“I wondered that you should be down here at Wyndham, father,” he said, “and I suppose you are here because you had formed some design upon this young heiress. Do you know her?”
“No, but I know her step-mother, who is her personal guardian,” explained Craven Black. “Do you remember the handsome widow, Mrs. Hathaway, whom you saw once at the theatre in my charge? She married Sir Harold Wynde. He died in India last year, leaving her well-jointured. I came down to see her the other day, and it seems she remembers me with her old affection. In short, Rufus, I am engaged to marry Lady Wynde, and the wedding is to take place in October. She is her step-daughter’s guardian, as I said, and will have unbounded influence to back up your suit. The field is clear before you. Go in and win!”
Rufus grew yet paler, and his voice was hoarse as he asked:
“And this is your scheme for making me rich?”
“It is. The girl has a clear income of seventy thousand pounds a year. As her husband, you will be a man of consequence. She owns a house in town, a hunting box in the Scottish Highlands, and other houses in England. You will have horses and hounds; a yacht, if you wish it, at your marine villa, and a bottomless purse. You can paint wretched pictures, and hear the fashionable world praise them as divine. You can become a member of Parliament. All careers are open to the fortunate suitor of Neva Wynde.”
The picture was dazzling enough to the half-starved and desperate boy. He liked all these things his father enumerated—the houses, the horses, the luxuries, the money, and the luxurious ease and the honors. He had found it hard to work, and harder to dispose of his work. All the bitterness and hardness of his lot arose before him in black contrast with the brightness and beauty that would mark the destiny of the favored lover of young Neva Wynde.
He arose and walked the floor with an impetuous tread, an expression of keen anguish and keener longing in his eyes. His father watched him with a furtive gaze, as a cat watches a mouse. It was necessary to his plans that his son should marry Neva Wynde, and he was sanguine that he would be able to bring about the match.
“Well?” he said, tiring of the quick, impetuous walk of his son. “What do you say?”
“It is impossible!” returned Rufus abruptly. “Utterly impossible.”
“And why, if I may be allowed to ask?” inquired Mr. Black blandly, although a scowl began to gather on his fair forehead.