“I was—I am. But he dared oppose his will to mine, and I turned him adrift, to let him try how he could get along without me. He is not long out of his university, and is perfectly helpless about earning money, but he has some high-flown notions which hardship will cure. To be frank, our quarrel was about a little music teacher that the boy thought himself in love with. He has given her up, and will be glad enough to be summoned to me. When will Miss Wynde be here?”
“I had a letter to-day from Madame Dalaut, Neva’s preceptress, inquiring my wishes in regard to the girl. Neva has completed her studies, and Madame Dalaut insinuates that she ought to be removed from school and be allowed to enter society. Moreover, the midsummer holidays have commenced, and the other pupils are gone to their homes. I have concluded to send Artress over to Paris to-night to bring Neva home.”
“Do so. My son shall also be at Wyndham to-morrow, and shall be introduced to the heiress the day after her return. I will engage rooms for Rufus and myself at the Wyndham inn, so that I can be near you until our marriage. Is this plan agreeable to you?”
“Perfectly. We must be prompt in our actions. Neva must become engaged to Rufus before she actually enters society here. Her marriage can take place at the same time with our own in October. Elise can do the two trousseaux at the same time. It is an admirable plan, and a worthy continuation of our little game.”
They talked further, disclosing to each other their nefarious plans of self-aggrandizement. Craven Black talked in lover-like fashion, and even the exacting Lady Wynde was persuaded that his passion for her had received a new impulse, and that he loved her as she loved him—with an utter devotion.
As the dinner hour drew near Mr. Black took his departure, not caring to excite the gossip of the household upon his first visit to Lady Wynde. Directly after dinner, Artress, attired in gray travelling suit, set out in a carriage for Canterbury, on her way to Paris, whence she was to bring to her own home the heiress of Hawkhurst.
CHAPTER VII.
NEVA’S FIRST LOVER.
The dingy little packet-boat from Calais to Dover, carrying the mails, bore her usual complement of passengers upon the bright midsummer day upon which young Neva Wynde returned after years of absence to her own country.
A few tall, mustached Frenchmen, with cigars in their mouths; a German or two with the inevitable pipe; a few students returning from foreign universities; a few pedestrian tourists with hobnailed shoes, preposterous alpenstocks, and a proudly displayed Bradshaw or Murray; several stout and puffy Englishmen, with singularly pale faces, and the usual number of rotund ill-dressed English women, with flimsy muslin dresses and fur tippets in odd contrast—a conjunction much affected by the average British lady—made up the majority of the passengers. Some of these people walked about, affecting to enjoy the fresh breeze; others studied the now useless guide-book, recalling their adventures; and others scanned the blue shores of France alternately with the chalk cliffs of England through the tourist glasses slung from their shoulders, and wondered aloud if the passage would be accomplished in the usual ninety minutes.
An odd feature of a Channel packet is the total disregard of appearances manifested by the passengers upon it.