Olivia

Olivia waited for a moment or two, until her heart beat less wildly, then went to the lodge door, which was usually unlocked, but to-night she found it fastened, and knocked. Bessie opened the door, and uttered an exclamation of surprise and welcome.

“Miss Olivia! Is it really you? Come in,” and Bessie led the way into the sitting-room, which her natural good taste had converted into a pretty little parlor. “I thought it was father, miss. Were you surprised to find the door locked? Father bade me keep it fastened, as there were some gypsies and suspicious characters about, he said—but, oh, miss, what is the matter? Are you ill?”

She broke off as Olivia sank into the chair, and with a deep sigh put back her shawl.

“No, I’m not ill, Bessie,” replied Olivia; “only a little—worried.”

And she tried to smile, but her eyes filled with tears.

Bessie, with womanly tact, gently took off her mistress’ hat and shawl, and silently resumed her seat and went on with her work.

Olivia leaned back with her eyes closed and her hands clasped listlessly on her lap. What was the meaning and extent of the gipsy woman’s warning? What was it she was going to tell Olivia to ask Bartley Bradstone? Was it some trick of the woman’s with the object of extorting money? These and similar questions flashed through Olivia’s harassed mind, and she could find no answer. That there should be any secret in common between a gypsy tramp and Bartley Bradstone, the wealthy owner of The Maples, seemed impossible and absurd; and yet the woman’s words and accents bore a terrible earnestness, a tone of solemn entreaty and truth which haunted Olivia.

What should she do? To this question the answer came readily enough. One knows what to do with an anonymous letter; throw it in the fire and forget it; and how, than with scorn, could she treat a vague accusation or insinuation made by a vagabond gipsy against a man of Bartley Bradstone’s respectability—her future husband?

Her future husband! The sting lay in those significant words. Was it not her duty as his affianced bride, to tell him of the incident, and leave the matter in his hands? Yet how could she bring herself to do it? The woman’s interrupted communication might have referred to some past incident in Bartley Bradstone’s life with which she—Olivia—could have no concern, and she could scarcely go to him and demand his confidence, perhaps his confession of a past wrong—she who had, even since their betrothal, treated him with cold civility, and kept him at arm’s length.

No, she could take no notice of the woman’s warning; after all, it was probably a prelude to a request for money; these gypsies, she had always heard, were accomplished and daring beggars; an attempt to coax or extort money from her or Bartley was probably the woman’s only motive.

She sighed again, as she arrived at this decision, and put the matter from her mind.

“Are you rested now, miss?” said Bessie, gently.

“Yes, Bessie,” replied Olivia; “I am all right now. I am tired and—and I was frightened by meeting a gipsy outside the lodge.”

Bessie looked up quickly.

“Father was right, then, miss—there are some of them about. Father’s in the woodshed; shall I call him and tell him to look after them?”

“No, no,” said Olivia, quickly, with a slight flush; “they are far away by this time, I dare say. I haven’t been to see you for some time, Bessie,” she went on, hurriedly, changing the subject.

“No, miss,” said Bessie, softly. “But I didn’t expect—I knew you would have a great deal to do.” She faltered and colored. “I’ve heard the news, miss, and”—she dropped her work and clasped her hands, her eyes fixed with affectionate earnestness on Olivia’s pale face—“I do pray you may be happy!”

“Thank you, Bessie,” said Olivia, a slight flush passing across her face. “Yes, I am going to marry Mr. Bartley Bradstone; so you see you will not lose me altogether.”

“No,” said Bessie, with a quiet sigh; “that thought comforts me a little. The Maples isn’t far, and—and you’ll let me see you sometimes, Miss Olivia?”

“As often as you like, Bessie,” said Olivia. “But you speak as if I had been ordered to execution,” and she smiled.

Bessie colored, and took up her work again.

“Did I, miss? I didn’t mean to; I only meant that it—it was a surprise.”

Olivia’s eyes dropped.

“Such things are always a surprise, Bessie,” she said. “I came to ask how you were, but I see there is no need to do so. It’s just the Bessie of old, sitting there so quietly and happily at her needle——”

A strange look flashed across the girl’s face, and she bent still lower over her work.

“Yes, miss, I’m all right now,” she said, quietly. “Father was afraid that the fright would upset me for a long time; but Mr. Faradeane says such care was taken of me that I shall come to no harm. I’m quite right now.”

At the mention of Faradeane’s name, Olivia started slightly, and reached for her shawl.

“Have you seen—Mr. Faradeane lately?” she said, coldly.

Bessie looked up quickly; no tone or accent of her mistress’ beloved voice could escape her.

“No, miss; not here at the lodge—that is, I’ve seen him at a distance riding and walking. He’s been ill, miss—very ill, I’m afraid.”

