred wishes in regard to you. You are to receive it
as an addendum to his will, as a sacred charge, as if his voice were
speaking to you from his home in Heaven!”
She lifted the sealed letter, laying it in Neva’s hands.
The young girl received it with an uncontrollable agitation.
“I--I must read it alone,” she said brokenly.
“Very well, dear. Go into your dressing-room with it, and when you have
finished reading it come back to me. I have more to say to you.”
Neva departed without a word, and went into the adjoining room. As the
door closed behind her, Lady Wynde softly arose, crossed the floor, and
peeped in upon the young girl’s privacy through the key-hole of the
door.
Neva was alone in her dressing-room, and was kneeling down before a
low chair upon which she had laid the forged letter, as yet unopened.
The baronet’s widow watched the girl as she examined the address and
the seal, and then cut open the top of the letter with a pocket-knife.
Neva unfolded the closely written sheet, all stamped with her father’s
monogram, and with low sobs and tear-blinded eyes began to read the
letter, accepting it without doubt or question as her father’s last
letter to her.
Lady Wynde’s eyes gleamed, and a mocking smile played about her full,
sensual lips, as Neva read slowly page after page, still upon her
knees, now and then pausing to kiss the handwriting she believed to be
her father’s. The forger’s work had been well done. The tender pet
names by which Sir Harold had loved to call his daughter were often
repeated, with such protestations of affection as would most stir a
loving daughter’s heart when receiving them long after the death of her
father, and believing them to have been written by that father’s hand.
“Oh, papa! poor, poor, papa!” the girl sobbed. “He foresaw my
loneliness and desolation, and left these last words to cheer me. I
will remember your wishes so often expressed in this and other letters.
I will be kind and gentle and obedient to Lady Wynde. I will try to
love her for your sake.”
When she had grown calmer, Neva read on. As she read that her father
had a last request to make of her, she smiled through her tears, and
murmured:
“I am glad that he has left me something to do--whatever it may be.
I should like to feel that I am obeying him still, although he is in
Heaven. Dear papa!--your ‘request’ is to me a sacred command, and I
shall so consider it.”
Lady Wynde’s eyes glittered like balls of jet. She had estimated
rightly the childlike trust of Neva in her father’s love and devotion
to her.
“She accepts the whole thing as gospel!” thought the delighted schemer.
“Our success is certain. But let me see how she takes it, when she
finds what the ‘request’ is.”
Neva perused the letter slowly, and again and again, with careful
deliberation. Her surprise became apparent on her features, but there
was no disbelief, no distrust, betrayed on her truthful face. But a wan
whiteness overspread her cheeks and lips, and a weary look came into
her eyes, as she folded the letter at last and hid it in her bosom. She
bent her head as if in prayer, and murmured words which Lady Wynde
tried in vain to hear. They were simple--only these:
“It is very strange--very strange; but papa meant it for the best. He
feared to leave me unprotected, and a prey to fortune-hunters. Who is
this Rufus Black? Oh, if papa had only mentioned Lord--Lord Towyn!”
The very thought brought a vivid scarlet to Neva’s face in place of her
strange pallor, and as if frightened at her own thought, she arose and
went to the open window, and leaned upon the casement.
Lady Wynde stole back to her couch, and she was sitting upon it the
picture of languor when Neva returned, very pale now and subdued, and
with a shadow of trouble in her eyes.
“Have you finished your letter so soon, dear?” asked the step-mother,
sweetly. “I believe I can guess what were the last injunctions to you
of your dear father. He often told me of his plans for you. Shall you
do as he desired?”
Again the glowing scarlet flush covered Neva’s cheeks, lips, even her
slender throat.
“My father’s last wishes are a command to me,” she said, slowly, yet
as if her mind were quite made up to obey the supposed wishes of her
father.
“It was Sir Harold’s request that you should marry a young man in whom
he took considerable interest--one Rufus Black, was it not?” asked Lady
Wynde.
Neva uttered a low assent.
“And you will marry this young fellow?”
“My father liked him well enough to make him my--my husband,” said
Neva. “I can trust my father’s judgment in all things. I never
disobeyed papa in his life, and I cannot disobey him now that he seems
to speak to me from Heaven. If--if Rufus Black ever proposes marriage
to me, and if he is still worthy of the good opinion papa formed of
him, I--I--”
Her voice broke down, as she remembered the fair, boyish face, the warm
blue eyes, the tawny hair and noble air of Lord Towyn, and again with
inward shame the question framed itself in her mind--why could not her
father have recommended to her affection young Arthur Towyn, whom her
father had loved next to his own son? Why must he desire her to marry a
man she had never seen?
“You will marry Rufus!” demanded Lady Wynde, as the girl’s pause became
protracted.
Neva bowed her head--she could not speak.
Lady Wynde’s face glowed, and an evil light gleamed in her eyes. Her
heart throbbed wildly with her evil triumph.
“You are indeed a good and faithful daughter, Neva,” she said
caressingly. “In accordance with your father’s wishes, I must give Mr.
Black every chance to woo you. I believe he knows something of what Sir
Harold designed for you and him, and he is at this moment at Wyndham
village. He is staying at the inn with his father, and both will call
upon you this evening.”
“So soon?”
“The sooner the better. I have not seen Rufus Black, but his father
called here last evening. The father knew poor Sir Harold intimately.
And, Neva, dear, in honor of your guests, and in deference to my
wishes, you ought to lay aside all vestige of your mourning to-day. You
have worn black a year, and that is all that modern society demands.”
“The outward garb does not always indicate the feelings of the heart,”
said Neva. “I will change my manner of dress, since you desire it, but
I shall mourn for papa all my days.”
As Neva became thoughtful and abstracted, Lady Wynde soon took her
leave. She found Artress in her sitting-room and the gray companion had
no need to ask of her success.
“Our silly little fish has swallowed the bait,” said Lady Wynde. “She
is ready to immolate herself ‘for dear papa’s sake,’ although I could
see that she is already interested in Lord Towyn. I am impatient for
evening. I want to see how young Rufus Black will proceed in his task
of winning the heiress of Hawkhurst.”