CHAPTER V.
SETTLING INTO HER PLACE.
The announcement of Sir Harold Wynde’s death in India, so soon too after the death of his son and heir, produced a shock throughout his native county of Kent, and even throughout England; for, although the baronet had been no politician, he had been one of the best known men in the kingdom, and there were many who had known and esteemed him, who mourned deeply at his tragic fate.
The London papers, the Times, the Morning Post, and others, came out with glowing eulogies of the grand-souled baronet whose life had been so noble and beneficent. The local papers of Kent copied these long obituaries, and added thereto accounts of the pedigree of the Wynde family, and a description of the young heiress upon whom, by the untimely deaths of both father and brother, the great family estates and possessions, all excepting the bare title, now devolved.
The retainers of the family, the farmers and servants—those who had known Sir Harold best—mourned for him, refusing to be comforted. They would never know again a landlord so genial, nor a master so kindly: and although they hoped for much from his daughter, yet, as they mournfully said to each other, Miss Neva would marry some day, and the chances were even that she would give to Hawkhurst a harsh and tyrannical master.
The little village of Wyndham, near Hawkhurst, the very ideal of a Kentish village, had been mostly owned by Sir Harold Wynde. To him had belonged the row of shops, the old inn with its creaking sign, and most of the neat houses that stood in gardens along the single street. It was Sir Harold who had caused to be built the little new stone church, with its slender spire, and in this church the mourning villagers gathered to listen to the sermon that was preached in commemoration of the baronet’s death.
Lady Wynde was not present to listen to this sermon. Her gray companion, attired in deep mourning, with the entire household of Hawkhurst, was there, and the young clergyman made a feeling allusion to “the bereaved young widow, sitting alone in her darkened chamber and weeping for her dead, refusing like Rachel of old, to be comforted.” Many of the kindly women present shed tears at this picture, but Artress smiled behind her double mourning vail. She knew that Lady Wynde was lying upon a sofa in her luxurious sitting-room at Hawkhurst, busy with a French novel, and she knew also that not one tear had dimmed her ladyship’s black eyes since the news had come of Sir Harold’s horrible fate.
Neighbors and friends thronged to Hawkhurst to offer their condolences to the young widow. For the first week she was reported inconsolable, and refused to see any one; but a box of the most elegant and fashionable mourning having come down from London, Lady Wynde began to receive her visitors. She affected to be quite broken down by her bereavement, and for weeks did not go out of doors. And when, finally, being urged to take care of her health and to become resigned to her loss, she took morning drives, her equipage looked like a funeral one, her carriage and horses being alike black, and her own face being shrouded in double folds of sombre crape.
Artress had written to Sir Harold’s daughter immediately upon the arrival of the news of Sir Harold’s death, but the letter had been cold and practical, and contained merely the terrible announcement, without one line to soften its horror. About a week later, no letter having been received from Neva, Lady Wynde wrote a very pathetic letter, full of protestations of sympathy, and setting forth her own mock sorrow as something genuinely heart-rending, and declaring herself utterly prostrated in both body and mind. Her ladyship offered her condolences to the bereaved daughter, assuring her that henceforth they “must be all the world to each other,” and concluded her letter by the false statement that it had been the late Sir Harold’s wish that his daughter should remain at her Paris school a year longer, and, as the wishes of the dead are sacred, Lady Wynde had sacrificed her own personal feelings in the matter, and had consented that Neva should remain another year “under the care of her excellent French teachers.”
“That disposes of the girl for a year,” commented Lady Wynde, as she sealed the missive. “I won’t have her here to spy upon me until the year of mourning is over, and I am free to do just as I please.”
So the letter was dispatched, and the baronet’s daughter was condemned to continue her school tasks, even though her heart might be breaking. There was no leisure for her in which to weep for the fate of her noble father; no one who had known him with whom she might talk of him; and only in the long and lonely night times was she free to weep for him, and then indeed her pillow was wetted with her tears.
