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.