“What has been the matter with him?” asked Olivia, in a constrained voice, as she drew the shawl round her.

Bessie got up and knelt beside her, and fastened it.

“I don’t know—nobody seems to know. He didn’t leave the cottage for some days, and nobody saw him. Father called, but the servant wouldn’t let him see him, and simply said his master was ill and he had instructions to let no one in. Father would have taken upon himself to send for the doctor, but he knew it would be no use. Mr. Faradeane is like iron, miss, when he says a thing.”

“Well?” said Olivia, with suppressed anxiety.

“Well, then he came out and I saw him riding. He wasn’t like the same man, miss, so pale and worn-like he looked. Father says he has had some great trouble, he’s sure; but I can’t think what it can be, can you?”

“No; how should I know, Bessie?” responded Olivia, almost sternly.

Bessie sighed.

“No, miss,” she assented, meekly. “I suppose nothing can be done—I mean to help him, if he is ill or in trouble. I’d”—her pretty face flushed, and her voice quivered—“I’d walk a hundred miles barefoot to serve him——” She stopped and restrained herself. “But I’m only a poor, ignorant girl, miss, and can’t do anything. What seems so dreadful is his loneliness. From week’s end to week’s end no one goes near him, now that Lord Bertie has gone away. He was the only friend he had, father says.”

Olivia rose and put on her hat.

“Mr. Faradeane does not wish for any friends, Bessie,” she said, speaking with an air of indifference. “I am sorry he has been ill, and glad that he is better. As for any trouble, I don’t know——” She stopped. “I must go now, Bessie. You must come up to the Grange; there are some dresses I want you to look over.”

“Yes, miss,” said Bessie, obediently, and, taking up her hat, followed her to the gate.

“Where are you going, Bessie?” asked Olivia.

“With you to the Grange, miss,” replied Bessie, firmly.

“Indeed you shall not,” said Olivia.

“But I mean to, miss,” retorted Bessie, steadily. “You’ve been frightened already to-night, and that’s quite enough. I am coming to take care of you.”

Olivia regarded the slim, girlish figure with a laugh.

“Why, you silly child, and who is to take care of you coming back alone?”

“I can take care of myself, miss,” said Bessie, firmly.

“Go in at once,” commanded Olivia. “Do you think I am afraid to run up our own drive? Why, what a coward you must think me.”

“I mean to go——” began Bessie, more firmly than before, when both girls were startled into silence by the sound of a third voice.

“I will go with Miss Olivia, if she will let me, Bessie,” it said.

“Mr. Faradeane!” said Bessie, with a little catch in her voice. “Yes, sir, you shall go.”

Olivia’s heart seemed to stand still at the sound of the voice which had been the first and only one to thrill it to its secret depths, and her face went pale. With a great effort she forced a slight laugh. “Bessie disposes of me as if I were her exclusive property,” she said, and the effort she made to control her voice caused it to sound hard and cold. She moved on, and Faradeane, taking her remark as permission, walked by her side. Olivia’s heart was beating wildly. Scarcely for a moment since her scene with him in the wood had he been absent from her thoughts. At night in her dreams she could hear his voice calling her name, calling her his darling! Shame and love—alas! yes, love—battled for mastery within her as she felt the influence of the near presence of the man who had absorbed her whole life, who had become to her, as the old Persian poem says,

this man who, while he had dared to take her in his arms, had stopped short of asking her to be his wife.

She felt now, as her face burned as if with fire, that she ought to send him from her with a cold word of dismissal; but she could not, for there was a miserable conviction within her heart that he was her soul’s master, and that she was his slave.

For some minutes they walked on in silence, Olivia with her shawl drawn round her, almost concealing her face, Faradeane with his head erect, his hand thrust in his pocket, a set look of earnest thought upon his pale, haggard face. At last he said:

“Miss Vanley, I find it difficult to speak to you to-night, almost impossible to say what I feel it is my duty to myself, and to you, should be said.” His voice was very low and grave, and his eyes, as they turned to her, were full of sad earnestness. “I know what it costs you to talk with me thus—how much you wish to rid yourself of me.”

“Why should I?” she said, though she knew.

“Because you feel that I have forfeited your esteem, that I have acted dishonorably. You will think still worse of me when I tell you that I cannot, that I dare not explain my conduct to you the other day—that I am compelled to suffer the continuance of your contempt and scorn because I am unable to tell you all, to lay my heart bare to you. But it is so,” he sighed. “I asked you to forgive me when we parted in the wood. Is it possible that you may learn to do so? Yours is a sweet and pitying nature; extend your mercy to a man who needs it very badly.”

The words, the tone, went straight to her heart.

“I—I forgive you,” she said, almost in a whisper.

He made no response for a moment, and the silence was more eloquent than words.

“Let me speak one more word,” he said.

