“Your father! Your ‘poor papa!’” mocked Octavia, with her hand upon her chest. “You have flung Sir Harold’s name and memory at me ever since we came to this place. And what was Sir Harold? A mere Moneybags to me, that’s all. If you hope to move me to pity you, you couldn’t use a worse name to give effect to your appeal than the name of your father. I never loved Sir Harold Wynde, but I married him because he was rich. You needn’t look so horrified. People marry for such reasons every day, but they have not my frankness to avow it. There stands the man whom I have loved for years,” and she pointed at Craven Black. “It is his son whom I intend you shall marry—”
“To enrich you, madam!” cried Neva.
“Yes, to enrich me, since you say so?” exclaimed Octavia. “You have seventy thousand pounds a year; I have four thousand. I intend to equalize matters before you and I separate. Craven has just returned from Inverness with household stores sufficient to last us through the winter, and we will stay here till spring, if necessary to compel you to accede to our wishes. Your fare, every day through this winter, until you yield to us, shall be bread and water. I warn you not to carry your resistance too far for I may be moved to deprive you of a fire.”
Neva’s lovely face continued to glow with her haughty scorn.
“You seem to think that I am deserted by God and man, and completely given over to you,” she cried. “You are mistaken. God has not deserted me. And I can assure you, Craven and Octavia Black, that before many weeks—before many days perhaps—Lord Towyn will trace me to this place and rescue me from your hands.”
“Let him come!” sneered Craven Black. “Let him come!”
“Yes,” mocked Octavia, “let him come!”
Lord Towyn broke from the grasp Sir Harold still held upon him, and stalked into the chamber.
With a shriek of delight, loud and piercing, Neva flew to his arms.
He held her clasped to his breast and backed toward the door, coming to a halt, looking at Neva’s enemies with stern, accusing eyes.