Olivia

Little dreaming of the scene that was being enacted by Olivia and Bartley Bradstone, Bertie started on his way home. He meant to walk to Carfield, and to think of Olivia every inch of the way. He had always loved her as a boy, and when they were playmates; but now he found his love of that absorbing kind which masters a man’s whole being and dominates his life.

Carfield was no great distance for a young man in first-rate condition, and he set out at a steady pace, thinking of Olivia at every step. Dearly as he loved her—perhaps because he loved her so dearly—he could not summon up courage to tell her so. They had been playmates together; it had been “Olly” and “Bertie” for as long back as he could remember, and yet—yet he had not the courage to go to her and say, “Olivia, be my wife!”

“I am a coward, that’s what it is!” he murmured, ruefully. “Now, if it was Faradeane, instead of me——”

He pulled up short. Strangely enough, the comparison had occurred to him at the very moment he was passing the top of the lane in which The Dell stood.

After a moment’s hesitation he turned into it, and opened the gate. As he did so, he saw, or fancied he saw, the figure of a man cross the path and disappear in the shrubs that grew on each side.

“Is that you, Faradeane?” he said. “Who’s there?”

No response came, and deciding that it was a trick of his imagination, aided by lights and shadows, he went up to the door.

It was ajar, which seemed strange to Bertie, and pushing it open, he entered, and opened the door of the sitting-room.

Faradeane was sitting beside the table; he had thrown off his dress coat and waistcoat, and was leaning on the table with his head resting upon his arms.

“Faradeane, old fellow!” said Bertie, softly.

He started, and sprang to his feet, with a look, not of apprehension, but as if he had been suddenly awakened from some painful reverie, and Bertie felt a pang shoot through him at the pallor and the wanness of the handsome face.

“Well, Cherub,” he said. “Is it you?”

“Yes. I startled you. I’m awfully sorry. Were you asleep, old man?”

Faradeane smiled.

“No, only thinking. Well, have you come from the Grange? Sit down.”

Bertie sank into the chair with a sigh.

“Yes. I’ve just come from the Grange. I’m sorry you didn’t join us. I left them all talking of your wonderful performance——”

Faradeane made a little gesture of deprecation, as much as to say that he had already received more than his due in that way, and, placing a cigar box on the table, lit his pipe.

“It was kind of you to look in, Cherub,” he said; “and I am very glad to see you. Make yourself comfortable, and accept my gratitude—and some whisky-and-water.”

“As to gratitude—well, to tell you the truth—but I say, old fellow, I thought I saw you in the garden in the front as I came in just now.”

Faradeane shook his head as he held the match to his pipe.

“No, of course not, because you were sitting here; but I could have declared that I saw the figure of a man cross in front of the window——”

Faradeane dropped the match, and strode to the door, then stopped short.

“My man, my gardener, groom, valet, factotum,” he said. “He was looking round for the night, I dare say.” And he sank down into a chair opposite Bertie’s. “And now what was this truth you were going to tell me, Cherub?”

Bertie colored, and shifted in his seat nervously.

“Well, it wasn’t altogether an unselfish deed, this dropping in upon you at this time of night. By the way, it is awfully late!”

Faradeane waved his pipe.

“It is never too date to receive a friend, Cherub. Day and night are all one to a man who takes no interest in either. You have come to talk to me—to ask me something. Isn’t it so?”

Bertie nodded.

“You always seem to know,” he said, with quiet admiration. “I did come to talk to you, to ask you to do me a great favor.”

“Consider it granted, even to the half of my kingdom,” responded Faradeane. “What is it?”

Bertie was silent for a moment; then, blushing like the rose, and with downcast eyes, he said:

“What—what do you think of her now—of Olivia, Faradeane?”

Faradeane was sitting with his arms folded at the back of his head, his eyes fixed in dreamy patience and kindliness upon the fair, girlish face; but at this abrupt question his expression changed and his arms dropped.

“What do I think of Miss Vanley?” he said, in a slow, constrained voice.

“Yes, old fellow. You can’t tell how anxious I am to get your opinion. You see, you are the dearest friend I’ve got, you always were my friend and all that, and I—I naturally——”

Faradeane nodded, and seemingly intent upon his pipe, which had suddenly got stopped up apparently, said:

“I think she is a very beautiful girl. Cherub, and something a very great deal better than beautiful.”

“I knew you’d say so, but I wanted to hear you say it!” exclaimed Bertie, with suppressed fervor. “I knew you admired her——”

Faradeane raised his head sharply.

“You know that I admired her! How should you know that? Have I shown it in any word or look?”

“No, no; don’t be angry, my dear fellow,” responded Bertie, quickly. “No, no; but I felt somehow that you did.”

