Olivia

It was the first great agony in Olivia’s life. White to the lips, quivering with the shame which only a pure-hearted girl whose love has been repulsed can feel, she made her way homeward.

It was easy enough to carry her head erect, and to assume a proud and haughty mien while she was within Faradeane’s sight; but as she neared the Grange she felt herself drooping, and she was quivering and trembling in every limb as she entered the hall.

She was ascending the great staircase on her way to her room, to give vent to her pent-up feelings in secure solitude, when a footman came up to her.

“Mr. Bradstone, miss,” he said, handing her a card on a salver. “He is in the drawing-room with Mr. Vanley.”

Olivia hesitated, but only for a moment; then, in a voice that sounded strained and unnatural, she said:

“Very well, I will see him in a minute or two.”

Then she went upstairs to her room, and flung herself on the bed, and for a few minutes lay motionless, struggling for calm and self-possession.

She had passed the Rubicon; she had declared herself engaged to marry Bartley Bradstone, and she would carry out her resolution; but how gladly would she have died rather than go down and tell him so!

She rose after a few minutes and bathed her face, then went slowly downstairs.

The squire had left the room, and Bartley Bradstone was walking to and fro over the thick Persian carpet, biting his nails, and looking like a man waiting for the verdict of a court trying him for a capital offense, and as the door opened he turned with a start that was very much like that of a culprit.

Olivia did not offer him her hand, but stood before him with pale face and downcast eyes.

“You wished to see me,” she said, and the words sounded like those spoken by a cleverly-constructed automaton.

“Yes,” he said, nervously, raising his restless eyes to her beautiful face. “Yes, I—I could not wait any longer. I—I was anxious and—and upset. I meant to give you more time, but—I haven’t slept a wink since last night. Miss Vanley—Olivia—you can’t guess how I love you,” and he moistened his dry lips.

“You love me?” said Olivia, as if to herself.

“Yes,” he responded. “Is there anything strange in that? Why shouldn’t I love you? All—all the men I know, all the men who know you, do, and why shouldn’t I? I’m not made of wood or stone. I do love you!”

“And you want me to be your wife?” calmly, coldly, almost like a statue.

He winced at the matter-of-fact words.

“Of course. Yes, Miss Vanley—Olivia——”

“It is so strange,” she murmured, again as if to herself.

“Strange! how strange?” he echoed, fidgeting with his handkerchief.

“Strange that you should want me, while I——”

She stopped and eyed him with a look in her dreamy, tear-dimmed eyes, that ought to have stricken him to stone.

“You—you mean that you don’t lo—care for me?” he said, eagerly. “Miss Vanley—Olivia—I don’t ask you to, I don’t expect it. Why should I? I know I’m not fit, that I’m not worthy, that there are many men better fitted—I mean—I don’t want you—that is, I don’t count on that. Not at present. I’m content to wait.”

“To wait until I care for you?” she said, in the tone of a person who is making a bargain, a hard bargain.

“That’s it,” he assented, with feverish eagerness. “I’m content if you’ll only promise to—to try and think of me as your husband. I know you won’t go from your word.”

“No, I shall not go from my word,” she said, slowly.

“No, I know that, I know I can trust you, and that is the reason I am so anxious to get you to say that you will be my wife.”

“I see,” she said, her lovely eyes looking beyond him into vacancy. “You are easily satisfied, Mr. Bradstone.”

“Am I?” he retorted, nervously. “I don’t think I am.”

“Yes,” she said, dreamily, pushing the hair from her forehead as if it were a heavy burden; “there are so many girls who would be so glad to hear what—what you have said to me; so many! Better, prettier girls than I am.”

“I don’t know any better or prettier,” he said, curtly. “There is no one in all the world that I have ever thought of speaking to——”

“You are very rich,” she said, breaking in upon his protestations with calm self-possession.

“Rich? Yes, I’m rich. I told you so—I didn’t exaggerate. If it is money you want——”

“I do want money!” she said, calmly. “You promised, offered me, how much?”

“You shall have all you want,” he replied, promptly. “I’m not a mean man; no one has ever called me that. I’ll settle forty, fifty thousand pounds——”

“Settle,” she said; “what does that mean?”

