Olivia

The news of the engagement spread like wildfire, and caused almost as much excitement in the county as a general conflagration would have done. The consternation and disappointment among the eligible men, who had each one cherished a secret hope that the prize might be his, was fearful.

“Confound these city beggars!” said one young baronet, who had laid constant siege to Olivia’s heart for three hunting seasons. “They carry everything off nowadays. Seems to me that a man’s thought nothing of—by the women, at any rate—unless he has made a pile of money out of cotton or stocks and shares. Here’s the fellow without a grandfather, or an ounce of blood in his veins, carries off the loveliest and sweetest girl we’ve got. Hang me if I don’t go and get a stool in a confounded counting-house, and make a pile myself. I don’t know what’s come to things nowadays; it’s all money, money, money.”

Aunt Amelia was delighted, and almost went into hysterics, when Olivia quietly told her, the morning after Bartley Bradstone had been accepted.

“I am so glad you have taken my advice, my dear,” she said, pressing a spasmodic kiss upon Olivia’s white forehead. “Ah, if I had only had some one to advise me when I was your age; but I was a giddy girl, and would have my own way. I was always too particular, too fastidious, my dear; that has been my great fault. But you are different, thank Heaven, and know how to take advantage of your opportunity; which I never did, alas! And it is a splendid opportunity. Birth and all that kind of thing are all very well, but money is the thing nowadays, and dear Bartley—you don’t mind my calling him Bartley, I hope, dear? Say so at once if you do, I’m sure I am the last to presume——”

“Call him anything you please, aunt,” said Olivia, wearily.

“Very well, dear; what was I saying? Oh, dear Bartley is so—so nice, so really nice with all his wealth, that I am sure you will be happy. And when is the wedding to be? Now, don’t blush.”

It was a very pale blush, if any, that rose to Olivia’s face; it went paler, indeed.

“There has been nothing said of—a wedding,” she replied.

Aunt Amelia nodded.

“Just so; quite right. But remember, my dear, that nothing is so—so unwise as a long engagement. You never can tell, men are so—so fickle nowadays, and there are so many girls. By the way, how mad those poor Penstone girls will be. I am sure they were both setting their caps at him.”

Olivia rose with a laugh that was almost hysterical, and left Miss Amelia to gloat over Annie’s and Mary’s supposed disappointment in solitude.

The people flocked to the Grange to offer the usual congratulations, and presents poured in to an extent that caused the hall porter some embarrassment, and Olivia received both congratulations and presents with a manner which, though all her dear friends agreed in declaring it perfect, rather puzzled them.

“If she had been married for a year, instead of only going to be, she could not take it more coolly,” said Mary to her sister, as they drove from the Grange after their visit. “I can’t make the darling out quite. Did you notice how pale she was, and how—I don’t know how to describe it—how distraite? I hope I shan’t look like that a few days after my engagement. Do you think she really loves him, Annie? It is so unexpected, isn’t it? I wouldn’t breathe a word of doubt about our darling Olivia, but there was Bertie Granville, for instance—so handsome and nice, and he loved her to distraction, any one could see that. Oh, I wish she were going to marry him, now.”

“Don’t be silly,” retorted Annie. “Why should she marry Mr. Bradstone if she doesn’t want to? You don’t suppose that it was for his money—she, the squire’s only daughter and heiress!”

And this argument of Annie’s was put forward throughout the county whenever any one expressed astonishment that Mr. Bartley Bradstone should have carried off the prize which so many had coveted, or ventured to suggest that his money had something to do with his success. Why should she, the daughter of the wealthy Squire of Hawkwood, want to marry money? And this argument was always found unanswerable.

Mr. Bartley Bradstone bore himself very modestly, considering the greatness of his victory. He was a little louder in his speech, perhaps, and there was a look of elation in his small eyes which was pardonable in a man who had snatched the Rose of Hawkwood before the envious eyes of far better men than himself; but his speech toned down and his look of elation diminished when he was in the presence of his betrothed.