About three weeks after the receipt of the letter from India announcing Sir Harold’s death, the baronet’s solicitor at Canterbury received a note from the widow, requesting him to call at Hawkhurst on the following day. He obeyed the summons, bringing with him a copy of Sir Harold’s will, made, as will be remembered, upon the day of the baronet’s departure from England. Lady Wynde, clad in the deepest weeds of woe, and attended by Artress, also in mourning, received the solicitor in the library, a grand apartment with vaulted ceiling, and lofty walls lined with books in uniform Russia leather bindings.
“I have sent for you, Mr. Atkins,” said Lady Wynde, when the customary greetings had been exchanged, “to learn if poor Sir Harold left a will. I had his desk searched, and no document of the sort can be found. If he made no will, I am anxious to know how I am to be affected by the omission.”
Mr. Atkins, a thin, small man, with a large, bald head, looked surprised at the simple directness of this speech. He had expected to find her ladyship overcome with grief, as report portrayed her; but her eyes were as bright and tearless, her cheeks as red, her features as composed, as if the business in hand were of the most trivial and unimportant description. Atkins, who had appreciated Sir Harold’s grand nature, felt an aversion to Lady Wynde from this moment.
“She didn’t care for him,” he mentally decided on the instant. “She’s an arrant humbug, and poor Sir Harold’s love was wasted on her. Upon my soul, I believe all she cared about him was for the title and his money.”
Lady Wynde’s sharp eyes did not fail to perceive the unfavorable impression she had made. She bit her lip fiercely, and her cheeks flushed hotly. Her brows arched themselves superciliously, and Mr. Atkins, marking her impatience, hastened to answer:
“Sir Harold left a will, my lady. It was drawn up at my office at Canterbury upon the day on which he left England for India. You will remember that he left Hawkhurst in the morning and drove to Canterbury. He came direct to my office, and dictated and signed his will. He then proceeded directly to the station and went by train to Dover, and crossed to Calais. The will was left in my keeping and is, there can be no question, the last will and testament of Sir Harold Wynde.”
“I presume no one will care to question the will,” said Lady Wynde coldly, “although Sir Harold was in a very excited frame of mind that morning, on account of the news of his son’s illness, and the pain of leaving his home and me. Nevertheless, I dare say he was quite competent to dictate a will. I sent you the particulars of Sir Harold’s death, with some of the letters detailing the sad event which I have received from India. There being no possible doubt of his awful fate, it is time to prove his will. I wish you to give me some idea of its contents.”
The solicitor drew out a long leathern pocket-book and took from it a neatly folded paper.
“I have here a copy of the will,” he said briefly. “Is it your ladyship’s wish to have the will formally read, in the presence of witnesses?”
“No, that is unnecessary. Leave out the usual useless preamble and tell me what disposition my husband made of his property—the freehold farms, the money in bank, the consols, the bonds and mortgages? All these he was free to leave to whom he pleased. I desire to know to whom he did leave them.”
There was a greediness in the looks and tones of Lady Wynde that chilled Atkins. In her anxiety to learn the contents of the will, her ladyship half dropped her mask and displayed something of her true character, and he was quick to read it.
“Sir Harold Wynde, in expectation of the death of his son and heir,” replied Atkins, in his most formal tones, “bequeathed all the property you have mentioned, all his real and personal property, to his daughter, Miss Neva Wynde.”
“All to her?” muttered Lady Wynde. “All, you say?”
“All, my lady. Miss Wynde also inherits Hawkhurst and the entailed property. She is one of the richest heiresses in England.”
“And—and my name is not mentioned?”
“Sir Harold declares that you are provided for by the terms of the marriage settlement. You have Wynde Heights for your dower house and four thousand pounds a year during your life, with no restrictions in regard to a second marriage—a very liberal provision I consider it.”
“And a very shabby one I consider it,” cried Lady Wynde, with a black frown. “Sir Harold’s daughter seventy thousand pounds a year, and I have a paltry four. It is a shame, a miserable, burning shame!”
“It is unjust, scandalous!” muttered Artress.