She made a slight gesture of assent.

“Lord Granville has gone—left England, you know. Will you believe that I broke as well as I could the sorrow your refusal cost him?”

“You—you did the best for him, your friend,” she said, faintly. “Yes, I can believe that.”

“Yes, I did the best,” he said, gravely, “and he has gone, I think, wisely. Before he went he exacted a promise from me. May I tell you what it was?”

“Yes,” she said, simply, her eyes fixed on the ground, her heart beating in sad harmony with every word of his grave, musical voice.

“It was this: Bertie’s—Lord Granville’s love for you was of that order which loves still though it can never profit by its love. Though you are lost to him, you are still the one being in the world for him, and it is not saying too much to say that he would lay down his life for you.” Her eyes filled with tears. “If he could have trusted himself he would have stayed near you to be ready at any moment, at any cost, to do you service; but he was not strong enough, his love made him weak. Miss Vanley, Bertie asked me to promise that I would, as it were, take his place—that I would be ready, should the occasion present itself, to lay my services at your feet. You smile.”

“Smile!”

“It sounds absurd that I should presume to tell you of such a promise, that it should be thought probable by either of us men that you, who are so fully protected—you, the daughter of the lord of the manor, should ever need any assistance. Yes, it is absurd, but I have given my promise, and now I ask you, for Bertie’s sake, to humor this farewell wish of his and permit me to remain your—friend.”

She was silent.

“Do not imagine that I shall think you hard or unforgiving if you refuse. I shall understand; I do understand. But if you can do so, let me consider that you permit me to keep my promise to Bertie. He would give his life for you, and I——” He stopped abruptly. “I shall never be required to prove how gladly I would do anything for you; but will you let me think that if at any time you needed me, improbable as it sounds, you would remember Bertie’s compact with me?”

They had reached the terrace by this time, and the light fell full upon his face, eloquent with an expression which made its sad resignation almost noble. She turned her eyes to his, and held out her hand.

“For Bertie’s sake,” she said, in a low voice.

He held her hand in his firmly, not pressing it.

“It is a compact,” he said, gravely. “Believe me, I will keep it. If ever the time should come——”

He stopped abruptly, for the window was flung open, and Bartley Bradstone came out hurriedly.

“It’s—it’s thoughtless and—and cruel of her,” they heard him say, angrily. “Out at this time of night and alone——”

“My dear Bartley,” said the squire’s quiet voice, “Olivia has been so accustomed to wandering about the place since she was a child.”

“Oh, ah, yes, that’s all very well; but it’s different now,” retorted Bartley Bradstone; “things are altered. She ought to remember that she’s going to be my wife, and——”

By this time Olivia and Faradeane had partly ascended the steps, and he had seen them. He stopped suddenly and glared down at them with an expression of angry suspicion and jealousy which rendered his rather good-looking face positively ugly, and a passionate oath leaped from his lips.

“This—this is pretty!” he exclaimed, looking between them—for even in his passion he could not face Olivia’s clear, cold eyes, or Faradeane’s calm gaze.

“Where have you been, Olivia?” asked the squire, gently.

She went up to him and laid her hand on his arm.

“I ran down to the lodge to see Bessie, and Mr. Faradeane kindly offered to come back to the house with me, dear,” she said.

“Oh, Faradeane, is that you?” he said, coming forward. “How do you do? Thanks for taking care of my little girl; she is rather a runagate,” and he smiled as he held out his hand.

Faradeane shook hands with him and then held out his hand to Bartley Bradstone. Bradstone looked for a moment as if he were going to refuse it, and his face went from white to red, but he took the proffered hand at last.

“Rather a—a strange coincidence, isn’t it?” he said, breathing hard. “Were you spending the evening at the lodge, Faradeane?”

Harold Faradeane looked at him calmly, without the faintest sign of resentment of the insinuation.

“No,” he said, “I happened to be passing, and heard Bessie propose to escort Miss Vanley up the avenue, and offered myself as a substitute.”

“Oh,” said Bartley Bradstone, with as much of a sneer as he dared display, “which she accepted readily enough, of course?”

The crimson flooded Olivia’s face and neck; but Faradeane met his covertly furious face with calm self-possession.

“Which Miss Vanley was kind enough to accept, as you say,” he said. “We met with no adventures on the road, and I return her to you safe and unharmed,” and he smiled.

“Thanks, thanks; come in, come in, all of you,” said the squire, hurriedly, with a spasm of pain at Bartley Bradstone’s exhibition of temper.

Faradeane looked at his watch.

“Too late, thanks,” he said, lightly. “Good-night, good-night, Miss Vanley,” and he raised his hat. Then he turned to Bartley Bradstone. “Splendid night for an astronomer, Bradstone.”

