Neva's Choice by Harriet Lewis - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXIII.
 THE END OF THE GAME.

The yacht had arrived at the loch at the foot of Wilderness mountain just as the dusk was falling. Craven Black had immediately gone ashore in the mist and gloom, climbed the rugged steep, and hastened to his temporary home. The windows were all uncurtained, and a broad stream of watery light penetrated for a little distance into the darkness. There was no sound of barking of dogs, and the silence struck upon Craven Black’s ears strangely. The front door stood wide open, but no one was in the hall.

He entered the house and looked into the drawing-room. Mrs. Artress was there, pale and perturbed, a restless spark in her ashen eyes, and disorder in her attire. She uttered an exclamation as she beheld Mr. Black, and sprang toward him, exclaiming:

“I am so glad you are come, Craven. Have you got the medicines for Octavia?”

“Yes. How is she?”

“I don’t know. I am very anxious about her. She looks like death, and her breathing is very strange. She won’t lie down, but just wanders about the house like some restless ghost. I think that her lungs are congested, and that she is in serious danger. I really think you ought to take her to Inverness and put her in a physician’s care. What if she should die in this remote Wilderness?”

“She won’t die while she is able to ‘wander about the house,’” responded Craven Black lightly. “When people are seriously ill they take to their beds. Why are the dogs shut up?”

“Octavia ordered it. She could not bear their noise; it drove her wild, she said.”

“Humph. Nervous. She will be better of her cold in a day or two. How is Miss Wynde?”

“She is still obstinate, Craven, and never says a word against her starvation diet. I am afraid we’ve made a serious mistake in our estimate of her. She is what you sometimes call ‘game all through.’ She’ll die, but she won’t give in. I wish we had left her alone, and allowed her to marry whom she pleased. That escapade of hers on the mountain may cost Octavia her life. And if Octavia dies, her four thousand a year dies too, and I shall have to become a companion to some lady, and lead a horrible life of dependence and fear, and you will have to go back to your precarious existence.”

“You are a pleasant comforter,” said Craven Black impatiently. “All these horrors exist only in your imagination. Octavia will outlive us all. Where is she?”

“In her own room.”

Black ran up the stairs to his wife’s room. He found Octavia standing before the fire, clad in a loose wrapper, whose bright hue made her pallid face look hideous. Her eyes were strangely large, and they were thrown into relief by heavy black circles under them. Her long black hair hung loosely down her back. She looked thin and old and spectral, all the brightness and beauty gone from her. Her features were hard in their expression, and the wicked soul declared itself plainly in her unlovely countenance.

Craven Black recoiled at sight of her. How two or three days had changed her! He felt a sudden repugnance to her. He had a horror of weakness and illness, and a fear came over him that his cousin’s terrors might not be without foundation.

“Oh, it’s you, Craven?” cried Octavia, in a thin, querulous voice. “How long you have stayed. Did you get my medicine?”

“Yes, here it is,” and Black produced a bottle from his pocket. “It’s a cough mixture.”

“I feel such a tightness here,” and Octavia put her hand upon her chest. “Such a horrible restriction. I dare say, though it will be all right in the morning. I remember, Craven, you hate sick people. Your dinner is waiting. Let us go down.”

“You had better go to bed,” said Craven abruptly.

“I cannot lie down. My chest pains me when I attempt it. Had you good luck at Inverness?”

Craven Black assented.

“Did you see any one you knew?”

“No; how should I? None of my acquaintances come to the Highlands in November. I was as unrecognized at Inverness as I should be in Patagonia. I will change my clothes and take you down to dinner.”

He went into his dressing-room and changed his garments. Octavia paced the room restlessly during his absence. He returned in the course of some minutes and escorted his wife down to the dining-room, where Mrs. Artress joined them.

He noticed that Octavia ate nothing at the meal. She complained of a lack of appetite, and moved restlessly in her chair, starting at every sound.

“I have read of the ancients placing a death’s head at their feasts,” said Black grimly, “and I seem to have followed their customs. Octavia, do try to look like something better than a galvanized corpse.”

Octavia arose and went to the window, a spasm of pain convulsing her hard features. The heartless mockery of her confederate in guilt smote upon her in that hour of suffering like an avenging sword. How she had loved him, and had sinned for him! And this was her reward!