“Oh!”

“And I’m certain she admires you. I’m sure, if you’d seen her face as she sat to-night while you were reciting, and at dinner time, too, with her eyes fixed upon you——”

Faradeane’s pipe seemed to trouble him again.

“Oh, I could see that she was immensely taken with you; and who wouldn’t be? Don’t smile like that, old man; I mean all I say; and it was because I am so sure that—that—she likes you and looks up to you, that I came in here to you to-night. The idea only struck me as I was passing the top of the lane.”

“Oh,” said Faradeane, quietly; “and what was the idea, Cherub?”

Bertie fidgeted in his chair, and sighed.

“Look here, Cly——”

Faradeane raised his head with a warning glance, and Bertie, coloring crimson, stumbled on:

“I—I beg your pardon; Faradeane, I mean. It’s just this: I’m half beside myself to-night. Being with her all this evening has set me all a-quiver, and—and the sight of that fellow Bradstone has upset me so terribly that—that I must—I must know my fate. I can’t go on any longer! I’ve got a dread upon me that if I don’t speak out now, at once, and tell her how I love her, and—and ask her to be my wife, that I—that this fellow will get before me, and——”

He stopped and wiped his brow with a hand that quivered.

Faradeane looked at him with his dark, sad eyes.

“And you came to ask my advice? You shall have it. Obey the impulse, Bertie; go and tell her you love her, as you suggest——”

He paused, stopped by a look in Bertie’s eyes.

“Well?”

“I—I—that isn’t what I wanted,” said the Cherub.

“No? What do you want, then?”

“I—I want you to do it for me,” said Bertie, in a low voice.

For a moment Faradeane sat motionless and speechless; then he laughed. It was a strange laugh, fuller of pain than of mirth, almost a laugh of bitterness.

“You—want—me to tell her?” he said, slowly.

“Yes,” said Bertie, in his eagerness leaning forward with clasped hands. “That’s what I want. Try as I will, I can’t find the pluck. You’ll think I’m a coward, I know. I can’t help it. If you only felt as I do! I tell you, old fellow, that when I think of going to her, and saying—what I should have to say—I—I—my voice leaves me. You don’t know what she is. She might laugh at me, or she might turn on me with one of those cold, far-away looks in her eyes; and—and both ways of taking it would—would settle me.”

He paused for want of breath.

“Now, you—you could tell her how I feel; you could say just the right thing, and—and convince her that I love her so dearly that I’d rather die than live without her.”

Faradeane laughed again; the same sad, half-bitter laugh.

“Don’t laugh at me, for Heaven’s sake,” implored Bertie. “It’s fun to you, but it’s death to me, Faradeane. And don’t refuse me. I know what I’m about. I know what she thinks of you—yes, already, though she has only known you for a few days. A man who loves a girl as I do Olivia—well, he gets sharp, and notices every little thing about her, every look and word, and I know that she would listen to you, that you could persuade——”

“Stop! Are you mad?” exclaimed Faradeane, sternly.

Bertie looked up, and saw that the handsome face had grown white, almost pallid.

“What have I said?” he exclaimed, penitently. “Have I offended you? I didn’t mean to do so. What I said is true. You have an influence over her——”

Faradeane rose abruptly and leaned his elbow upon the mantelshelf, and his head upon his hand, and there was silence for a moment; then he raised his head. “You are talking arrant nonsense,” he said, not sternly, but coldly. “Miss Vanley thinks no more, cares no more, is no more influenced by me than—than she is by her footman. Put such an absurd idea out of your foolish head. She does not give a thought to me, whom she has not seen for more than a few minutes, on as many days. Talk sense, Cherub, or—or go home to bed.”

Bertie looked up at him with a firmness which was almost obstinacy.

“You may bully me as much as you like, Faradeane,” he said, and not without a certain quiet dignity, the dignity of conviction. “But you won’t succeed in convincing me that you have not a great deal of influence over her. Why, I watched her—do I ever take my eyes off her?—every time you spoke; and whatever she was doing or whoever she was listening to, she turned to you at once. Besides, don’t you influence everybody? Haven’t you always been able to do anything you liked with anybody? And Olivia—oh, I could see to-night that she thought more of you than any one else.”

The pale face seemed to grow hard and set as if with some hidden struggle, some suppressed pain.

“That is enough of this nonsense,” he said. “Love works madness in some men’s brains. It has worked madness in yours. I am no more to Olivia”—he stopped, and swept his hand across his brow, with a gesture of annoyance—“I mean Miss Vanley, than the beggar at her gates.”

Bertie rose, pale, too, and with an expression of disappointment.

“Then—then you won’t do this for me, Faradeane?”