He went to the Grange every day, and nearly every day he and Olivia rode or drove out together, accompanied by Aunt Amelia or one or sometimes both of the Penstone girls, and though Olivia was always cheerful and pleasant with him, it was a cold kind of cheerfulness, a forced sort of pleasantness. The paleness which Mary had remarked had not disappeared, and there had come into the dark eyes a far-away look, which might represent the quiet joy of an engaged girl, but was rather sad and unsatisfactory for the man who loved her. And he did love her, more deeply and intensely each day, with an absorption which only the truly selfish man who has set his heart upon gaining an object is capable of.

Three or four times a week he dined at the Grange, his place, as was his right, beside Olivia, and all through the dinner she sat and listened when he spoke, and answered, when a reply was necessary, with the same far-away look in her eyes, the same pallor on her cheeks.

One evening after dinner, when the squire and Bradstone had come into the drawing-room for their tea, which Miss Amelia was dispensing with nods and becks and wreathed smiles, that lady said, suddenly:

“Oh, Edwin! what is this I hear about dear Bertie? Is it true—it can’t be true—that he has gone off suddenly to Australia to shoot lions?”

Olivia was sitting on a low chair beside the open window, a book lying on her lap, page downward, her eyes fixed on the tall elms that lined the drive. For a second a warm flush rose to her face, but for a second only, and her gaze did not falter.

“I shouldn’t think it could be true,” replied the squire, dryly, “seeing that it is impossible.”

“There are no lions in Australia, unfortunately, Miss Vanley,” explained Bartley Bradstone, as he carried the cup of tea to Olivia.

“No? Really? How interesting! You are always so well informed, Bartley. But is it true that he has gone off to some other dreadful place among wild beasts and savages?” she persisted—for to Miss Amelia the whole earth beyond, say, Italy and France, was a ravening wilderness.

“He has gone out on a hunting and shooting expedition, yes,” said the squire, absently.

“Now I do call that so stupid!” exclaimed Miss Amelia. “Why on earth couldn’t he be satisfied to remain at home? Why did he go, do you know? Some love disappointment, I suppose!” and she laid her head on one shoulder and sighed.

“I don’t know,” replied the squire. “He did not come to bid us good-by; the vessel left suddenly, Lord Carfield says. I only heard of the boy’s departure from Mr. Faradeane——”

Olivia was holding her teacup for some milk, which Bartley Bradstone had brought her, and it slipped suddenly from her fingers, spilling the tea over her pure white frock.

Bartley Bradstone had his handkerchief out, and was on his knees at her side in a moment, but she drew back out of his reach. “It is of no consequence,” she said, calmly.

“I’ll get you another cup. That pretty dress! Won’t you let me wipe it for you?” he pleaded, tenderly.

“No, no, thanks,” she returned in a voice of suppressed irritation. “I will go and change it,” and she moved to the door; but as she did so, Aunt Amelia exclaimed:

“That delightful Mr. Faradeane, now really!” and Olivia paused to gather up some fancy-work from the piano. “He was such a great friend of Bertie’s, was he not? And I don’t wonder. Such a charming man! I really do wish he were a little more—more sociable. You might ask him to dinner again, Edwin.”

The squire rose and shook his head.

“It is no use,” he said, “Mr. Faradeane has plainly indicated his desire to be left alone. I asked him yesterday, and several days before, when I met him out riding. I am afraid he has been, and is, ill.”

Olivia put her hand upon the door, but still waited.

“Oh, I am so sorry! Fancy how dreadful to be ill and all alone in that solitary spot!” said Miss Amelia. “Poor man! I really think you ought to call, Edwin, and you, too, Bartley. I wonder”—with an air of maiden timidity—“if he would think it intrusive or—or pushing, if I sent him some beef tea.”

The squire laughed quietly.

“Better not, you think, Edwin? Well, perhaps so; one can’t be too careful. But I really think you ought to call, Bartley.”

“I will, if you like,” he said, but not very readily. “Shall I, Olivia?”

She turned her pale face slightly toward him.

“I do not care,” she said, and opening the door, went out, and up the stairs to her own room. She stood by the white bed looking dreamily before her for a moment or two, her father’s words echoing dully in her ears; then she remembered why she had come upstairs, and was about to ring for her maid, when a great wave of heat seemed to sweep over her.

“I can’t go back and listen to them talking of him—not just yet, not just yet!” she murmured, putting her hand to her throat. “He has been ill—but what is he to me?” with a dry sob. Her hat and a fur cloak were lying on a chair, and she took them up absently, and putting them on, went down the stairs on to the terrace.