Craven Black finished his dinner quietly, and drank his wine. Then he arose with an air of gayety, and said:

“I have everything you sent for, Octavia, and some things you neglected to send for. We can stand a siege in this old house all winter, if need be. The boys are already bringing up the hampers. Will you have a look at them?”

Octavia assented with a heavy sigh, and passed out into the front hall with Craven Black and Mrs. Artress.

The three seamen stood in the hall, one with a lantern in his hand, the other two in the act of depositing their hampers upon the floor.

And over the edge of the plateau at that very moment and not a score of rods distant, four men were coming silently and slowly, with stern faces and cautious mien, toward the house.

“That is right,” said Craven Black, examining the hampers. “Bring up the wine baskets next.”

The three men went out. The four pursuers stood in the shadow of the trees as they passed, and then resumed their approach to the dwelling.

“I’d like to see how the girl stands her imprisonment,” said Craven Black. “I’ll let her know that we are prepared to spend the winter here. By the way, Octavia, I posted that second letter to Brussels to-day, addressed under cover of a letter to Celeste’s sister, to Lord Towyn. We have nicely hood-winked the earl, and I should like the girl to know of our successful manœuvres. Where is Celeste?”

“In Neva’s ante-room.”

“Come then. We will visit our prisoner.”

He went upstairs, Octavia following slowly, assisted by Mrs. Artress. Celeste sat at work in the ante-room of Neva’s chamber, and admitted the visitors into Neva’s presence, entering with them.

And outside the house, upon the lawn, the four shadows came nearer and yet nearer. They flitted up the steps of the porch, and in at the open door. They paused a moment in the deserted lower hall, and then, hearing voices above, came silently and darkly up the stairs, and paused at the door of the ante-room.

That room was deserted. The light streamed from the inner room, where Neva and her enemies were grouped. The sound of voices came out to the intruders. Softly, with sternly eager faces, the four crept across the floor of the ante-room, and two—Sir Harold Wynde and Lord Towyn—looked in upon the Blacks and their young victim.

The earl breathed hard, and would have leaped in like a lion to the rescue of his betrothed and to the confusion of his enemies, but Sir Harold Wynde held him back with a grasp of iron. The baronet meant to learn the falseness and perfidy of the wife he had so idolized and trusted, from her own lips.

And with what unconscious frankness she bared her guilty soul to his scrutiny. How completely she revealed her wickedness to him.

At the moment the intruders looked in with burning eyes upon them, Octavia was speaking. Neva stood up near the fire, very pale and slender and fragile of figure, as her father and lover saw with swelling hearts, but her red-brown eyes glowed with the light of an undying courage, her head was poised haughtily upon her slender throat, and her lips were curled in a smile of dauntless defiance.

“You see, Craven,” Octavia was saying querulously. “We have starved the girl; we have fed her for weeks on bread and water, until her bodily strength must be nearly gone, and yet she stands there and defies us. What are we to do with her?”

“Miss Wynde does not sufficiently realize her own helplessness and our power,” said Craven Black. “Your friends think you traveling with us upon the Continent, Miss Neva. I have posted to-day a letter apparently in your handwriting, under cover to a friend in Brussels, who will post it back to England. That letter is addressed to Lord Towyn. How he will kiss and caress it, and wear it in his bosom, never doubting that you wrote it. I shall send him another letter next week, in your name, breaking your engagement with him.”

The young earl made a slight movement but Sir Harold held him still in a grip of iron.

Neva’s pure, proud face flushed with scorn for her enemies.

“You may send as many letters as you please to Lord Towyn,” she said haughtily, “but you will not deceive him so readily as you did me with that letter purporting to come from papa. Oh, Octavia, I am glad papa never lived to know you as you are, base, treacherous, and full of double-dealing! It is well for him that he did not live, for you would have broken his noble heart. He loved and trusted you, and you have repaid him by oppressing his daughter whom he loved.”

The hard, haggard features of Octavia distorted themselves in a sneer.

The baronet wondered with a sudden horror if this was the woman he had loved. She looked a very Medusa to him now.