“It means for your own use; tied to you——”

She thought a moment.

“How much is it that—that my father owes?” she asked.

Her lips twitched.

“Forty thousand, or thereabouts.”

“You know, of course you know?” she asked, and her eyes dwelt upon his with a dull questioning.

His face reddened.

“I—I happen to know,” he answered. “Fifty thousand would clear him.”

“It is a large sum of money,” she said; and she murmured, “Poor papa!”

“It is,” he assented. “It’s a big sum, look at it as you will; but I’m ready——”

“You will give it to me—give it to me unconditionally,” she interrupted in a low, clear voice.

“Yes, I’ll give it to you the day we are married, and unconditionally. You can do what you like with it. Fling it in the gutter or—or—hand it over to the squire. It’s a large sum of money,”—slowly, reluctantly—“but it’s nothing to me. You don’t know—nobody knows—how rich I am. I’ve made money by the hatful; I’m making it now. You shall have everything you want; every wish, however extravagant, shall be gratified. I’ll make a settlement on you in addition to that——”

She shook her head.

“I want that sum, and no other,” she said, slowly. “I want that money to do what I like with.”

“You shall have it!” he responded, eagerly.

“And you are content?” she asked, her eyes resting on his face with a calm wonder that was more terrible than contempt. “You are satisfied with your bargain, content to buy me——”

“Oh, Miss Olivia!” he cried, deprecatingly.

“But you have bought me,” she said, in a low voice, “and you know it. You do not expect me to love you. You only wish me to be your wife, and you ask no questions——”

He reddened; then turned pale.

“I—I ask no questions,” he said, and his voice came huskily and heavily. “No, I am content. I—I don’t suppose I am the first man who’s made love to you. You’re too beautiful”—Olivia glanced at the glass curiously, as if at some other face—“too—too good a match for me to hope for that. But—I’ll chance all that.”

“You will take the risk?” she said, in a low voice.

Her words seemed to affect him strangely. He changed color, and darted a look of distrust and suspicion at her from his restless eyes.

“What do you mean? What risk?” he said, nervously.

She shook her head.

“Risk of the future,” she said. “Does anything but unhappiness and misery spring from such a marriage as this would be?”

He drew a breath—it almost seemed of relief.

“Oh, as to that,” he said, “I am not uneasy. Why should we be unhappy with everything we want, everything that money can buy? It’s the people who are poor who are miserable and discontented. They have to pinch and screw and stick in one place; while we—you shall do as you like, go as you like. I’m fond of The Maples—because it’s near the Grange, and—and you; but if you don’t like it, I’ll buy another place for you anywhere. I think I told you that the other night; I know if I didn’t, I meant it. I spend all my time thinking how I can please you, and I will do it! What do you say? Let me have an answer. It—it isn’t fair, it isn’t like you, who are so kind and thoughtful always to—to other people, to keep me in suspense.”

“No,” she said, as if to herself, “it is not fair. And I have made up my mind. I had made it up before I came into the room.”

“You had?” he breathed, evidently in an agony of conflicting hope and fear.

“Yes, Mr. Bradstone, I mean to accept your proposal if—if you would promise me the money.”

He came forward with a half-fearful promptitude, and an inarticulate cry of satisfaction.

“You say ‘Yes,’ Olivia! If I will promise you! Why, I’d lay every penny I possess at your feet this moment, if you wished it.” And he really quite believed his capacity for such a sacrifice. “Every penny. Oh, how happy you have made me!”

He drew nearer, and timidly took her hand in both his, and fondled it with humble eagerness.

And as she let her hand remain, there flashed through her mind, her heart, the passionate face of Harold Faradeane; there had been no timidity, no servility in his fierce caresses for the few short moments they lasted.

She allowed him to hold her hand in his for a minute or so, then slowly withdrew it, and walked to the window. He followed her hesitatingly.

“May I stay?” he asked.

“No!” she said, not coldly, but with a terrible calmness. “I want to think—I would rather——”

“I understand; of course you’d like to be alone—after all this. I’ll go and tell the squire——” he said, smothering a sigh of disappointment.

