A vague jealousy of Neva’s youth and loveliness had found place in her heart on the previous evening. Now that faint spark became fanned into a burning flame. She aspired to be a social queen, and here under her very roof, and under her chaperonage, was a girl whom she felt sure would eclipse her. She would not be known in society as the handsome Mrs. Black, but as the chaperon of the beautiful Miss Wynde.
But, despite her anger and jealousy, nothing could have been more bland and affectionate than the greeting of Lady Wynde to her step-daughter. She kissed her with seeming tenderness, and caressed her bright hair as she said:
“How animated you look, my dear—fairly sparkling! I should fancy that you have an electric sort of temperament—all fire and glow. Is it not so? You remind me of your father, Neva. It will be very sweet to have you with me, but my grief at my husband’s awful death has been so great that until now I could never bear to look upon his daughter’s face. I fancied you would look even more like him, and I could not have borne the resemblance in my first grief.”
Lady Wynde sighed deeply, and sat down upon the blue silken couch, drawing Neva to a seat beside her.
“I have come in to have a long confidential talk with you, my child,” resumed her ladyship. “There should be between you and me strangely tender relations. Your poor dear father desired us to be all the world to each other, and for his sake, as well as your own, I intend to be a true and good mother to you.”
“Thank you, madam,” said Neva, gravely, yet gratefully. “I will try to deserve your kindness, and to be a daughter to you.”
“You do not call me mother,” suggested Lady Wynde, reproachfully.
The young girl colored, and her brilliant eyes were suddenly shadowed. Her scarlet lips quivered an instant, as she said gently:
“Pardon me, dear Lady Wynde, but one has but one mother. I love my dead mother as if she were living, even though I know her only through my dear father’s description of her. I cannot give you her name, and I think it would hardly be appropriate. You are too young to be called mother by a grown-up girl. Does it not seem so to you?”
“Possibly you are right. Suit yourself, my dear. I seek only your happiness. I can be a mother to you, even if you decline to give me the name.”