“Did you ever love any one before you loved me?” asked Neva, with a quiet frankness and straightforwardness, looking up at him with her clear eyes full of dusky glow.
“Ye—no!” stammered Rufus, turning suddenly pale, and his honest eyes blenching. “Almost every man has had his boyish fancies, Miss Neva. Whatever mine may have been, my life has been pure, and my heart is all your own. You believe me?”
“Yes, I believe you. Mr. and Mrs. Black have come down to breakfast, Mr. Rufus. Let us go in.”
She led the way back to the breakfast room, Rufus following. They found the bride and bridegroom and Mrs. Artress waiting for them. Neva greeted Lady Wynde by her new name, and bowed quietly to Craven Black and Mrs. Artress. The little party took seats at the table, and the portly butler, with a mute protest in his heart against the new master of Hawkhurst, waited upon them, assisted by skillful subordinates.
Mrs. Craven Black, dressed in white, looked the incarnation of satisfaction. She had so far succeeded in the daring game she had been playing, and her jet-black eyes glittered, and her dark cheeks were flushed to crimson, and her manner was full of feverish gayety, as she did the honors of the Hawkhurst breakfast table to her new husband.
Three years before she had been a poor adventuress, unable to marry the man she loved. Now, through the success of a daring and terrible conspiracy, she was wealthy, the real and nominal mistress of one of the grandest seats in England; the personal guardian of one of the richest heiresses in the kingdom; and the wife of her fellow-conspirator, to obey whose behests, and to marry whom, she had been willing to peril her soul’s salvation.
Only one thing remained to render her triumph perfect, her fortune magnificent, and her success assured. Only one move remained to be played, and her game would be fully played.
That move comprehended the marriage of Neva Wynde to Rufus Black, and Mrs. Craven Black, from the moment of her third marriage, resolved to devote all her energies to the task of bringing about the union upon which she was determined.
The breakfast was eaten by Neva almost in silence. When the meal was over Mr. and Mrs. Craven Black strolled out into the gardens, arm in arm. Mrs. Artress, who had fully emerged from her gray chrysalis, and who was now dressed in pale blue, hideously unbecoming to her ashen-hued complexion, retired to her own room to enjoy her triumph in solitude, and to count the first installment of the yearly allowance that had been promised her, and which had already been paid her, with remarkable promptness, by Lady Wynde.
Neva went to the music-room, and began to play a weird, strange melody, in which her very soul seemed to find utterance. In the midst of her abstraction, the door opened, and Rufus Black came in softly.