Upon his return to the Wyndham inn, Rufus Black found his father
awaiting him in their private parlor. The elder Black arched his brows
inquiringly as his son came in, and Rufus bowed to him gayly, as he
said:
“Well, father, you ought to be pleased with me now. I have offered
myself to Miss Wynde.”
Craven Black started.
“She has accepted you?” he demanded.
“Not yet. She wants to think the matter over, and I have consented to
let the thing rest where it is for a week. I take it as a good sign
that she did not refuse me at once. Her hesitation implies a regard for
me--”
“Or a sense of duty toward some one else,” muttered Craven Black.
“Curse that letter. If I had seen the girl, I would never have written
it.”
“What is it you say, father? I did not catch your words.”
“They were not meant for your ears. So, Miss Wynde demands a week in
which to consider your offer? It would be proper for you to refrain
from going to Hawkhurst to-morrow. I’ll explain to her that you
remained away from motives of delicacy.”
“Which I shall not do,” said Rufus doggedly. “I shall go to Hawkhurst
to-morrow evening. I will not leave the field clear to Lord Towyn. He’s
an earl, rich, handsome, and intellectual, the very man to capture a
girl’s heart, and if I know myself, I am not going to give him a clear
field. Why, he loves her better than I do even, and I can only come out
ahead of him by dint of sheer persistency. It’s a mystery to me how
she refrained from saying No to me, when she can have Lord Towyn if she
chooses. There is something behind her hesitation--some hidden cause--”
“Which you will do well to let alone,” interposed his father. “‘Take
the goods the gods provide’ without questioning.”
Rufus was not satisfied, but concluded to act upon this advice.
The next morning Craven Black attired himself with unusual care, and
mounted his piebald horse, a new purchase, and set out alone, at a
slow canter, for Hawkhurst. He knew that the heiress usually took a
morning ride, attended only by her groom, and he knew in what direction
these rides usually lay. It was impossible for him to demand a private
interview with her at her home without exciting the suspicions and
jealousy of Lady Wynde, and he was determined to see the heiress alone,
and discover in what estimation she held him. He was also determined
not to accept quietly the four thousand a year of the baronet’s widow
until he knew, beyond all peradventure, that he could not obtain the
seventy thousand per annum of the baronet’s daughter.
He rode up to Hawkhurst lodge, slackening his speed, but not pausing.
As it happened, a little boy, a son of the lodge keeper, was playing in
the road, and Craven Black tossed him a sixpence, and demanded if Miss
Wynde were out riding, and which way she had gone.
“Dingle Farm way,” said the urchin, scrambling in the dust for the
shining coin. “She’s been gone a long time.”
“Who is with her?” asked Craven Black.
“Jim, the groom--that be all.”
Black put spurs to his horse and dashed on. He knew where the Dingle
Farm was, it having been pointed out to him by Lady Wynde, as a portion
of the Hawkhurst property. The ride was a favorite one with Neva, being
unusually diversified. The road led through the Dingle wood, across a
common, and skirted a chalk-pit of unusual size and depth.
Craven Black turned off from the main road into a narrower one that
led across the country, and pursued this course until he entered into
the cool shadows of the Dingle wood. Still riding briskly, he came
out a little later upon the Dingle common, a square mile of unfenced
heath, covered with furze bushes. At the further edge of the common
was the chalk-pit, now disused. The road ran dangerously near to the
precipitous side of the pit, and there was no railing or fence to serve
as a safeguard. Beyond the chalk-pit lay the Dingle Farm, a cozy, red
brick farm-house, embowered with trees.
The morning was clear and bright, and the sun was shining. As Craven
Black emerged from the shadow of the wood he swept a keen glance over
the level common, and beheld a mile or more away, beyond the chalk-pit,
but approaching it, the figure of Miss Wynde.
She was superbly mounted upon a thoroughbred horse, and was followed at
a little distance by her groom.
Even at that distance, Craven Black noticed how well Neva sat her
horse; how erectly she carried her lithe, light figure; how proudly the
little head was poised upon her shoulders. She was coming on toward him
at a sweeping gait, her long green robe fluttering in the swift breeze
she made.
“She will be a wife to be proud of,” thought Craven Black, with a
strange stirring at his heart. “How fearless she is. One would think
she would pass the chalk-pit at a walk, but it is evident she does not
intend to.”
He dashed on to meet her. Neva saw him coming, recognized him, and
the close grasp upon her bridle rein relaxed, and the fierce gallop
subsided into a quiet canter.
She was past the chalk-pit when he came up to her, and she bowed to him
coldly, but courteously.
“Good-morning, Miss Wynde,” said Mr. Black. “You were having a mad ride
here. I fairly shuddered when I saw you coming. A single sheer on the
part of your horse would have sent you over the precipice.”
“Oh, Badjour and I understand each other,” said Neva lightly, patting
the horse’s proudly arched neck. “I never ride a horse, Mr. Black, if I
have not confidence in my ability to control him.”
