As Neva recognized the youngest of her three guardians, as they rode up
the avenue of Hawkhurst at a leisurely pace, a strange embarrassment
seized upon her. The horsemen had not yet seen her in the twilight and
the shadow of shrubbery, and she proposed a return to the drawing-room.
Rufus Black assented, and they passed in at the open French window
which gave directly upon the marble terrace.
The drawing-room was full of shadows. Artress sat in a recessed window,
silent and immovable, and Lady Wynde and Craven Black were in the
second portion of the triple arched apartment, completely hidden from
view, and their low whispers barely penetrated to the outer room. Lady
Wynde, hearing her step-daughter’s return, came forth, rang for lights,
and ordered the lace curtains to be dropped.
A score of wax candles were presently glowing in their polished silver
sconces, and a couple of moon-like lamps dispensed a mellow radiance
that penetrated to every corner of the triple room. The curtains,
fluttering in the soft night breeze, shut out all insects, but admitted
the perfumed air. Craven Black, satisfied that his _tete-a-tete_ with
Lady Wynde was over for the present, sauntered into the outer room to
make the acquaintance of the young heiress.
He had thought of Neva as an insipid, affected, weak-headed young lady,
who would be a mere puppet in his hands and those of Lady Wynde. His
surprise may be imagined when he beheld a slender, spirited girl, with
eyes of red gloom, brown hair tinted with the sunshine, scarlet lips,
and a piquant face, full of an irresistible witchery and sauciness--a
girl so bright and keen of intellect, so resolute and strong in
herself, that he wondered that she could ever have been imposed upon by
even his skilfully forged letter.
“Neva, my dear,” said Lady Wynde, “allow me to present to you
the Honorable Craven Black--one of your dear papa’s friends, and
consequently yours and mine.”
Neva acknowledged the introduction by a bow of her haughty little head,
and a smile so warm and sweet that Craven Black was captivated by
it. Any friend of her late father’s had a peculiar claim upon Neva’s
friendship, and Craven Black resolved to elaborate the small fiction,
and coin agreeable little anecdotes of his relations to her father, so
that the heiress would be inspired with a liking for him.
Before time had been granted for more than the usual commonplaces
incident to an introduction, the three guardians of Miss Wynde were
announced by the footman, and were ushered into the drawing-room.
Sir John Freise came first--a tall, stately old gentleman, with white
hair and closely cropped whiskers, distinguished for his old-fashioned
courtliness of bearing, and noted throughout Kent for his unswerving
integrity.
Mr. Atkins, the attorney, came next, looking more than ordinarily
insignificant of person, his bald head shining, his honest face flushed
to redness. He was not fine looking, nor well shaped, but, like Sir
John, he was a man of invincible integrity and honesty of character,
and many years of service to Sir Harold Wynde had inspired him with a
genuine affection for the family, and given him, as one might say, a
personal interest in its prosperity.
Lastly, and because he preferred to come last, was young Lord Towyn, as
handsome as any knight of chivalry, his golden hair tossed back from
his noble forehead, his blue eyes glowing, and a warm smile playing
about his tawny mustached lips.
Neva recognized her guardians, and welcomed them all in turn with
handshakings and quiet greetings. Lady Wynde introduced the Blacks,
father and son, to the new-comers.
“This is scarcely a business visit, Miss Neva,” said Sir John Freise,
leading his young hostess to a sofa with old-fashioned gallantry. “Lord
Towyn and Mr. Atkins have been closeted with me to-day, discussing your
affairs in the way of rents and leases, but it is our business to spare
you these details, and it is your province to enjoy the fruits of our
labors,” and he smiled paternally upon her. “We are come to welcome you
back to the home of your fathers, and to express the hope that you will
fill worthily the place your father has resigned to you.”
“I will try to walk in papa’s steps,” returned Neva, lowly and gravely.
“Lady Freise and my girls will call upon you to-morrow,” said Sir John.
“They sent their love to you, and would have come to-day, but that I
begged them to allow you a day to rest in after your journey. You will
be inundated with visitors, Miss Neva. The Lady of Hawkhurst will not
be permitted to hide her light under a bushel! Lady Freise has already
projected no end of fetes, balls and dinners in your honor, and she has
persuaded our young friend Lord Towyn to spend a month with us, so that
you will not lack an escort, should you desire one.”
