“She has no suspicion,” murmured Craven Black, as he promenaded the deck, his wife leaning on his arm.
“None whatever. She is too guileless herself to suspect guile in others. And she trusts me implicitly,” laughed Octavia Black softly.
“That old dotard, her father, did you and me a good turn when he so frequently urged his daughter to obey me and love me, and try to win my love. I declare, Craven, it’s enough to make the old fellow come out of his grave, to confront us; isn’t it now?”
“If I were superstitions, I might think so,” said Black.
“If he did come out of his grave, he’d be slightly astonished at finding how I had cajoled and hoodwinked him, eh, Craven?” said the woman mockingly. “I’d like him to find out the truth where he is; I would, indeed. I hated the man; and to think you were jealous of him even when you urged me to marry him! Oh, Craven? Do you know, dear, speaking of jealousy, I was once jealous of Neva Wynde?”
“I did not know it.”
“No? Well, I was. It was absurd, of course. I fancied you fell in love with her the first time you saw her.”
Craven Black’s heart stirred guiltily, and his fair cheek flushed. His love for Neva Wynde was not altogether dead yet. It smouldered in his breast, and although at times he believed that he felt an absolute hatred for her, yet all the while a spark of the old passion remained that circumstances might again fan into a flame.
“We’re likely to have more trouble than we looked for,” said Mrs. Black, changing the subject, without awaiting a reply to her previous remark. “Neva owned to me since we came on board that she is engaged to Lord Towyn.”
“I suspected it when I saw that new ring she wears. But go to her now, Octavia. She will suspect us of plotting against her if we whisper together longer.”