“If you mean, will I go and ask Miss Vanley to accept you, go to her and propose for you, I certainly will not,” was the swift, almost stern response. “Go to her yourself! Why, do you think I am made of wood, clay, iron, that I can bear any better than you the mockery of her laugh, the scorn of those eyes——”

Bertie stared at him.

“Why, what will it matter to you?” he said, innocently. “You won’t be telling her that you love her—won’t be asking her to be your wife.”

For the first time Faradeane’s face grew crimson, and his dark, sad eyes drooped.

“Sit down,” he said, pointing to the chair. “Your madness is affecting me. It is catching. Sit down.” Bertie dropped meekly into the chair, and Faradeane paced up and down the room for a moment or two; then he stopped suddenly and looked down at the handsome, the girlish face, with its trusting patience. “You—you still persist in this insane idea of yours?” he asked, almost harshly.

Bertie nodded.

“Yes, I do. Faradeane, if you knew how much I rely on you——”

Faradeane uttered an impatient exclamation.

“But I do. See here; I have a kind of faith that if you—if you would tell her to—to accept me, that she’d do it. Laugh at the idea as much as you like, but you can’t destroy it. It’s there, and I can’t get rid of it. Cly—I mean Faradeane, for Heaven’s sake say ‘Yes!’”

Faradeane looked down at him with steady, yet dreamy gaze; then he seemed to straighten himself, to brace himself, as it were, and said, slowly:

“Well, I will do it.”

Bertie sprang to his feet, his face flushed with relief and gratification; but Faradeane held up his hand.

“Stop! No gratitude! No thanks! If you knew how I hated”—he stopped and bit his lip—“how I disliked it, you would not say a word.”

Bertie seized his hand.

“But I must thank you, old fellow! The best, the dearest——”

“When am I to do this?” interrupted Faradeane in a strained, harsh voice.

“Soon! As soon as you can to-morrow!” replied Bertie, all in a fervor. “I can’t wait any longer—I can’t, indeed! Ah, if you knew how I love her!”

“Perhaps I can guess,” caustically.

“But you can’t. You see, she is nothing to you; just a pretty, lady-like girl——”

“Just a pretty, lady-like girl,” echoed Faradeane in a strange voice; “exactly.”

“But to me she is a goddess, an—an angel. Oh, dear old man, do the best you can for me. I leave it all to you. Tell her that I love her better than life itself; that I—but you will know what to say better than I can tell you. You won’t be all of a tremble as I should be. You, not caring for her, will be cool and collected, and—and will persuade her. I should break down and stumble and stammer; but you—you see, it’s a matter of perfect indifference to you!”

“Exactly,” said Faradeane, and his voice sounded almost harsh and hoarse; “and now——”

“Yes, I’m going,” said Bertie, seizing his hat. “I won’t thank you——”

“Don’t.”

“I can’t. I shall never be able to pay you——”

“I don’t think you will,” slowly, almost inaudibly, came the retort.

“But it’s just like you. I knew you wouldn’t refuse me, though you might not like it at first.”

“I don’t like it at last. But go now, Cherub,” and he laid his hand half protectingly, half pityingly, upon Bertie’s shoulder and gently led him to the door.

“Good-night, old fellow; and thank you a thousand—thousand——Look!” and he sprang into the bush. “Faradeane, there is some one—some man here in the garden!” he exclaimed in a hushed and startled whisper.

Faradeane was at his side in a moment.

“Where?” he asked in a low, calm voice.

“There—there in the shrubs in the shadow. I saw him!”

Faradeane sprang to the spot indicated by Bertie’s pointed finger, and searched among the bushes.

“There is no one there,” he said, quietly and calmly. “Your nerves are overstrained.”

“Where is that dog of yours?” said Bertie.

Faradeane nodded toward the back of the house.

“In the kennel,” he said.

“Let him loose—do now! I am sure——Come and let us get him.”

They went round to the back and loosened the dog. Both of them went, which was a mistake, for if one of them had remained behind he would have seen Seth, the gypsy, glide out from among the shrubs and vault over the low palings.

The dog bounded across the garden, destroying the flowers, and growling angrily; but after sniffing about for a minute or two, he came back and licked Faradeane’s hand.

“There was no one,” he said. “Good-night.”

“Good-night,” said Bertie. “I trust you with my future happiness, old fellow.”

“I shall not betray you,” was the low-voiced response.

Then he sent the dog back to his kennel, and returned to the parlor.

For a minute or two he stood leaning against the table with his hand before his eyes; then he drew himself upright, and, filling his pipe, smoked furiously.

“I must do it!” he murmured. “But—how hard! How hard! Oh, fool! fool!”