“You are very thoughtful, Sir John,” said Lady Wynde, with a curl of
the lip. “Miss Wynde, however, can never lack for an escort. I fancied,
when I saw you three gentlemen enter in such formidable array, that
some horrid red-tape business was about to be transacted. I did not
know indeed but that you had come with some official suggestions as to
the management of the household, or to discuss the matter of pin-money.”
“All that is settled by Sir Harold’s will,” said Mr. Atkins quietly.
“The baronet was very explicit in his directions, and assigned to Miss
Wynde an extraordinarily liberal allowance until she comes of age,
when, of course she comes into full possession of her magnificent
revenues. Your residence at Hawkhurst was also provided for, Lady Wynde
with a very handsome allowance in recognition of your services to Miss
Wynde as friend and chaperon.”
“And are we compelled to remain at Hawkhurst, whether we will or not?”
demanded the baronet’s widow.
“Certainly not,” replied Atkins. “You and Miss Wynde are free to reside
where you please, but it is natural to suppose you will prefer for a
stated residence the seat of the family grandeur.”
Lady Wynde made no reply, but her glittering eyes became speculative.
The visitors, while courteous to her ladyship, bestowed the larger
share of their attention upon the young heiress to whom their visit
was directed. They had intended to make but a brief call, but the time
flew by as if on wings. Neva talked with them with cheerful gayety or
gravity, as the subject rendered befitting, and at Sir John’s request
played and sang for him. Lord Towyn leaned over the piano, turning the
music leaves, a rapt expression on his face, and there was not one
present, save Neva, who failed to see that he was already the lover of
the beautiful young heiress.
Rufus Black recognized the fact with an actual jealousy. He said to
himself with a furious bitterness that his happiness and Lally’s had
been ruined for the sake of Neva Wynde, and he would not be cheated of
fortune and bride by the young earl.
Craven Black sat apart, his forehead shaded by his hand, his light
eyes fairly devouring the glowing loveliness of Neva’s face. He was a
world-worn, base, dissolute man, incapable of honor and fidelity, even
to the woman who had sinned and perilled so much for him. As he sat
there, he contrasted Neva’s spirited and dainty beauty with the maturer
and lesser charms of Lady Wynde, and strange thoughts and hopes awoke
to life within his breast.
“My fate is not so settled as to be irrevocable,” he thought within
himself. “I wish I had seen the girl before I forged that letter. Why
should I throw myself away upon four thousand a year and a woman of the
world when, by skillful manœuvring, I might gain seventy thousand per
annum and a bride like an houri? I will study my chances. If there is a
chance for me with Neva, I will run the race with these others and win
the prize.”
And so, all unknown and unsuspected by Neva, she had three aspirants
to her hand among those who listened to her music.
And of these three lovers, one only was pure and true and altogether
worthy of her love. Only one loved her without a shadow of greed, and
that one was the young Lord Towyn.
But which, should she choose among these three, would she prefer? To
whose fate, of these three, would she link her own? Would a regard for
the supposed wishes of her dead father outweigh the desires of her own
heart? These were problems which time alone could solve.
After the music, Lady Wynde rang for coffee, which was brought in and
dispensed to the guests. Sir John Freise, waxing eloquent upon the
degeneracy of modern society, held Lady Wynde captive. Rufus Black
wandered down the length of the drawing-rooms, looking with an artist’s
eye at the glorious pictures upon the walls. Mr. Atkins and Craven
Black engaged in conversation, and Artress sat apart, silent and
observing, as usual.
Lord Towyn and Neva also looked at the pictures and talked of their
childhood days, growing animated over their pleasant reminiscences.