“Your father! Your ‘poor papa!’” mocked Octavia, with her hand upon her chest. “You have flung Sir Harold’s name and memory at me ever since we came to this place. And what was Sir Harold? A mere Moneybags to me, that’s all. If you hope to move me to pity you, you couldn’t use a worse name to give effect to your appeal than the name of your father. I never loved Sir Harold Wynde, but I married him because he was rich. You needn’t look so horrified. People marry for such reasons every day, but they have not my frankness to avow it. There stands the man whom I have loved for years,” and she pointed at Craven Black. “It is his son whom I intend you shall marry—”

“To enrich you, madam!” cried Neva.

“Yes, to enrich me, since you say so?” exclaimed Octavia. “You have seventy thousand pounds a year; I have four thousand. I intend to equalize matters before you and I separate. Craven has just returned from Inverness with household stores sufficient to last us through the winter, and we will stay here till spring, if necessary to compel you to accede to our wishes. Your fare, every day through this winter, until you yield to us, shall be bread and water. I warn you not to carry your resistance too far for I may be moved to deprive you of a fire.”

Neva’s lovely face continued to glow with her haughty scorn.

“You seem to think that I am deserted by God and man, and completely given over to you,” she cried. “You are mistaken. God has not deserted me. And I can assure you, Craven and Octavia Black, that before many weeks—before many days perhaps—Lord Towyn will trace me to this place and rescue me from your hands.”

“Let him come!” sneered Craven Black. “Let him come!”

“Yes,” mocked Octavia, “let him come!”

Lord Towyn broke from the grasp Sir Harold still held upon him, and stalked into the chamber.

With a shriek of delight, loud and piercing, Neva flew to his arms.

He held her clasped to his breast and backed toward the door, coming to a halt, looking at Neva’s enemies with stern, accusing eyes.

Craven Black, Octavia, Mrs. Artress and Celeste stared at him appalled. Not one could speak, but Octavia’s hand clutched at her chest with sudden frenzy.

“Lord Towyn!” gasped Mrs. Artress at last, faintly.

Craven Black broke forth into curses. His hand flew to his breast pocket, but fell again, as the door pushed open and Mr. Atkins and Ryan, the detective, entered the room.

“By Heaven, the game is up!” he cried.

“Yes,” said our young hero, “the game is up. You have played a daring game, Craven Black, and you have lost it.”

Octavia gasped for breath. The bitterness of defeat was almost more than she could bear. The sight of Neva in the arms of her lover nearly goaded her to madness.

“Yes, the game is up,” she said hollowly, “I suppose that you traced Craven here from Inverness; but how did you get upon our trail? How did you happen at Inverness? No matter. I do not care to know just yet. You cannot prosecute us, Lord Towyn, if you care to preserve your bride’s family name from scandal. I was Sir Harold Wynde’s wife, and that fact must shield me and my friends. You cannot take from me my jointure of four thousand a year, and with that Craven and I need not suffer, especially as we have the Wynde Heights estate. The game is up, Lord Towyn, as you say, but we are not discomforted nor overthrown. You will keep silence for the sake of the family. Besides, you know I am Neva’s personal guardian, and had a right to take her where I please.”

“That remains to be seen,” said the young earl sternly. “Neva, darling, look up. I have news for you.”

Neva slowly lifted her pale, joyous face from her lover’s bosom, and stood a little way from him, eager, expectant, and wondering.

“My poor little girl!” said the young earl, with an infinite yearning. “How you have suffered! I have brought you very startling news, and you will need all your bravery to bear it. Give me your hands—so! Neva, I have news from India.”

Something in his tone startled the girl. Her face grew paler on the instant.

“Yes, Arthur,” she said softly. “You have heard more about his death—poor papa!”

“A gentleman has come from India,” said the earl telling the story much as Atkins had told it to him. “He says—can you bear to hear it, darling—he says that Sir Harold did not die out there at all: that he was attacked by a tiger, but was rescued by his Hindoo servant, who sent him away into the mountains in the care of other Hindoos, who kept Sir Harold a captive. And he says that Sir Harold is alive and well to-day.”

“Oh, Arthur, Arthur! Can it be?” cried Neva, trembling. “My poor father! I dreamed that he still lived, and my dream has come true. We will start for India at once, and rescue papa. Oh, Arthur, do you think it is true!”

“Yes, my darling, I believe it.”

“Well, I don’t!” sneered Craven Black, turning pale nevertheless. “Such trumpery tales are common enough. Look at Livingstone. He’s been said to be dead these several years, but every little while the newspapers resurrect him. I know Sir Harold is dead!”

