“You will marry Rufus!” demanded Lady Wynde, as the girl’s pause became protracted.
Neva bowed her head—she could not speak.
Lady Wynde’s face glowed, and an evil light gleamed in her eyes. Her heart throbbed wildly with her evil triumph.
“You are indeed a good and faithful daughter, Neva,” she said caressingly. “In accordance with your father’s wishes, I must give Mr. Black every chance to woo you. I believe he knows something of what Sir Harold designed for you and him, and he is at this moment at Wyndham village. He is staying at the inn with his father, and both will call upon you this evening.”
“So soon?”
“The sooner the better. I have not seen Rufus Black, but his father called here last evening. The father knew poor Sir Harold intimately. And, Neva, dear, in honor of your guests, and in deference to my wishes, you ought to lay aside all vestige of your mourning to-day. You have worn black a year, and that is all that modern society demands.”
“The outward garb does not always indicate the feelings of the heart,” said Neva. “I will change my manner of dress, since you desire it, but I shall mourn for papa all my days.”
As Neva became thoughtful and abstracted, Lady Wynde soon took her leave. She found Artress in her sitting-room and the gray companion had no need to ask of her success.
“Our silly little fish has swallowed the bait,” said Lady Wynde. “She is ready to immolate herself ‘for dear papa’s sake,’ although I could see that she is already interested in Lord Towyn. I am impatient for evening. I want to see how young Rufus Black will proceed in his task of winning the heiress of Hawkhurst.”