Olivia

The words and action of the woman were unnoticed in the excitement, and she slipped back behind the crowd and was instantly swallowed up.

Mr. Bartley Bradstone’s face could not have looked whiter than it had done, and after the first start of alarm as the flowers struck him in the face, and the woman’s mocking voice rang in his ears, he collected himself sufficiently to force a smile, which he bestowed upon the lines of people.

As the carriages dashed off to the Grange the crowd of spectators closed up behind them and followed in the same direction, for the squire had invited every man and woman and child to a good, old roast-beef-and-beer banquet, which was to be served in a huge marquee on the lawn.

In a whirl of excitement the guests thronged into the drawing-room. There is an old-fashioned custom which ordains that the bride shall hold a kind of levee in the interval between the ceremony and the breakfast, and Olivia took her place in the drawing-room to receive the usual homage.

She was still pale, and the absent, preoccupied expression was just as marked as it had been in the church, and her voice as she spoke to one and another seemed like that of one who was repeating some well-learned lesson.

The ordeal—for it is an ordeal to even the ordinary commonplace bride, with happiness to help her through it—passed, and the party went into the dining-room.

Most wedding breakfasts or lunches are alike, and there was the usual amount of chatter and laughter among the young people, mingled with the clatter of knives and forks, and the popping of champagne corks. Bartley Bradstone sat beside Olivia, making a pretense of eating, and trying to talk and look at his ease; but the bridegroom is not much noticed on these occasions—so utterly disregarded, in fact, that it would seem almost possible to give the play of “Marriage” with the part of the bridegroom left out. But all eyes wandered to the bride, the loveliest and most charming girl in the county; and many a young fellow who had, perhaps for years, cherished somewhere in the bottom of his soul a vague hope that he might win her for himself, felt his heart throb and ache as he looked at her in her pure loveliness and realized that she was lost to him forever.

The servants did their spiriting nimbly, and before very long the bishop, who had been carrying on a dual flirtation of a mild order with Annie and Mary, laughed softly, looked round with a blandly benedictory air, and rose to propose the bride and bridegroom.

No man could do this kind of thing better than his grace, and eyes grew moist and the lace handkerchiefs fluttered, as, in melting tones, he wished the dear and well-beloved child of a beloved and honored parent all happiness in this and the next world.

Bartley Bradstone fidgeted with his wineglass, which he had permitted the butler to fill pretty frequently; but Olivia sat white and impassive as a statue.

Then, after the well-bred cheering had subsided, all eyes were turned upon the bridegroom. His face flushed and went pale by turns as he rose, and for a moment it seemed as if he would sit down without saying a word; but he seized his full glass and drank off the wine it contained, and started, nervously at first, but presently fell into his usual bombastic, self-satisfied tone, and declared his intention of making his wife happy if he spent every shilling in the attempt.

People exchanged glances, the men of cold, critical contempt, the women with a little shudder; but they applauded him as in duty bound, and as he sat down Lord Carfield rose to propose the remaining toast—the health of the squire.

In few, well-chosen words, which in themselves and in the manner of their delivery presented a striking contrast to the last speaker, he spoke of his deep regard and affection for his old neighbor, who was not only the lord of their manor, but of their hearts, and declared that, speaking for himself, he felt that he, too, had lost, like the squire, a well-beloved daughter.

And now for the first time, as the squire just rose and bowed—too moved to speak, his aristocratic, high-bred face working visibly in his attempt to suppress his emotion—for the first time a change came over Olivia’s white face. It seemed to melt as did the Snow Maiden’s, but not into a smile. Her lips quivered and trembled, and as she raised her eyes to the old man’s face, a tear rolled down her cheek. Then Aunt Amelia made a signal to the rest of the ladies, Bartley Bradstone looked at his watch—a silver one, by the way—and said to Olivia:

“There’s just—just an hour and five minutes; don’t hurry—I mean I’ll keep the carriage a few minutes for you.”

“Very well,” she said, without looking at him, and she followed her aunt out of the room. Annie and Mary seized her at the door and hurried her upstairs. Bessie was waiting for her with her traveling dress laid out on the bed, and everything that required packing ready to start.

She glanced at her beloved mistress with an inquiring look, and her eyes grew moist as she saw that the cold, stony look which had been upon her white face still dwelt there.

“Are you tired, Miss Ol—ma’am?” she said, coloring at her mistake.

Olivia started and stared at her; then, seeming to realize all that had happened to her in the loss of the maiden prefix, she made a gesture of assent, and sank into the old chair in which she had spent so many hours of late, dreaming of the past and dreading the future.

Bessie bent over her.

“Wouldn’t you like to rest, miss? There is plenty of time; I can dress you in half an hour.”

Olivia raised her eyes to the face of the devoted girl.

“Oh, if I could!” she breathed.

Bessie turned to the others instantly, and said, firmly, but respectfully:

“Miss Olivia—my mistress would like to rest a little while, ma’am, if you wouldn’t mind leaving her.”

“To rest, my dear Olivia!” exclaimed Aunt Amelia; but Annie and Mary, after a glance at the white, weary face of the bride, took the old lady gently by the arm and drew her out of the room.

