CHAPTER XIII.
HOW NEVA RECEIVED THE FORGERIES.
While Craven Black was successfully pursuing his machinations to destroy the happiness of two young lives, Lady Wynde had been active in carrying out her part in the infamous plot against Neva. The little packet of forged letters which had cost Lady Wynde’s fellow-conspirator a night of toil, and which had been sent to Hawkhurst by a special messenger, had been safely delivered into the hands of Mrs. Artress, who had been waiting at the gate lodge to receive it. It had so happened that not even the lodge keeper had witnessed the reception of the packet, and she had dismissed the messenger, and carefully concealed the packet upon her person, and returned to the house and to the presence of her mistress.
Lady Wynde had not yet risen. She lay in the midst of her white bed, with her black hair tossing upon her ruffled pillow, one white and rounded arm lying upon the scarlet satin coverlet, and with a profusion of dainty frills and laces upon her person. A small inlaid table stood at her bedside, supporting a round silver tray, upon which gleamed a silver tete-a-tete set of the daintiest proportions, and at the moment of her companion’s entrance her ladyship was sipping her usual morning cup of black coffee, which was expected to tone and strengthen her nerves for the day.
She dropped her tiny gold spoon, and looked up eagerly and expectantly, and Artress, closing the door, drew forth the packet with an air of triumph.
“I have received it,” said the gray companion, “and no one is the wiser for it. The messenger thinks it a book, and the people at the lodge did not even see it. We are in the usual luck, Octavia. Everything goes well with us.”
“I am glad that Craven did not fail me,” murmured Lady Wynde. “I feared he might find the task too heavy for him. But he is always prompt. Open the packet, Artress.”
The companion obeyed, bringing to light the double letter, the one Craven Black had forged being securely lodged within the last letter Sir Harold Wynde had written to his wife from India.
Lady Wynde saw that the inner letter, addressed to Neva, was securely sealed, read the forged postscript to the letter addressed to her, and placed both under her pillow, with a complacent smile.
“Craven is a clever fellow,” she muttered. “And how much he loves me, Artress. Not many men could have seen the woman they loved marry another, but Craven and I have been worldly wise, and we shall reap the reward of our self-denial. If we had married three years ago, we should have been poor now, mere hangers on upon the outskirts of society, tolerated for the sake of our connections, but nothing more. But we determined to play a daring game, and behold our success. I am again a widow, with four thousand a year and a good house while I live, and I can lay up money if I choose while I continue the chaperon of my husband’s daughter. And if our game continues to prosper, and Neva marries Rufus Black, Craven and I will make ten thousand a year more for the remainder of our lives. Rufus will have to sign an agreement giving us that amount out of Neva’s income. Think of it Artress; fourteen thousand a year!”
“Of which if you win it, I am to have five hundred,” said Artress, her gray face flushing. “And if you do not win the ten thousand, I am to have two hundred pounds a year settled upon me for life. Is not that our bargain?”