“But the road is so narrow and dangerous at this point,” said Craven
Black, wheeling and riding slowly at her side.
“You are right, Mr. Black. The road must be fenced in. I will speak to
Lord Towyn about it.”
“And why not to Sir John Freise or Mr. Atkins, who are equally your
guardians?” asked Craven Black, with an attempt at playfulness.
“Because I presume I shall see Lord Towyn first,” replied Neva,
gravely. “What do you say to a race, Mr. Black? I see that you are
returning with me.”
Craven Black looked over his shoulder. The discreet groom had fallen
behind out of earshot. Now was the time to make his declaration of
love. Such an opportunity might not again occur.
“The truth is, Miss Wynde,” he exclaimed, “I came out to meet you. I
want to have a quiet talk with you, if you will hear me.”
Neva bowed her head gravely, and her reins fell loosely in her
gauntleted hand. They were out upon the wide common now, the Dingle
farm behind them. The Dingle wood ahead.
“You may guess the nature of the communication I have to make to you,
Miss Wynde,” said her elderly lover, with an appearance of agitation, a
portion of which was genuine. “That which I have to say would be more
fittingly said in some other position perhaps. I should prefer to say
it on my knees to you, as the knights made love in olden times.”
“Oh!” said Neva. “Hadn’t we better move on faster, Mr. Black?”
“Coquettish like all of your sex!” said Craven Black, drawing nearer to
her. “You understand my meaning, Neva? You know that I love you--I who
never loved before--”
“Surely,” cried Neva, with an arch sparkle in her red-brown eyes, “you
did not perjure yourself when you married the mother of your son?”
Craven Black bit his lips fiercely, but said smilingly:
“That marriage was one of convenience. No love entered into it, on
my side, at least. I never loved till I met you, fair Neva. You have
younger suitors, but not one among them all who will be to you what I
would be--your slave, your minister, your subject.”
“And I should want my husband to be my king,” murmured Neva softly.
“And I would be his queen.”
“That arrangement would suit me perfectly,” declared Craven Black,
feeling a little awkward at his love-making, not altogether sure
Neva was not secretly laughing at him, yet eagerly catching at the
assistance her words afforded him. “I would be your king, Miss Neva--”
He paused in anger, as the girl’s light laugh made music in his ears
that he by no means appreciated. His anger deepened, as Neva looked at
him with a bright sauciness, a piquant witchery of eyes and mouth.
“You are very kind,” the girl laughed, “but I do not think--pardon me,
Mr. Black--that you are of the stuff of which kings of the kind I meant
are made!”
Craven Black’s fair face flushed. He tugged at his light beard with
nervous fingers. An angry light glowered in his light eyes.
“I may not know the full meaning of your words, Miss Neva,” he said,
forcing himself to speak calmly. “A romantic young girl like you
is sure to have many fancies which time will prune. A young girl’s
fancy is like the overflowing of some graceful rose-tree. When time
shall have picked off a bud here, a leaf there, or a half-blown rose
elsewhere, the remainder of the blossoming will be more perfect. I
am no knight of romance, but I am not aware that there is anything
ridiculous in my face or figure. Ladies of the world have smiled
graciously upon me, and more than one peeress would have taken my name
had I but asked her. My heart is fresh and young, full of romantic
visions like yours. My love is honest, and a king could offer no
better. Miss Wynde, I ask you to be my wife!”
Neva’s face was grave now, but the sparkle was still in her eyes, as
she said:
“I am sure I beg your pardon, Mr. Black, but I thought you were a
suitor of Mrs. Artress. I never had an idea that your visits were
directed to me. I am deeply grateful for the honor you have done me--I
suppose that is the proper remark to make under the circumstances; the
ladies in novels always say it--but I must decline it.”
“And why, if I may be allowed to ask?” demanded Craven Black, his face
deepening in hue nearly to purple. “Why this insulting refusal of an
honest offer of marriage, Miss Wynde?”
Neva regarded her angry suitor with cool gravity.
“I beg your pardon if the manner of my refusal seemed insulting,” she
said gently, “but the idea seems so singular--so preposterous! At the
risk of offending you again, Mr. Black, I must suggest that a union
with Mrs. Artress would be more suitable. I am only a girl, and young
still, as you know, and it is proper that youth should mate with youth.”
“You prefer my son then?”
“To you? I do.”
“And you will marry him?”
The lovely face shadowed, but Neva answered quietly:
“Mr. Rufus has asked me that question, sir, and I prefer to have him
receive his answer from my lips. Whatever my feelings toward him, I
have no indecision in regard to you.”
“And you actually and decidedly refuse me?”
“Actually and decidedly, Mr. Black!”
“Is there no hope that you may change your mind Miss Wynde? Will no
devotion upon my part affect your resolution?”
“None whatever. I cannot even give your proposal serious consideration,
Mr. Black. I am willing to regard you as a friend. As a lover, pardon
me, you would be intolerable to me.”
