CHAPTER X.
NEVA AT HOME AGAIN.
The home coming of the heiress of Hawkhurst was far different from that which her father had once lovingly planned for her when looking forward to her emancipation from school. There was no sign of festivity about the estate, no gathering of tenants to a feast, no dancing on the lawn, no floral arches, no music, no gladness of welcome. The carriage containing Neva Wynde and Mrs. Artress, and attended by liveried servants, turned quietly into the lodge gates, halted a moment while Neva spoke to the lodge keepers, whom she well remembered, and then slowly ascended the long shaded drive toward the house.
Neva looked around her with kindling eyes. The fair green lawn with its patches of sunshine and shade, the close lying park with the shy deer browsing near the invisible wire fence that separated the park from the lawn, the odors of the flower gardens, all these were inexpressibly sweet to her after her years of absence from her home.
“Home again!” she murmured softly. “Although those who made it the dearest spot in all the world to me are gone, yet still it is home. No place has charms for me like this.”
The carriage swept up under the high-pointed arch of the lime trees, and drew up in the porch, where the ladies alighted. Artress led the way into the house, and Neva followed with a springing step and a wildly beating heart.
The great baronial hall was not brightened with flowers or green boughs. The oaken floor, black as ebony, was polished like jet. The black, wainscoted walls, hung with ancient pictures, glittering shields, a few fowling pieces, a stag’s head with antlers, an ancient boar’s head, and other treasures, was wide, cool and hospitable. No servants were gathered here, although Neva looked for them and was disappointed in not seeing them. Most of the servants had been at Hawkhurst for many years, and Neva regarded them as old friends.
It had been the wish of the butler and housekeeper to marshal their subordinates in the great hall to welcome their young mistress, but Lady Wynde, hearing of their design, had peremptorily forbidden it, with the remark that until she came of age, Miss Wynde would not be mistress of Hawkhurst. And therefore no alternative had remained for the butler and housekeeper but to smother their indignation and submit to Lady Wynde’s decree.
Mrs. Artress flung open the door of the drawing-room with an excessive politeness and said:
“Be kind enough to enter, Miss Wynde, and make yourself comfortable while I inform Lady Wynde of your arrival.”
“I am not a guest in my own home, and I decline to be treated as one,” said Neva quietly. “I presume my rooms are ready, and I will go up to them immediately.”
“I am not positive,” said Artress hesitatingly, “as to the rooms Lady Wynde has ordered to be made ready for your use. I will ring and see.”
“Thank you, but I won’t put you to the trouble. I shall resume possession of my old rooms, whatever rooms may have been made ready,” said Neva half haughtily.
Her cheeks burned with a sense of indignation and annoyance at the strangeness of her reception. She had not wished for the rejoicings her father had once planned for her, but she had entered her own house precisely as some hireling might have done, with no one to receive or greet her, no one to care if she had come. She turned away to ascend the stairs, but paused with her foot on the lowest step as a door at the further end of the hall opened, and the housekeeper, rosy and rotund, with cap ribbons flying, came rushing forward with outstretched arms.
“Oh, my dear Miss Neva,” cried the good woman, who had known and loved the baronet’s daughter from her birth. “Welcome home, my sweet lamb! How you have grown—so tall, so beautiful, so bright and sweet!”
“You dear old Hopper!” exclaimed Neva, springing forward and embracing the good woman with girlish fervor. “I began to think I must have entered a strange house. I am so glad to see you!”
Mrs. Artress looked upon this little scene with an air of disgust, and with a little sniff hastened up the stairs to the apartments of Lady Wynde.
“Your rooms are ready, Miss Neva,” said Mrs. Hopper—“your old rooms. I made sure you wanted them again, because poor Sir Harold furnished them new for you only four years ago. I will go with you up stairs.”
Neva led the way, tripping lightly up the broad steps, and flitting along the wide upper hall.
