Olivia

The dawn crept through the window and found Harold Faradeane still pacing to and fro. Later the morning grew rosy and bright and soft with the breath of early summer, and, as he rode up the lane, the rays of sunlight pierced the intervals of the pines, and fell slantwise upon his handsome face and short, wavy hair. It was a morning when one is tempted to join in the concert of the birds; but there was no sign of lightness of heart in the pale face, and a shadow as of coming pain was on the dark eyes.

He rode up to the Grange gates, and was passing through when he saw a slim, girlish form, closely wrapped in a Shetland shawl, half sitting, half lying on the rustic seat beside the lodge porch. It was Bessie. At sight of him a delicate rose tint suffused her face, and a swift change, as if one of the rays of sunlight had touched them, flew into her eyes.

Harold Faradeane pulled up the high-bred horse and slipped from the saddle.

“I’m glad to see you out, Miss Bessie,” he said. “You are looking your old self again; but you must take care.”

“I—I am all right, quite well now, sir,” said Bessie, with the slight, little pant in her voice which always came there when she spoke to him. “Quite well.”

“But you are not to be reckless, all the same,” he said. “For instance, keep that nice shawl more closely round you,” and he drew it together.

Bessie’s face grew red, and she stifled a little sigh that was like the quiver of a leaf stirred by the wind, as his hands touched her.

“You are very good to me, sir,” she said, in a very low voice. “Yes, it is a nice shawl, isn’t it? It is one of dear Miss Olivia’s. She brought it down to me this morning, and put it round me with her own, dear hands.”

His own hands fell from the shawl, and his eyes dropped.

“That was kind of her,” he said, almost coldly.

“Kind! Why, she is all kindness, she and you, Mr. Faradeane.”

He smiled absently.

“I’m afraid I’m made of something more than that, Bessie. And Miss Vanley has been here, has she? Has she gone back to the house?”

“No,” said Bessie, gravely. “She said she was going into the Spinney—the wood, you know, sir.”

She paused a moment, looking wistfully at him, and with the quick intuition which was a never-ceasing subject of Bertie’s admiration, he said:

“Well, Bessie?”

She colored, and plucked at the fringe of the shawl.

“I don’t think she was quite happy this morning, Mr. Faradeane.”

“Not happy!” he said, slowly. “Why?”

“Well, I think, I am sure she had been crying. She was so pale and—and sad. And, besides,” naïvely, “I know for certain she had been crying, because she smiled and tried to laugh; and I could—could——”

“Hear the tears in her voice,” he said, more to himself than the girl.

Bessie nodded quickly:

“Yes, that’s the words, sir; and it seems so—so dreadful to me that Miss Olivia should have any trouble; it’s just as if an angel were to cry,” and her own eyes grew dim.

“I understand” he said. He stood for a moment looking down at the path, and flicking his leg with his riding whip; then he said: “And Miss Vanley went to the wood, Bessie?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied; “and, oh, Mr. Faradeane, if you——”

She stopped, abashed.

“Well?” he asked, with a faint smile.

“I was going to say, only I’m afraid, if you’d only go and find her and talk to her. She thinks so much of you——”

She stopped again, for the smile had suddenly vanished from his face.

“That’s nonsense, Bessie,” he said. “But, as it happens, I want to see Miss Vanley, and I’ll go and find her.”

“Yes, sir,” said the girl, humbly. “Are—are you angry with me?” and her lips quivered piteously.

“Angry with you, my dear child!” he exclaimed, reassuringly, and he patted her arm under the thick shawl. “Why should I be angry? But”—he paused almost imperceptibly—“but you must not talk such nonsense as that Miss Vanley thinks much or at all of me——”

“But she does!” interrupted Bessie, eagerly. “If you only heard her——”

“I mustn’t hear you any longer, you foolish child, or I shall miss Miss Vanley.”

And with another gentle and—to Bessie—forgiving touch, he turned and rode toward the wood.

All through the night Olivia had lain awake, tossing to and fro, like a soul struggling in chains. The scene with Bartley Bradstone seemed like a hideous dream, from which, try as she would, she could not awake.

That he should have dared to tell her that he loved her, have asked her to be his wife, was torture enough to her proud, maiden spirit; but that her father should be in his toils, and his happiness and even life—for she knew that Bartley Bradstone spoke only the truth when he said that to leave the Grange would mean death to the squire—was an agony almost insupportable.

At any time in the past the idea of accepting him would have been repugnant; but now, since the last few days, she shrank from the prospect with an absolute loathing. She rose, pale and weakened, bewildered; she felt she could not meet her father that morning. She dreaded to hear even Bartley Bradstone’s name. And yet what escape was there for her? If what he had said were true, he held her in an iron thrall. For her father she would sacrifice anything—life itself. But she must have time to think, time to realize the awful ordeal through which she must pass; time to learn how to school her voice and conceal the agony that racked her.