Then Bessie tenderly, but quickly, took off the wedding finery, and, wrapping Olivia in a soft dressing-gown, put a pillow under her head, and drew the curtains over the window.

“Try and sleep, ma’am,” she said, in the loving voice of a sister rather than a servant. “I will wake you——”

“Sleep!” said Olivia, in a voice of despair, but she turned her head from the light and closed her eyes.

Meanwhile the guests of the gentler sex were drinking tea in the drawing-room or flirting with some of the young fellows upon the terrace. Bartley Bradstone moved from one group to the other restlessly, for a few minutes, then, after glancing at his watch for the third or fourth time in a quarter of an hour, he went up to the squire.

“I’ll just run over to The Maples,” he said, with eyes that carefully avoided the squire’s. “I—I—there are one or two things I have forgotten. It will not take me long.”

“Let me send for them,” said the squire, going toward the bell. “It is a pity you should trouble.”

“No, no,” he replied quickly. “I—shall have to go. You—you need not tell Olivia. I shall be back long before she is down.”

“Very well,” said the squire. “Take any carriage you can find.”

“Take mine, pray,” Lord Carfield called after him.

The squire sighed as, with a hurried step, his son-in-law left the room.

“It has been a trying day for Bradstone,” he said.

“Yes, it is always so, when the bridegroom is really in love with the bride,” said Lord Carfield.

The squire pressed his hand.

“Thank you for that, Carfield,” he murmured, and his voice trembled with emotion. “Yes, I know that he loves her, and that—and that is everything.”

“Is everything,” echoed the earl, encouragingly.

Bartley Bradstone almost ran down the terrace steps, and stopped before one of the long line of carriages which stood in the drive; then, as if he had changed his mind, he glanced at his watch and hurried down the avenue.

After going a hundred yards or so he pulled up and looked round. Not a soul was in sight; almost the whole village was feasting in the marquee, from which shouts and laughter floated toward him, and, climbing the low park railing, he, running now, made his way into the wood.

The clock struck the hour; three minutes afterward he emerged from among the trees into the open space where he had arranged to meet Bella. She was not there. While yet breathless he flung himself on to the trunk of the tree, and, taking off his hat, mopped his wet forehead.

Five, ten minutes passed; he got up and paced to and fro with his watch in his hand, cursing and chafing.

Then he heard a laugh, the laugh that had made him writhe yesterday, and she stood before him. For a minute she stood and looked at him with a mocking smile that scarcely harmonized with a certain angry light in her black eyes, and a hard tightening of her lips.

“Well,” she said, eying him up and down. “So you were too afraid to stop away, were you? By Heaven! you were right. Do you know what I would have done if you hadn’t come?”

“Well, I’m here, am I not?” he exclaimed, timidly. “What are you going to do, Bella? Don’t—don’t be too hard upon me——” and he moistened his lips.

“Hard upon you!” she echoed. “As if anybody could be too hard upon you. You! Do you know what I meant to do if you hadn’t turned up? I’ll tell you.” She came a step nearer. “I meant to go up to the house—what’s it called, your father-in-law’s grand place?” (no words would convey an idea of the diabolical mockery of her tone)—“your father-in-law’s place, and ask for you. I don’t think they’d have refused me, when I’d told them who and what I was to you.”

“For God’s sake, don’t go on like this, Bella,” he said, nervously, his eyes half-raised imploringly. “I’m—I’m at your mercy, I know. If—if you had turned up before yesterday, if it had only been the day before, I wouldn’t have done this; but—but it was too late then. I—I couldn’t break it off.”

“You’re a nice villain, ain’t you?” she sneered. “I wonder what they’d do to you if I up and told them all, eh?”

“God knows,” he said, hoarsely. “But you won’t do that, for your own sake.”

“For my own sake,” she repeated, advancing upon him threateningly. “Why should I care? I wouldn’t mind. Don’t you dare me! If you only knew what a little would make me do it, how I’m simply dying for the fun that it would make, you wouldn’t talk like that, you scoundrel!”

“Hush, hush,” he said, looking round nervously. “You’ll—you’ll have somebody hear you. The place is full of people; some one may come this way any moment——”

“And find Mr. Bartley Bradstone has left his newly-made bride to meet a strange young woman in his father-in-law’s park.” She leaned against the tree and laughed with malicious enjoyment. “What a row there’d be! What a prime, glorious row! Lord! I’d like to be in it. As for you”—her tone changed—“you deserve anything. Nothing’s too bad for you. You to go and make a victim of that girl! What harm had she done you, I should like to know?”

“Hush!”

“And what did she marry you for?” she went on, unheeding his remonstrance. “You don’t mean to tell me she cares for you, because if you do I’d tell you that you lied. She care for you! Why, you ain’t fit to wipe the dust off her boots! And—you’ve—married her!”

“Bella, listen to me,” he said, hoarsely. “I’ve—I’ve met you as you insisted, you know at what risk, and I’ve brought you what you wanted and fifty pounds more. Now, what are you going to do? Be sensible, for Heaven’s sake, be sensible. It—it can’t matter to you what I’ve done.”