The young earl gradually drew his hostess into the great conservatory,
a huge glass dome at the bottom of the drawing-room. Here the air was
heavy with fragrance. Stalks of white lilies sprang from the side
walls, bearing pistils of red and dancing light. Aisles of tropical
shrubbery, thick with golden fruitage or snowy blossoms, or both at
once, stretched on either side. A feathery palm reared its plumed head
in the very centre of the dome. Vines trailed and festooned themselves
from floor to roof, dropping perfume from fiery chalices. And through
the light foliage of a well-trimmed jungle of flowers and leaves,
gleamed a great mellow moon of light, reminding one of a Brazilian
forest on a moonlit summer night.
“Do you remember when we were here last, Neva?” asked Lord Towyn, as
they paused beside the marble basin of a great fountain, and Neva idly
dropped rose petals upon the crystal waters. “We were standing upon
this very spot, with only that marble Naiad to hear us, and you and I
were but children when we entered upon our childish betrothal. How long
ago that seems! Do you remember it, Neva?”
The rose petals in the girl’s white fingers were not brighter than her
cheeks.
“Yes, I remember,” she said, dropping her head over the bright waters.
“What precocious children we were, Lord Towyn.”
The young earl sighed.
“The utterance of my title shows the great gulf between the now and the
then,” he said. “I was no lord in those days, and you called me Arthur.
Now when your name comes instinctively to my lips, I must remember that
you are no longer Neva, but Miss Wynde. Why will you not call me by
the old name, and let us take up our old friendship where we left off,
instead of beginning anew as strangers?”
“I am willing,” said Neva frankly, yet shyly. “I--I look upon you as a
brother, Arthur, and you may call me Neva.”
Strange to say, the permission thus granted did not seem to delight
Lord Towyn. His warm blue eyes clouded over with a singular discontent,
and a pained expression gathered about his mouth.
“I don’t want to be considered as your brother, Neva,” he declared,
after a minute’s struggle with himself. “I would prefer to begin again
as your merest acquaintance. A fraternal relation toward you would be
insupportable. For years I have dreamed and hoped that I might some
time win your love. I am no longer a boy, Neva, and I love you with a
man’s love. I have carried your picture for years next my heart. I have
worshiped you in secret ever since our childhood. I do not know how I
have been betrayed into this confession, Neva,” he added. “I did not
intend to be so premature. I do not yet ask you to love or to marry me,
but I do ask you to allow me to become your suitor.”
Neva’s heart thrilled under this ardent and impassioned declaration as
under an angel’s touch. Then a leaden pall seemed to descend upon her
soul, and her face grew white, as she faltered:
“It cannot be, Arthur.”
Lord Towyn shivered with sudden pain.
“You--you are not promised to another, Neva?”
“N-no!”
“You love another then?”
“Oh, no, no!”
“It is that I have startled you by my premature confession, Neva?” he
cried tremulously. “Dolt that I am! I have thought and dreamed of you
so much, that I had forgotten how perfect a stranger I must seem to you
after all these years of separation. You cannot take up the old life
where we dropped it. I was foolish to have expected it. Do not let my
undue haste prejudice you against me. It will not, Neva?”
“No, Arthur,” answered the girl lowly and hesitatingly.
“And you will give me a chance to reprieve my error?” he demanded
eagerly. “Perhaps in time you may grow to love me, Neva--”
“Arthur,” said the young girl, nerving herself to tell him of her
father’s supposed last wishes, “I have something to say to you. Papa--”
Her voice died out in a half sob.
“Well, darling?” said the young earl, bending nearer to her, his eyes
burning with the love that filled his being. “What of Sir Harold? Did
you fancy that he would not have approved of our love?”
Neva nodded a dumb assent.
“And if Sir Harold had approved, do you think you could learn to love
me?” whispered the young earl softly, his eager breath fanning the
girl’s cheek.
Neva’s silence was interpreted as a favorable answer.
“Before my father died,” said Lord Towyn gently, “he told me that
it had long been his wish and that of Sir Harold to unite the two
families in our marriage. Sir Harold was in India at the time of my
father’s death, and was not likely, at that distance from home, to have
contracted an aversion to me, or to have formed other plans for your
future. You see, I am right, Neva, and now I claim to be considered as
your suitor. May it not be?”
“Oh, Arthur,” the girl murmured, sorely perplexed, “I--”
The story trembled on her lips, but she did not give utterance to it,
for at that critical moment Rufus Black entered the conservatory, and
came up the flower-bordered aisle, with an unmistakable displeasure
upon his melancholy face.