Taking up her hat, and telling the footman that her father was not to wait breakfast for her, she went out, caring nothing about the direction she should take, and, after leaving Bessie, she wandered aimlessly on to the woods and threw herself down on the thick undergrowth in an abandon of misery and dread.

She—she Bartley Bradstone’s wife; she who could not endure the sight of his face, she upon whose ear his very voice and laugh jarred! It was terrible; and yet—and yet there was no other way of saving her father, whom she loved with a passionate devotion. Her hot hands clasped each other fiercely, her cheek burned as if she could almost feel the outrage of the man’s kiss; then the paroxysm passed, and left her pale and wan and weary, and she lay with her head against a tree and her hands lying loosely in her lap, lovelier in her exhaustion than in her passionate indignation.

And it was at this moment that Harold Faradeane, leading his horse up the narrow footpath, came upon her. For a moment she did not hear the sound of the horse’s feet upon the thick undergrowth of moss and bracken; then it seemed as if she felt the dark, sad eyes fixed upon her, for she turned her head and, her pale, lovely face growing warmer, rose to her feet, putting her hand to her brow with a half-startled gesture.

He tossed the bridle over the horse’s neck, and came toward her; and as he did so Olivia knew why the idea of being Bartley Bradstone’s wife seemed more terrible now than it had done a few weeks ago: knew by the sudden leap of her heart, the swift rush of her young blood through all her veins at the sight of this other man!

“I’m afraid I’ve startled you,” he said, as he took her hand; it burnt and throbbed like an imprisoned bird in his firm grasp. “Miss Bessie told me I should find you here, and I was lucky enough to hit upon the right path. What a delightful spot you have chosen! A Dryads’ perfect nook,” he added, talking to give her time to recover from her surprise, and looking round slowly.

She put her hands to her face and smoothed her hair, with one of those delicate, little touches peculiar to her, and stooped for her hat, which she had tossed aside, but he was quicker, and got it for her.

“Thank you,” she said, and her voice, sweet at all times, smote upon his ears like a melody too subtle for description. “Yes, it is pretty; I—I often come here. Were you going to the house? My father is in, I know. I will come, too.”

“I was going to the house,” he said, and he spoke slowly, as if he were keeping a strict guard upon his words, his very tone. “But it was not to see Mr. Vanley; I wanted to see you.”

“To see me!” she echoed, and, his gaze fixed on the ground, he did not see the sudden expansion of her eyes or the swift rush of blood to her face. “To see me!” and her hand stole shyly to her heart for an instant.

“Yes,” he said. “You are surprised that I, who am almost a stranger, should wish to speak to you alone; but one is not always the master of his own actions, not always a free agent. Miss Vanley, will you promise to listen patiently to me, however much I shall try your patience, your sweet gentleness? Will you not sit down?”

She sank on to the grass, and looked up, and yet not at him, for her eyes were heavy with a strange shyness, and it seemed to her that he must hear her heart beat, it echoed with such full joy every word of his musical voice.

“I shall try your patience,” he said, with a suppressed sigh, still looking on the ground. “I came this morning to stand here before you as a suitor”—her face grew pale and her lips quivered, and a wild thrill of joy ran through her—“as a humble suitor, as a man pleading for something dearer even than life!” His voice broke for a moment. “Yes, dearer than life. You see I find my task difficult; even now, now that I have ventured to begin, I would draw back if I could——” She glanced up at him, half-amazedly, half-sorrowfully. “For I realize how great, how precious a treasure it is that I am striving for. But I am not free—a stronger will than mine impels me. Miss Vanley forget if you can—I know it will be hard—that I am almost a stranger, that you know nothing of me, and—listen to me. Do not send me away till I have told you what I came to tell you, what I would have kept from you, even now, if I had not given my word.”

Again the look swept over her face.

“You will not wonder that a man should love you. I don’t think it is possible for any one to see you, to hear you, to be in your presence for one short day without loving you.”

No words can describe the infinite tenderness and reverence, and yet the infinite sadness of his voice. At that moment, even so soon, she could have stretched out her arms to him.

“No!” he continued. “No one could help loving you, and no one loves you more dearly, more truly, more passionately. That I can say with perfect truth; and I beg, I implore you to believe it! There are better, wiser men, but none in all the world who will more greatly prize the treasure of your love, if you will give it him.”

She sat, her hands clasped, her eyes hidden under their long lashes. All thought, all remembrance of Bartley Bradstone, of her father’s impending ruin, had passed from her. She was living, absorbed, in this, the one, the great moment, of her existence.