“Sir Harold thought the sum sufficient, and I must say I agree with him,” declared Atkins. “Your ladyship was contented with the provision at your marriage. If the allowance was unsatisfactory, why did you not expostulate with Sir Harold at that time? Why wait until he is dead to accuse him of injustice?”
“We will not argue the matter,” said Lady Wynde superciliously. “I shall not contest the will. And now about my rich young step-daughter. Who are her appointed guardians?”
There was a perceptible anxiety in her manner, which Atkins noticed with some wonder. He referred to his copy of the will, which was open in his hands.
“Sir Harold appointed yourself, my lady, the personal guardian of his daughter,” he said slowly. “Miss Wynde is to reside at Hawkhurst under your care until she becomes of age or marries. Upon the occurrence of either of those events your ladyship is to retire to Wynde Heights, or to whatsoever place you may prefer, leaving Miss Wynde absolute mistress of Hawkhurst. Of course if Miss Wynde desires you to remain after her marriage, or the attainment of her majority, you are at liberty to do as you please. I think you comprehend Sir Harold’s meaning. If it is not precisely clear, I will read the will—”
“Do not!” interrupted Lady Wynde impatiently. “I abhor all that tedious phraseology. I understand that I am Miss Wynde’s sole personal guardian, that I am to direct her actions, introduce her into society, and that she is to give me the simple, unhesitating obedience of a daughter. Is this not so?”
“It is,” assented Atkins, rather hesitatingly. “Sir Harold expresses the hope that his widow and his daughter will love each other; and that your ladyship will give to his orphan child a mother’s tenderness and affection.”
“Sir Harold knew that he could depend upon my kindness to his child,” said Lady Wynde hypocritically. “I promised him before he went away to be a mother to her, although I shall be but a young mother, to be sure. I shall be very good to the poor girl, whom I love already. I don’t know anything about law, Mr. Atkins, but is not some other guardian also necessary—some one to see to the property, you know?”
“There are three trustees appointed to look after the estate during Miss Wynde’s minority,” answered Atkins. “Sir John Freise is one. You know him well, my lady, and a more incorruptible, honest-souled gentleman than he does not exist. He is a man of fine business capacity, and Sir Harold could not have chosen better. I am also a trustee, and I can answer for my own probity, and for my great devotion to the interests of Miss Wynde.”
“And the third trustee—who is he?”
“The young Earl Towyn. He is the son of one of Sir Harold’s dearest friends, as you probably know, and his youth admirably balances Sir John’s age.”
Lady Wynde looked thoughtful. Her gray companion bent over her work, embroidering a black monogram upon a black-bordered handkerchief, and did not look up. Her ashen-hued lashes lay on her ashen cheeks, and she looked dull, spiritless, a mere gray shadow, as we have called her, but Atkins, studying her face, had an uncomfortable impression that under all that coldness a fire was burning.
“She’s more than she looks to be,” he thought keenly. “I wonder Sir Harold tolerated her in his house. How singularly she resembles a cat!”
Lady Wynde presently broke the silence.
“I understand the situation of affairs,” she said, “and I am obliged to you for your prompt attendance upon my summons, Mr. Atkins. I shall leave my money affairs in your hands. I desire my jointure to be paid into the bank and placed to my credit, so that I may draw upon it when I please. There is nothing more, I think.”
“I would like to make a few inquiries about Miss Wynde, if you please, my lady,” said Atkins, with quiet firmness. “I understand that she is not at home. Has she not been summoned from her school since her father’s death?”
“She has not,” answered Lady Wynde haughtily.
“Pardon me, madam, but are you not about to summon her?”
“I am not. Miss Wynde will remain this year at school. Her studies must be interrupted upon no account at this time.”