Her rooms comprised a suit opposite those of Lady Wynde. Neva opened the door of her sitting-room and went in. The portly old butler was arranging wreaths of flowers about the pictures and statuettes, but turned as the young girl came in, and welcomed her with an admixture of warmth and respectfulness that were pleasant to witness. Then he took his basket of cuttings and withdrew, the tears of joy flooding his honest eyes.
The girl’s sitting-room had been transformed by the loving forethought of the butler into a very bower of beauty. The carpet was of a pale azure hue starred with arbutus blossoms, and the furniture was upholstered in blue silk of the same delicate tint. The pictures on the walls were all choice and framed in gilt, and with their wreaths of odorous blossoms, gave a fairy brightness to the room. The silvermounted grate was crowded thickly with choice flowers from the conservatory, whose colors of white and blue were here and there relieved with scarlet blossoms like living coals. The wide French windows, opening upon a balcony, were open.
“Ah, this is home!” said Neva, sinking down upon a silken couch, and looking out of one of the windows upon the lawn. “I am glad to be back again, Hopper, but it’s a sad home coming. Poor Papa!”
“Poor Sir Harold!” echoed the housekeeper, wiping her eyes. “If he could only have lived to see you grown up, Miss Neva. It was dreadful that he should have been taken as he was. I can’t somehow get over the shock of his death.”
“I shall never get over it!” murmured Neva softly.
“I am making you cry the first thing after your return,” exclaimed Mrs. Hopper, in self-reproach. “I hope those tears are not a bad omen for you, Miss Neva. I have arranged your rooms,” she added, “as they used to be, and if they are not right you have only to say so. You are mistress of Hawkhurst now. Did you bring a maid from Paris, Miss Neva?”
“No, Mrs. Artress said it was not necessary, and my maid at school did not wish to leave France. Mrs. Artress said that Lady Wynde had engaged a maid for me.”
“Her ladyship intended to give you her own maid, but I made bold to engage your old attendant, Meggy West, and she is in your bedroom now. She is wild with joy at the prospect of serving you again.”
Neva remembered the girl Meggy with pleasure, and said so.
“I had dreaded having a strange attendant,” she said. “You were very thoughtful, Hopper. I suppose I ought to dress at once. Since Lady Wynde did not meet me at the door, she evidently means to be ceremonious, and I must conform to her wishes. I am impatient to see my step-mother, Hopper. Is she as good as she is handsome?”
“I am not fond of Lady Wynde, Miss Neva,” replied the housekeeper, coloring. “Her ways are different from any I have been accustomed to, but you must judge of her for yourself. Sir Harold just worshiped the ground she walked on.”
Neva did not pursue her questioning, comprehending that Lady Wynde was not adored by the housekeeper, whoever else might admire her. The young girl was not one to gossip with servants, nor even with Mrs. Hopper, who was lady by birth and education, and she dropped the subject. Soon after Mrs. Hopper withdrew, and Neva went into her bedroom.
She found here the maid who had attended her before she had left home, and who was now to resume service with her. The girl was about her own age, bright-eyed and red-cheeked, hearty and wholesome, the daughter of one of the Hawkhurst tenants. Neva greeted her so kindly as to revive the girl’s old affection for her with added fervor, and, Neva’s trunks having arrived, the process of the toilet was at once entered upon.
The dress of the heiress of Hawkhurst was exceedingly simple, but she looked very lovely when fully attired. She wore a dress and overskirt of white Swiss muslin, trimmed with puffs and ruffles. A broad black sash was tied around her waist, with a big bow and ends at the back. Ear-rings, bracelets, and brooch of jet, were her ornaments.
The housekeeper sent up a tempting lunch, and after partaking of it Neva went down stairs to the great drawing-room, but it was untenanted. She stood in the large circular window and looked out upon the cool depths of the park, and became absorbed in thought. More than half an hour thus passed, and Neva was beginning to wonder that no one came to her, when the rustling of silk outside the door was heard, and Lady Wynde came sweeping into the room.