Neva spoke with an honest frankness that increased Craven Black’s
anger. He saw that he had no chance of winning her love or her fortune,
and it behooved him not to lose the lesser fortune and lesser charms of
her step-mother. He tried to take his failure philosophically, but in
refusing his love, Neva had made him her bitter and unscrupulous enemy.
“I accept my defeat, Miss Wynde,” he said bitterly, “and resign all my
pretensions to your hand. Pardon my folly, and forget it. I hope my son
will meet with better success in his suit. And may I ask as a favor
that you will keep my proposal secret, not even telling it to your
step-mother?”
“I am not in the habit of boasting of such things, even to Lady Wynde,”
said Neva, coldly. “Your proposal, Mr. Black, is already forgotten.”
They were in Dingle wood now, and the heiress struck her horse sharply
and dashed away at a canter. Craven Black kept pace with her, and at a
discreet distance behind followed the liveried groom.
Neither spoke again until they were out of the wood, and had traversed
the cross-road and gained the highway. When the gray towers of
Hawkhurst loomed up in full view, their speed slackened, and Craven
Black said hastily:
“One word, Miss Wynde. I have your solemn promise, have I not, that you
will never betray the fact that I have proposed marriage to you?”
Neva bowed haughtily.
“Since you have not confidence in my delicacy,” she said, “I will give
the promise.”
Craven Black’s face flushed with something of triumph. He was still
smarting with his anger and disappointment, still secretly foaming
with a bitter rage, but he desired to show Neva that he was not at all
crushed or humiliated.
“Thank you,” he said. “I shall rely upon that promise. The truth is,
Miss Neva, a betrayal of my secret would cause me serious trouble.
Ladies never pardon even a slight and temporary disaffection like mine.
I am engaged to be married, and my promised bride is the most exacting
of women. She would rage if she knew that I had looked with love upon
one so many years her junior.”
“Indeed! You will marry Artress then?”
“Artress?” ejaculated Black, in well-counterfeited amazement. “What,
marry the companion when I can have the mistress? No, indeed, Miss
Neva. I am engaged to Lady Wynde!”
“To Lady Wynde--to my father’s widow?”
Black bowed assent.
Neva was astounded. She had been too busy with her friends since her
return to Hawkhurst to detect the real object of Craven Black’s visits,
and both Lady Wynde and Black had conspired to hoodwink her. She had
never contemplated the possibility of Lady Wynde marrying for the third
time. The idea almost seemed sacrilegious. Her father had seemed to
her so grand and noble, so above other men, that she had not deemed it
possible for a woman who had once been honored with his love to marry
another.
“It is like Marie Louise, who married her chamberlain after having been
the wife of Napoleon,” she thought. “It is incredible. I refuse to
believe it!”
Her incredulity betrayed itself in her face.
“You don’t believe it?” said Black, with a mocking smile. “It is true,
I assure you. Lady Wynde and I became engaged before your return from
school. We are to be married next month. Her trousseau is secretly
preparing in London.”
His manner convinced Neva that he spoke the truth.
“And so,” she said, her lip curling, “when your wedding-day is so near,
and the woman you have won is making ready for your marriage, you amuse
yourself in talking love to me! And that is your idea of honor, Mr.
Black? You are well named. Craven by name, and Craven by nature!”
She inclined her head haughtily and dashed on. Black, choking with
rage, hurried in close pursuit. The lodge gates swung open at their
approach, and they galloped up the avenue. Lady Wynde came out upon
the terrace to meet them. Neva dismounted at the carriage porch, the
terrace being only upon one side of the mansion, and with a haughty
little bow to Lady Wynde passed into the house.
Black dismounted and gave his horse in charge of the stable lad who
had taken in hand the horse of Neva, and then walked toward the open
drawing-room window with his betrothed wife.
“What is the matter between you and Neva, Craven?” asked Lady Wynde
jealously. “You look as black as a thundercloud, and she looked like an
insulted queen. What have you been saying to her?”
“I thought it time to divulge our secret to her, my darling,” said
Black hypocritically. “Our wedding-day is so near that I deemed it best
to inform her. I met her out riding, and seized upon the occasion to
declare the truth.”
“And what did she say?”
“She fairly withered me with her scorn; recommended me to marry Matilda
Artress; and seemed to regard my marriage with her father’s widow as a
species of sacrilege. I hate her!” he hissed between his clenched teeth.
Lady Wynde smiled, well-pleased.
“And so do I,” she acknowledged frankly. “But it is for our interest to
counterfeit friendship for her. Be patient, Craven. Some day you and I
may bring down her haughty pride to the dust.”
“Suppose she refuses Rufus?”
“You and I will soon be married, Craven, and in our union is strength.
Tell Rufus to write to Neva, delaying her answer to his suit for
a month. By that time we shall be married. If she refuses then to
accept your son as her husband, we can contrive some way to compel her
obedience. I am her step-mother and guardian, and have authority which
I shall use if I am pushed to the wall. I promise you, Craven, that we
shall secure our ten thousand a year out of Neva’s fortune, and that we
shall compel the girl to marry your son. Leave it all to me. Only wait
and see!”