As Neva recognized the youngest of her three guardians, as they rode up the avenue of Hawkhurst at a leisurely pace, a strange embarrassment seized upon her. The horsemen had not yet seen her in the twilight and the shadow of shrubbery, and she proposed a return to the drawing-room. Rufus Black assented, and they passed in at the open French window which gave directly upon the marble terrace.
The drawing-room was full of shadows. Artress sat in a recessed window, silent and immovable, and Lady Wynde and Craven Black were in the second portion of the triple arched apartment, completely hidden from view, and their low whispers barely penetrated to the outer room. Lady Wynde, hearing her step-daughter’s return, came forth, rang for lights, and ordered the lace curtains to be dropped.
A score of wax candles were presently glowing in their polished silver sconces, and a couple of moon-like lamps dispensed a mellow radiance that penetrated to every corner of the triple room. The curtains, fluttering in the soft night breeze, shut out all insects, but admitted the perfumed air. Craven Black, satisfied that his tete-a-tete with Lady Wynde was over for the present, sauntered into the outer room to make the acquaintance of the young heiress.
He had thought of Neva as an insipid, affected, weak-headed young lady, who would be a mere puppet in his hands and those of Lady Wynde. His surprise may be imagined when he beheld a slender, spirited girl, with eyes of red gloom, brown hair tinted with the sunshine, scarlet lips, and a piquant face, full of an irresistible witchery and sauciness—a girl so bright and keen of intellect, so resolute and strong in herself, that he wondered that she could ever have been imposed upon by even his skilfully forged letter.
“Neva, my dear,” said Lady Wynde, “allow me to present to you the Honorable Craven Black—one of your dear papa’s friends, and consequently yours and mine.”
Neva acknowledged the introduction by a bow of her haughty little head, and a smile so warm and sweet that Craven Black was captivated by it. Any friend of her late father’s had a peculiar claim upon Neva’s friendship, and Craven Black resolved to elaborate the small fiction, and coin agreeable little anecdotes of his relations to her father, so that the heiress would be inspired with a liking for him.
Before time had been granted for more than the usual commonplaces incident to an introduction, the three guardians of Miss Wynde were announced by the footman, and were ushered into the drawing-room.
Sir John Freise came first—a tall, stately old gentleman, with white hair and closely cropped whiskers, distinguished for his old-fashioned courtliness of bearing, and noted throughout Kent for his unswerving integrity.
Mr. Atkins, the attorney, came next, looking more than ordinarily insignificant of person, his bald head shining, his honest face flushed to redness. He was not fine looking, nor well shaped, but, like Sir John, he was a man of invincible integrity and honesty of character, and many years of service to Sir Harold Wynde had inspired him with a genuine affection for the family, and given him, as one might say, a personal interest in its prosperity.
Lastly, and because he preferred to come last, was young Lord Towyn, as handsome as any knight of chivalry, his golden hair tossed back from his noble forehead, his blue eyes glowing, and a warm smile playing about his tawny mustached lips.