Her ladyship presented a decidedly striking appearance. She had laid aside the last vestige of her mourning garments, and wore a long maize-colored robe of heavy silk, with ornaments of rubies. Her brunette beauty was admirably enhanced by her attire, and Neva thought she had never seen a woman more handsome or more imposing.
Behind Lady Wynde came Artress, clad in soft gray garb, as usual, and making an excellent foil to her employer.
“Lady Wynde, this is Miss Wynde,” said the gray companion, in her soft, cloying voice.
Neva came forward, frank and sweet, offering her hand to her step-mother. Lady Wynde touched it with two fingers, and stooping, kissed the girl’s forehead.
“You are welcome home, Neva,” she said graciously. “I am glad to see you, my dear. I began to think we should never meet. Why, how tall you are—not at all the little girl I expected to see.”
“I am eighteen, you may remember, Lady Wynde,” returned Neva quietly. “One is not usually very small at that age.”
Her ladyship surveyed her step-daughter with keen scrutiny. She had already heard Artress’ account of the voyage home from Calais, and of Neva’s meeting with Lord Towyn, and she was anxious to form some idea of the girl’s character.
She saw in the first moment that here was not the insipid, “bread-and-butter school girl” she had expected. The frank, lovely face, so bright and piquant, was full of character, and the red-brown eyes bravely uplifted betrayed a soul awake and resolute. Neva’s glances were as keen as her own, and Lady Wynde had an uncomfortable impression that her step-daughter was reading her true character.
“Sit down, my dear,” she said, somewhat disconcerted. “Artress has been telling me about your voyage. Artress is my friend and companion, as I wrote you, and has lived with me so many years that I have learned to regard her as a sister. I hope you will be friends with her. She is an excellent mentor to thoughtless youth.”
Neva bowed, but the smile that played for an instant on her saucy lips was not encouraging to the would-be “mentor.”
“I shall try not to trouble her,” she said, smiling, “although I shall always be glad to receive advice from my father’s wife. I trust that you and I will be friends, Lady Wynde, for poor papa’s sake.”
Lady Wynde sat down beside her step-daughter. Artress retreated to a recessed window, and took up her usual embroidery. Neva exerted herself to converse with her step-mother, and was soon conscious of a feeling of disappointment in her. She felt that Lady Wynde was insincere, a hypocrite, and a double-dealer, and she experienced a sense of uneasiness in her presence. Could this be the wife her father had adored? she asked herself. And then she accused herself of injustice and harsh judgment, believing that her father could not have been so mistaken in the character of his wife, and in atonement for her unfavorable opinion she was very gentle, and full of deference. Lady Wynde congratulated herself upon having won her step-daughter’s good opinion after all.
“I must acquire a thorough control and unbounded influence over her,” she thought. “But how can I do it? If her father had only left her stronger injunctions to sacrifice everything to my wishes, I think she would obey the injunctions as if a voice spoke to her from the grave. She will obey in all things reasonable—I can see that. But if she has formed a liking for Lord Towyn, how am I to compel her to marry Rufus Black?”
The question occupied her attention even while she talked with Neva. It made her thoughtful through the dinner hour, and silent afterward. Neva was tired, and went to her own rooms for the night soon after dinner, and Lady Wynde and Artress talked together for a long time in low tones.
“I have it!” said her ladyship exultantly, at last. “I have a brilliant idea, Artress, that will make this girl my bond-slave. But I shall need the cooperation of Craven. I must see him this very evening. It is strange he does not come—”
“He is here,” said the gray companion, as the house door clanged and heavily shut. “I will go to my room.”
She slipped like a shadow down the long triple drawing-room and out at one door, as the Honorable Craven Black was ushered in at the other. Lady Wynde rose to receive him, welcoming him with smiles, and presently she unfolded to him the scheme she had just conceived, and the two conspirators proceeded to discuss it and amplify it, and prepare it for the ensnarement of the baronet’s daughter.