“If a life’s devotion can insure your happiness, I can pledge it. I do so. Of all else I say nothing. You know something of him already; I think, I know you can trust him. What will you say to me, Olivia?” The name slipped from him unawares. “What answer shall I get? Will you trust yourself to the man who loves you with all his heart and soul? Will you make him the happiest or the most wretched man in all the world?”

He had grown earnest, for all his guard upon his words and voice, and as he made his final appeal he bent over her.

She lifted her eyes to his, then raised her hand.

He took it, and his own closed round it with a quick, almost painful grasp.

“You say ‘yes!’” he said, then he dropped her hand as if some hidden pain had overmastered him, and sprang, like a wild animal breaking his bonds, to his feet. “Bertie is a happy man!” he said, almost hoarsely, turning away his head.

Her hand fell into her lap, her face grew white, her eyes expanded with a look of doubt, dread, horror.

“Bertie!” she breathed.

He turned slowly, and she saw that his face was as white as her own, and reflected something of her own horror. “Yes, Bertie,” he said, almost sternly, as if struggling against some terrible impulse. “It is of Bertie—Lord Granville—I have been speaking. It is for him I have been pleading.”

“For—him!” she panted, her bosom heaving, her hands clinching spasmodically.

“Yes,” he went on, more hurriedly. “He has loved you since you were playmates, loved you with all his heart and soul, so passionately that he feared, dreaded even to tell you, lest you should make light of it! Why do you look at me so? Are you angry? God knows it was unwillingly enough that I did it! I would sooner—but he won me over! I was mad to promise him, but I did so, and——Miss Vanley!—Olivia!”—and he drew nearer—“did you think”—his breath came fast, a light, almost fierce, flashed in his eyes—“did you think——Heavens! I can’t speak it!”

She had found nerve and strength—the strength which is born of shame. All her soul seemed burning with the shame of the mistake she had made; every nerve throbbed.

“I—I”—she panted—“I don’t understand. Of course it was—Bertie.”

He drew back and looked at her fixedly, grimly.

“Of course it was—Bertie. I—knew. Yes, I knew,” and she almost stamped her foot, “and I meant to tell you, if you had given me time that—that it was—‘No!’”

“No!” he echoed.

“No!” she repeated, almost fiercely. “No—a hundred times! Go and tell him so—and tell him that if I loved him as he says he—he loves me, I would not stoop to marry a man who sends another to—to—plead for him.”

He still looked at her with a grim, fixed gaze.

“Is that your answer?” he asked, in so low a tone that it was almost inaudible.

“It is!” she responded, with a pant. “Why do you not go? You can tell him,” with a cruel smile, “that you did your best, that you are not to be blamed; that if he had had any chance you would have succeeded in your—mission. Yes,” with a strange thrill, “you—you did your best!”

He stood with his hands behind his back, his head lowered under the storm of her fierce, maiden passion.

“Why do you not go?” she repeated, impatiently, “or do you wish me to?”

He held up his hands as if to stay her; then, not even lifting his hat, turned and left her.

Out in the park, out of her sight, he stood and looked round him like a man who has received an overwhelming shock, which, for the time, has bereft him of his senses; then he went toward his horse, which was quietly nibbling at the boughs.

As he did so he heard a sound behind him, a sob such as one hears from the woman whose heart is breaking.

He dropped the bridle, and a shudder ran through him as he stood for a moment awestruck; then he sprang back. She was lying full length on the ground, her arms extended, her face lying upon the grass, her hands clinching the bracken; a picture of a living soul writhing in an agony of shame and wounded love.

He was beside her in an instant, his strong arms around her, his voice, full of passionate love and self-reproach, calling on her name.

“Olivia! Olivia! my love! my love! Olivia!”

Weakened, exhausted, she was powerless to resist him, and he held her in his arms, her supple form pressed against his breast, his eyes looking down into hers with a mad, wild hunger, an infinite sadness.

A moment—ah, but it was a lifetime!—passed, then suddenly a cold wave seemed to sweep over him, and, still holding her, he rose to his feet.

She felt the change, be it what it may, and drew back from him, leaning against a tree, panting and quivering.

And he stood and looked at her in silence—a terrible silence.

At last his voice came hoarsely, as if with difficulty.

“Olivia—Miss Vanley! Forgive me! Forgive me! I—I was mad! I forgot—I—I forgot! Forgive me and forget every mad word——”

He hung his head.

She looked at him, a look of terrible questioning. He had called her his love, had held her in his arms, and now he asked her to forget.

She drew herself up, white and trembling, but strong in her woman’s pride.

“Forget! Yes!” she said. “But not forgive! You—you should have waited until—until I told you that I have promised to be Bartley Bradstone’s wife, Mr. Faradeane!”

Then, drawing her skirts close, as if to avoid touching him, she swept by him, and left him standing with bowed head and heaving chest.