The other man glanced up at the sky, and then at Faradeane’s calm face.

“Eh!” he said. “What do you mean?”

Faradeane looked around to see if the squire and Olivia had got indoors and out of hearing, then said:

“One word with you, Bradstone.”

“Well, what is it?” sullenly.

“Walk with me to the lane,” said Faradeane, quietly.

Bartley Bradstone hesitated for a second, and his face began to grow pale.

“I—I—it’s late, and beastly chilly,” he stammered.

Faradeane moved on, and the other man followed as if he had been dragged. When they had gone a couple of hundred yards, Faradeane stopped.

“You wish to quarrel with me, Bradstone,” he said, regarding the other with calm intentness.

Bartley Bradstone’s face went ashen, and he shrank back and put up his arm as if to ward off an expected blow.

A bitter smile crossed Faradeane’s lips.

“Do not be a coward as well as a fool,” he said, with quiet contempt.

Bartley Bradstone flushed—anything above a cur would have been spurred into at least the semblance of courage at the terrible scorn of the tone.

“You—you dare——” he began, blusteringly.

Faradeane’s hand dropped upon his arm, and grasped it in a grip of iron.

“Speak more quietly, please,” he said, “and don’t threaten. Why, man”—and he smiled grimly—“if I were as helpless in your hands as you are in mine you would not dare to strike me.” He dropped the arm, which felt as if it had been seized in a vise. “Listen to me. You wish to quarrel; I do not, for a reason which you would not understand if I gave it to you. You have insulted me, which is—nothing. You have insulted the lady who has stooped to be your promised wife.”

“Stooped!” blustered Bradstone, but very quietly.

“Yes; how low, you alone know,” said Faradeane, his eyes fixed on Bradstone’s face, which went white. “Do not venture to do so again. Why, man”—and for the first time his voice showed signs of the emotion which racked him—“have you so little sense as not to appreciate the treasure you have secured? Are you such a hopeless fool, so utterly blinded by self-conceit, as to undervalue the prize you have snatched?”

“I am not so blind as not to see your game——” began Bartley Bradstone.

Faradeane held up his hand.

“Silence,” he said, sternly. “Do not connect her name with mine, even in your thoughts. You know as little of my heart and my motives as you know—Heaven help you!—of hers. Be content with your success; try, in Heaven’s name, try with all the strength you possess, to be more worthy of her. You think you love her—be sure you reverence her! I use no empty threats, Bradstone, when I say—I who am separated from her by a gulf that can never be bridged—that I demand her happiness at your hands. Dare to insult her again as you have done to-night——” He stopped, his face set, his eyes flashing. Then he laid his hand upon the other man’s now trembling arm. “That’s enough; we understand each other, I think.”

“I want to know——” stammered Bartley, looking him up and down, but carefully avoiding meeting the steadfast regard of the now calm eyes.

“You want to know by what authority I dare bid you to be careful of her happiness as you would of your wealth. By the authority which goes with the title of—friend. Yes”—his voice changed—“I am Miss Vanley’s friend in more than mere name. I know you, Bradstone; I read you through and through the first time we met, and I warn you against—yourself. It is because I am her friend that I will not quarrel with you. More: I am willing to regard you as”—the words came with some difficulty—“a friend, so long, and no longer, as you guard and protect her happiness. The moment you cease to do that——” He stopped, and looked the craven steadily in the eyes. “Go in now, and if you have a spark of manliness and gratitude in you, beg her pardon. Stop!” for Bradstone, not daring to utter the oath which trembled on his lips, made a movement as if to avail himself of the permission to retreat. “Think over what I have said, and for the future do not regard me as—your rival. If you and Miss Vanley had never met, there could have been no closer tie between her and me. Let that satisfy you. Good-night. As her future husband, Bradstone, I offer you my hand.”

Bradstone took it with lowered face, and Faradeane, with another steady look at him, turned and walked away.

Bartley Bradstone stood staring at the ground for a moment or two; then he raised his head, and, shaking his fist in the direction Faradeane had taken, relieved himself with a series of oaths.

If, as the Spaniards, say, bad men’s curses come home to roost, Mr. Bartley Bradstone’s future hencoop would have been full of them.

“Friend! Yes, I know the sort of friend. I’m not taken in by your fine talk! I’m not such a fool as you take me for! Friend! I’ve got a treasure, have I? Yes, a treasure you’d like to rob me of; but you won’t, I think, my fine Mr. Faradeane! No, I think not! You threaten me, do you? I’ll show you! Yes, and I’ll have her soon, too!” he breathed passionately. “There’s no time to lose if I understand your game, Mr. Faradeane.” He tugged at his cuffs, and endeavored to calm himself as he walked toward the house. “Yes, I’ll do it; the iron’s hot, and I’ll strike, and then——”