“Not even by her father’s death?” asked Atkins bitterly. “Sir Harold mentioned to me his desire to have her at home—”
“Sir Harold Wynde is no longer master of Hawkhurst,” interposed Lady Wynde, with increased superciliousness. “I believe, by the terms of the will, that I am mistress here during Neva’s minority. Let me tell you, Mr. Atkins, that I am my step-daughter’s sole personal guardian, and that I will submit to no dictation whatever in my treatment of the girl. If my husband had sufficient confidence in me to make me his daughter’s guardian, the trustees whom he himself appointed have no need nor right to comment upon my actions or interfere in my plans. Permit me to assure you that I will brook no interference, and if you try to sow dissension between Neva and me you are proving unfaithful to Sir Harold—as well as oblivious of your own interests.”
Mr. Atkins sighed, and murmured an apology. He soon after took his leave, and drove away in the chaise in which he had come. His heart was very heavy and his face overcast as he emerged from the Hawkhurst grounds into the highway, and journeyed toward Canterbury.
“It was a sorry day for Neva Wynde when her father died,” he murmured, looking back at the grand old seat—“a sorry day! This handsome black-eyed Lady Wynde, that everybody is praising for an angel of love and devotion to her husband, is at heart a demon! She means mischief, though I can’t see how. Poor Neva is booked for trouble!”
Enough of honest Mr. Atkins’ sentiments had been apparent in his countenance to prejudice Lady Wynde against him, and to warn her that he comprehended something of her real character. As may be supposed, therefore, she did not again summon him to Hawkhurst.
The days and weeks and months of Lady Wynde’s widowhood passed on without event. She carried herself circumspectly in the eyes of the world. No visitors were invited to Hawkhurst, and her ladyship’s visits to London were few and far between. She seldom went to Canterbury, and her drives about the neighborhood of Hawkhurst were always of the most funereal description, with black coach, black horses and black attire, and a slow gait. Her ladyship was found every Sunday in the baronet’s great square pew in the little Wyndham church, and as she always sat with the silken curtains drawn, no one could know that she was not absorbed in the church services. In short, during the year she had determined to devote to mourning for her dead husband, the conduct of Lady Wynde was such as to deepen her popularity throughout the county. Sir John Freise enthusiastically declared her an angel, her neighbors praised her, and only honest Mr. Atkins shook his head doubtfully when her virtues were lauded, and dared to suggest that she might not be all she seemed.
The year slowly wore away, and midsummer had come again. The languor of Lady Wynde’s dull existence had begun to give place to a strange restlessness. Her deep mourning had grown odious in her sight, and was replaced by the lovely combinations of white and black, the delicate lavenders and soft gray hues which are supposed to indicate a mitigated grief. The hideous widow’s cap, not at all becoming to her ladyship, was exchanged for lavender ribbons in her hair, and jewels took the place of the orthodox mourning ornaments of jet. In her “half mourning,” Lady Wynde appeared more than ever a strikingly handsome woman.
“Artress,” she said one morning to her gray companion, as she looked out of her sitting-room window upon the fair domain of Hawkhurst, “this dreaded year is over at last. I have satisfied the demands of society; I have hoodwinked the jealous and envious eyes of neighbors, and am free at last. If I were to marry to-morrow, no one could say that I had not treated the memory of Sir Harold Wynde with respect. With the sacrifice of but little over two years of my life, I have won a fine income, a splendid home during Neva’s minority, and the guardianship of one of the greatest heiresses in England. That office is worth three thousand a year to me while I hold it. Surely I have played my part well.”
“You have indeed,” echoed Artress.
“Neva must come home soon, but my own business must be settled before her advent on the scene. I shall write to Craven immediately. I will have no further delay.”
She went to a small, beautifully inlaid writing desk, which stood in a recessed window, and sitting down by it, wrote upon heavy velvet paper the following words:
“CRAVEN: You may come to me at last. There is no further obstacle between us.
“OCTAVIA.”
This brief missive she inclosed in a square envelope, and stamped with pale green wax and her favorite device.
The letter she addressed to The Hon. Craven Black, The Albany, London, W.
She then touched her bell. To the servant who came at her summons she gave the letter, ordering it to be posted at Wyndham village without delay. When her messenger had gone, her ladyship gave a sigh of consent, and murmured:
“I am about to reap the reward of all my schemes. Craven will be here to-morrow!”