She turned on him quickly.

“You will not tell him——”

“About our bargain? No, trust me,” he said, with a sharp smile and a gleam of cunning in his small eyes. “Good-by, then, till——”

He waited for her to fix a time, but she merely murmured “Good-by,” and with a wistful glance at her, he left the room.

She stood looking out at the bright flowers, her face pale, and wearing the rapt, preoccupied expression it had borne all through the interview. Then, as she heard the door open, she forced a smile to her lips, and turned with her back to the window to receive her father.

“Olivia!” he said, coming to her quietly. “Is this true?”

“That I am engaged to Mr. Bradstone, papa?” she said, with an unnatural cheerfulness. “Quite true. Has he told you?”

“Yes; the poor fellow is half mad with joy; I never saw him so—but let me look at you!”

And he took her in his arms and looked at her searchingly.

She bore it for a moment or two, then hid her face on his shoulder.

“Are you pleased, papa?” she said, in a low voice.

“Pleased?” he echoed, and there was a strange ring in his grave voice, a vague anxiety. “Yes, yes—that is, if you are pleased. It is for you to decide, my child. I have said all along, I have told him repeatedly, that not by word or look would I seek to influence you. If I have, it has been unconsciously.”

“No, dear,” she murmured. “And you have not. It is of my own free will—and you are pleased? Tell me, papa.”

She seemed to crave a word of approval or satisfaction from him.

“Of course I am pleased,” he said, gravely. “Bartley—by the way, you must not call him Mr. Bradstone any more—Bartley is a good fellow. I have always said so, and though you might have done better, as the cant of the world goes, he is a wealthy man, a very wealthy man, I think, and that means so much now, Olivia.”

And he stifled a sigh.

“Yes,” she said, softly. “I know that, and Mr. Brad—Bartley”—the name seemed to leave her lips awkwardly—“is generous.”

“I think so, I think so, I have always said so,” he assented, as if he were eager to emphasize the good points of his future son-in-law. “Did he speak to you of money?” he said, after a moment’s pause.

“Yes,” she replied. “He told me that I could have as much as I wanted. That was generous, papa!”

“Very. It bears out my estimate of his character,” he said, his brow knitting itself. “He—he told you that?”

“Yes,” she said, in a low voice.

He drew a breath of relief.

“Heaven grant you have done wisely!” he said. “Of one thing there can be no doubt; he loves you very deeply, Olivia.”

“Yes,” she assented.

“And you?”

She kept the brave smile on her face.

“I shall make him as good a wife as I can, dear,” she said. “I—I think he will be very happy.”

He drew her to him and kissed her.

“It is of your happiness I am thinking,” he said, in a low, nervous voice. “But I think you have done right. Heaven send you every joy, my child. You have been, and will still be, all the world to me—all the world——” He broke off abruptly, as if unable to continue, and, gently releasing her, walked aside for a moment. Then he came back to her. “You will live at The Maples, Olivia? I could not lose you—I could not! There must be an understanding—a bargain.”

A faint shudder ran through her at the sound of the hateful word.

“There shall be a bargain, dear,” she said, smiling. “Mr. Brad—Bartley has just told me that we should live where I please, and the nearer I am to you—ah, if we could only live here!”

“Why should you not?” he responded, eagerly; then he checked himself with a laugh. “No, that would be asking too much, even of Bartley, generous as he is. But The Maples is not very far, is it? Not very far. I shall see you every day. You will still be the sunlight of my life, the comfort of my old age. See how selfish I am!”

She flung her arms around him with a sudden abandon, and he felt her quiver and tremble as she sobbed.

“Yes, I shall still be your child, papa. You will never let me go far from you. Promise—promise!”

“Hush, hush, Olivia!” he said, soothingly, his own voice trembling. “This is my fault. Come, come; this is not very complimentary to Bartley. Why, dear, you must remember that you don’t lose your father because you gain a husband! Bartley and I are quite close friends, and we shall be closer now. Run up to your room, my dear, or he will see you have been crying, and feel hurt. He loves you, thank God! No man could love you more devotedly.”