Neva started guiltily at his approach, as if she had been wronging
him or her dead father in listening to Lord Towyn’s avowals of love.
But although she moved away from the young earl, she paused under a
tropical rose-tree, and began to gather roses, and her two suitors
hovered about her, each recognizing in the other a rival.
They were presently joined by Neva’s third lover, Craven Black. The
last-named looked moodily and jealously at his son and the young earl,
and devoted himself so closely to the heiress that, with a feeling of
annoyance, Neva presently proposed a return to the drawing-room.
A glance of jealous anger from the eyes of Lady Wynde greeted Craven
Black as he reentered the presence of his betrothed. The baronet’s
widow began to entertain a suspicion of the disaffection of her lover.
Sir John Freise was the first to propose a departure, and the horses
were ordered, and he, with Mr. Atkins and Lord Towyn, took their leave.
Craven Black exchanged a few whispered words with Lady Wynde,
appointing an interview for the next morning, and then also departed
with his son.
They were to walk to Wyndham, and not a word was spoken by either as
they strode down the wide avenue, and passed out at the lodge gates.
Once out upon the highway, Craven Black broke the silence, saying:
“Well, Rufus, how do you like Miss Wynde?”
“She is beautiful--lovely beyond comparison,” answered Rufus
enthusiastically. “I never saw a being so witching, so bright, so
sweet!”
“You talk like a lover,” sneered Craven Black. “One would not believe
that you had been lying drunk all day at a low inn through love for
another woman.”
“You will drive me mad!” ejaculated Rufus, his voice choking suddenly.
“How dare you taunt me with my misery and degradation? I did love
Lally--I do love her, God knows. But you have separated us. She
despises me, and I am thrown upon myself. Why grudge me the little
comfort Miss Wynde’s presence and smiles give me? If I had never met
Lally, I should have idolized Miss Wynde. And as Lally can never be
mine again--my poor wronged girl--and I shall go to perdition unless
some hand pulls me back, I turn to Miss Wynde as a drowning man might
turn to any frail support and cling to it. I--I like her. I could
almost say I love her.”
“Enviable elasticity of youthful affections!” sighed Craven Black,
still sneeringly, and speaking in a stilted voice. “You remind me of a
child, Rufus, whose doll is smashed to-day, but who is equally content
with a new one to-morrow. You remind me also of the old maid’s prayer.
She wanted one man and another, but as the years went on and she grew
old, she ceased to pray for the affections of any man in particular,
but cried out, ‘Any, O Lord, _any_!’ And so, I judge, one woman is to
you the same as another. It is ‘Lalla Rookh’ one day, and Miss Wynde
the next. ‘Extremes meet.’”
Rufus grew terribly angry.
“You talk as if you were dissatisfied with me for obeying your own
orders to make myself agreeable to Miss Wynde,” he ejaculated. “Do you
want her now for yourself?”
Mr. Black hastened to disclaim any such desire.
“As to me,” said Rufus, with unwonted decision, “I will not be much
longer dependent upon you. I will win Miss Wynde and her fortune, or
I’ll blow my brains out. Lally is lost to me, but all is not lost, as
I thought this morning. I like Miss Wynde. I even love her already,
strange as it may seem, but I do not and cannot love her as I love poor
Lally. But I shall marry her and make her happy. I am desperate, but by
no means helpless and hopeless.”
Mr. Black maintained a dogged silence during the remainder of the walk.
He bade his son good-night coldly upon the inn stairs, and locked
himself in his own rooms, muttering:
“The girl has three lovers, for my fickle son really loves her. I must
watch my chances, and not loosen my hold upon Octavia until I have
made sure of Neva. In default of the greater prize, I must not lose
the lesser. It requires some skill to sit upon two stools and not fall
between them. I wish I could have foreseen the turn affairs would take,
and had inserted my name in that forged letter in place of my son’s
name. I shall have to be pretty keen to do away with the effect of that
letter. I would give all I own in the world at present to know which of
her three lovers will win the heiress of Hawkhurst.”