“And I know it,” scoffed Octavia. “Alive, after an absence of so long duration! Bah! I wonder you haven’t more sense, Lord Towyn. Sir Harold Wynde alive! I should like to see him!”

The door swung slowly on its hinges, and Sir Harold Wynde walked into the room. He paused near the door, and surveyed his false wife with stern and awful eyes.

Octavia gave utterance to a frightful scream—whose horror was indescribable—and bounded forward, her hand upon her breast, and fell to the floor upon her face.

Sir Harold’s awful gaze turned upon Craven Black, and seemed to turn that individual to stone. It rested upon Artress, and she cowered before it in terror. It passed over the French woman, and fixed itself upon Neva, softening and melting to almost more than human tenderness and love, and then, with a great joy shining in his keen blue eyes, he opened wide his arms. Neva sprang forward, and was clasped close to his great heart.

The sacred joy of that reunion need not be dwelt upon.

Presently, as Sir Harold was about to lead his daughter from the room, his glance rested upon the still prostrate figure of Octavia.

“Look to your wife, Mr. Black,” he said; his irony arousing Black from his stupor. “She has fainted!”

Craven Black obeyed the voice of command, essaying to lift the prostrate figure of Octavia, but with a cry of horror he let it fall again, shouting hoarsely:

“She’s dead! Octavia is dead!”

It was true. The engorged lungs had ceased their work. The heart had stopped its beating.

That night, the yacht and the sloop started upon their return to Inverness. In the former were Craven Black, dispirited and despairing; Mrs. Artress, full of bewailings for the poverty into which she was now plunged; the French maid; the dead body of the false Octavia; and the three sailors in Black’s employ.

In the sloop were Neva and her friends.

The two vessels arrived safely at Inverness, and the remains of Lady Wynde were consigned to the grave. Craven Black did not wait to see the last rites performed for her who had served his wicked purposes so faithfully and so well, but, abandoning his cousin, put to sea in his yacht with three sailors, not caring whither he went.

A week later, the wreck of the yacht was found upon the north German coast, and four bodies were washed ashore, two still living, two dead. And of the dead, one was identified, from the papers on his person, as Craven Black.

Sir Harold with his daughter and his friends returned to Hawkhurst. The story of Sir Harold’s return to England had preceded them, and from the moment that the party alighted at the Canterbury station until after their arrival at their own home, Sir Harold received one continual ovation. The tenantry of Hawkhurst turned out in a body to welcome home their beloved landlord. The joy bells were rung in the little village of Wyndham, and guns were fired. It was a day long to be remembered throughout that part of Kent.

The shadow that had fallen on Sir Harold’s life when he first learned the baseness of his second wife, was dispelled by the tender love and attentions of Neva and her young lover. The smiles came back to his lips and the joy to his heart, and he learned the lesson that many must learn, that life need not be all dark and desolate because one friend of the many has proved false.

A few months later the joy bells rang again, and again the tenantry of Sir Harold made merry. The occasion was the marriage of the heiress of Hawkhurst to the young Lord Towyn. It was a joyous bridal. Sir John Freise and wife, and their seven daughters were there. Mr. Atkins’ plain face beamed from the midst of the throng. Rufus Black and his gipsy-faced young wife, both happy and loving, had come down from Mount street to grace the wedding, and no congratulations to the young bridal pair were more sincere than those uttered by Rufus.

At the wedding breakfast, while Neva, fair and proud, and radiant as a star, sat beside her equally radiant young bridegroom, Rufus Black found opportunity to speak a word privately to the bride.

“It has all ended as it ought to, Miss Neva—my lady, I mean,” he whispered joyously. “Your father has got over his disappointment and grief, and looks like a king, as he stands yonder. I am getting to be a man—an honest, upright, strong-souled man, with genuine backbone and downright vim. Lally believes in me, you see, and upholds me, God bless her. And you and the earl are as happy as angels, Miss Ne—my lady, and you deserve to be. Mrs. Artress is a governess—where do you think—oh, divine justice—in the house of the Blights at Canterbury! What worse could we wish her? Our enemies—they were mine as well as yours, Lady Towyn—played a daring game, and they lost it!”

THE END.