But she did not know it—she could not guess that life held for her a joy so rare, so pure, so sweet, as that of welcoming back to his home her father so long and bitterly mourned as dead.
As we have said, she remained awake during the remainder of the night, walking her floor in her white gown and slippered feet, now and then wringing her hands, or sobbing softly, or crying silently; and thus the weary hours dragged by.
Before the clear sunlight of the soft September morning, which stole at last into her pleasant rooms, Neva’s dream lost its vividness and semblance of reality, and the conviction settled down upon her soul that it was indeed “only a dream.”
She dressed herself for breakfast in a morning robe of white, with cherry-colored ribbons, but her face was very pale, and there was a look of unrest in her red-brown eyes when she descended slowly and wearily to the breakfast-room at a later hour than usual.
This room faced the morning sun, and was octagon shaped, one half of the octagon projecting from the house wall, and being set with sashes of French plate-glass, like a gigantic bay-window. One of the glazed sections opened like a door upon the eastern marble terrace, with its broad surface, its carved balustrade, and its rows of rare trees and shrubs in portable tubs.
There was no one in the room when Neva entered it. The large table was laid with covers for five persons. The glazed door was ajar, and the windows were all open, giving ingress to the fresh morning air. The room was all brightness and cheerfulness, the soft gray carpet having a border of scarlet and gold, the massive antique chairs being upholstered in scarlet leather, and the sombreness of the dainty buffet of ebony wood being relieved by delicate tracery of gold, drawn by a sparing hand.
Neva crossed the floor and passed out upon the terrace, where a gaudy peacock strutted, spreading his fan in the sunlight, and giving utterance to his harsh notes of self-satisfaction. Neva paced slowly up and down the terrace, shading her face with her hand. A little later she heard some one emerge from the breakfast room upon the terrace, and come behind her with an irregular and unsteady tread.
“Good-morning, Miss Neva,” said Rufus Black, as he gained her side. “A lovely morning, is it not?”
Neva returned his salutation gravely. She knew that Rufus Black had slept under the same roof with herself the preceding night, after the ball, and that a room at Hawkhurst had been specially assigned him by Lady Wynde, now Mrs. Craven Black.
“You ought to have sacrificed your scruples, and come down to the drawing-rooms last night,” said Rufus Black. “I assure you we had a delightful time, but you would have been the star of the ball. I watched the door for your appearance until the people began to go home, and I never danced, although there was no end of pretty girls, but they were not pretty for me,” added Rufus, sighing. “There is for me now only one beautiful girl in the whole world, and you are she, sweet Neva.”