“Just five minutes alone!” she murmured. “Five minutes to think—no, to forget! Oh, if I could forget!” And she beat her hand upon the balustrade. “It would all be so easy if I could forget.”

She stood for a moment or two looking wistfully down into the dusky avenue; then a sudden desire to lose herself in its shade possessed her.

“I’ll go and see Bessie,” she murmured. She had not been near the girl since the engagement, fearing the scrutiny of the simple, loving eyes more than she had dreaded aught else. “Yes, I’ll go and see Bessie!” and she passed down the steps.

As she did so, Bartley Bradstone’s commonplace figure came out by the drawing-room window and stood clearly defined against the light.

“Olivia! Olivia!” he called.

She drew back into the shadow and set her teeth; then, as he went in again, evidently to look for her in the house, she glided rapidly into the avenue, and went toward the lodge. She had almost reached it, was within touch of the big gates, when the figure of a woman passed through the open one and stood before her.

Olivia’s nerves were strained to their utmost tension, and she shrank back with a low cry of alarm.

The woman stretched out her hand pleadingly.

“Don’t, don’t, miss!” she said, in a suppressed whisper, “I’ve not come to hurt you!”

“Who are you? What do you want?” asked Olivia, trembling a little, but recovering her presence of mind, for it seemed to her that she had heard the voice before.

The woman came nearer, and the light of the lodge window falling on her face, Olivia saw that it was the gipsy who had told their fortunes at the picnic.

“You know me, you remember me, miss,” she said, still in a whisper, and with a kind of hurried earnestness.

“Yes,” said Olivia, breathing more freely, for there was a sad and weary expression in the woman’s face, which called for compassion rather than fear. “Yes, you are the gipsy. What do you want?”

“I want to see you, miss, to speak a few words,” replied Liz. “I’ve been watching for you, waiting for a chance to see you alone; but he’s always with you.”

“He?” said Olivia.

“Yes—Mr. Bradstone,” continued the woman, hurriedly. “To-night I was thinking of sending a message to you by the girl who lives here——”

“Bessie?” said Olivia, wonderingly.

“Yes, miss, that’s her name. I know she loves you, and that she’d be secret. Miss, I’m doing it at the risk of my life——”

Olivia flushed.

“What is it you want? What is it you are doing?” she asked, with a little pant.

The woman’s terrible earnestness was telling upon her.

“I’ve come to warn you, miss,” replied Liz, drawing a little closer.

“To warn me!” repeated Olivia, shrinking back, suspiciously.

“Yes, miss, a solemn warning! Don’t treat it lightly; give heed to it, for Heaven’s sake. I wouldn’t do it for everybody. I wouldn’t risk what I’m risking to-night for any other’s sake. I’m a fool to do it for yours, but you spoke to me kindly, and—and——What’s that?”

She broke off with a glance of terror toward the road.

“I hear nothing,” said Olivia, half convinced the woman was mad. “Be quick, please, I—I cannot wait. Of what do you warn me?”

“Is it true that you are to marry Mr. Bradstone, miss?” she asked, earnestly.

Olivia inclined her head.

“Yes.”

“Then, for the love of Heaven, and while there’s time, draw back. You don’t know——”

“Stop,” said Olivia. “I cannot listen to you. Say what you have to say against him—for you have something to say—before him. I will not listen,” and she moved aside.

The woman caught her arm with a gesture of despairing imploration.

“Wait! wait! For your own sake, lady! For God’s sake, listen to me! There’s danger——” Olivia paused, and the gipsy, with a little catch in her voice, as if she were struggling for breath, hurried on: “If you don’t believe what I am going to tell you, if you think I’m lying, ask him, ask this Mr. Bradstone, if he knows——”

Her voice dropped, and Olivia, more moved than she knew, bent lower; but at that moment, before the woman could utter another word, a man’s voice, thick with drink, and threatening, rose from the other side of the gate:

“Liz! Liz! Where the devil are you?”

The woman shrank, as if she had been struck; then, drawing her shawl over her head, whispered, reproachfully, “Too late!” and crying, “Here I am, Seth!” hurried through the gate into the road.