“You’re right. So far as you are concerned,” she put in with unmitigated contempt, “you might marry twenty times a month for what I cared.”

“I know that; don’t I say so?” he went on hurriedly, “and—and so—as it’s a matter of indifference to you—you said so, you know—why—why, you can keep your tongue quiet. There’s—there’s no reason why—why anybody should know anything about. If—if we meet at any time, you—you—can pass me by——”

She stopped him with a laugh.

“Do you think I’m a child?” she said, scornfully. “I know what you want, and I’ll do it—for a price.”

“That’s right,” he said, with a gasp of relief. “That’s talking sensibly. I knew you’d say so, Bell.”

“Yes, you knew I’d sell myself, didn’t you?” she retorted, with a dangerous flash of her black eyes. “Well, we’ll see. Give me hold of that money first.”

He took out his pocketbook, and with a hot, trembling hand extracted the notes and held them out to her.

She took them carelessly, but counted them.

“Right,” she said. “And now about the future. You think I’m a fool——”

“Bella——”

“No; I suppose we lived long enough together for you to think different to that; it wasn’t long, was it?” with a grin.

“It wasn’t my fault we didn’t get on,” he stammered.

She laughed scornfully.

“Yours? No, I’d had enough of you pretty quickly. I don’t like your kind, Mr. Bradstone. I like a gentleman or a rough; you’re a half-and-half, and a thorough cad! Poor girl! how I pity her!” and she laughed.

He winced and his face went livid.

“Never mind her——” he said, hoarsely.

“Oh,” she cut in, “I’m not good enough to mention her, ain’t I? What’s her name?”

“Olivia,” he said, reluctantly.

“O—livia. And she’s a swell, of course? Oh, I’ve heard all about her, excepting how you managed to get her in your clutches. And I’ll know that soon. I’ll get her to tell me.”

He started, and let his shifty eyes fix themselves on her face.

“You’ll get her to tell you?” he breathed.

“Yes,” she said, defiantly, with a grin. “I’m going to make you open your eyes, Mr. Bradstone. I’m going to be a great lady myself. Oh, you may stare! And I mean to know your wife. I’ve took a fancy to her; she’s the swellest thing I’ve ever seen, even among the swells, and I mean to get as close as wax with her.”

“You——”

He put his hand to his forehead and looked at her in amazement.

She laughed.

“Yes, and you can’t prevent me, Mr. Bradstone. No, I think not! Oh, I know your game; but it won’t do. Just whisper a word against me to your pretty wife, and I’ll up and tell her the whole story.”

His hand dropped, and he stood as if turned to stone, his small eyes fixed upon her mocking face.

“I—I don’t understand. By God, you’re enough to drive a man mad.” His teeth clinched. “If this is a joke, get it over and come to business. How much do you want to hold your tongue? Out with it and have done with it.”

She advanced toward him, threateningly.

“Drop that,” she said. “Don’t use that kind of tone to me. I’m not going to be bullied, Mr. Bradstone. You’d better come down a peg or two, or I’ll——” She looked round. “I suppose I could collect a reg’lar crowd in a couple of minutes,” and she opened her lips.

He seized her arm, his face working.

“Hush!” he said. “I—I was only in fun. What is it you do mean? How can you be a great lady, as you call it? How can you—you know my wife?”

“Your wife!” she laughed, scornfully, and he winced. “Never you mind; you’re too curious, you are. Don’t ask me any questions, and I’ll tell you no lies. Anyhow, you can tell your wife that I mean what I say. Your wife—your wife!—and me is going to be great friends. I shouldn’t be surprised if she asked me to stay with her. That will be fun!” and she threw her head back and laughed with malicious enjoyment of the vision her words called up. “Only fancy, Bella-Bella chumming with a great swell’s daughter! Oh, Lor’!”

He stood and looked at her, and a new expression was coming into his eyes, an expression of watchful cunning.

“Well,” he said, “funnier things have happened. It’s—it’s a strange world——”

“I should think it is after the wedding I’ve seen this morning!” she retorted.

“And—I’ve nothing to say against it,” he went on, trying to speak carelessly; “only I should like to have a warning. But I’ll make a bargain with you, Bella. Give up the idea—I don’t see anything in it to your advantage—and I’ll give you——”

“How much?” she said, with a sneer. “But don’t trouble yourself, I shan’t want it. I shall be as rich as you, I expect; and if it wasn’t that I love bleeding you, you skinflint, I’d fling these notes back in your face. But I’m going to keep ’em for the present. Perhaps I’ll buy a weddin’ gift for your pretty, young wife, Mr. Bradstone,” and her laugh rang out again.

He took out his watch—the silver one; and she, with a smile of derision, pulled out his watch—the gold one.

“Gettin’ late, I suppose. You want to be off for the honeymoon. Well, I’ll come with you—just as far as the drive. Perhaps we shall meet the young lady, and you can introduce me, here and now. Ah——” she broke off, for with a snarl he snatched something from his breast-pocket. There was a flash, a sharp twang, a little puff of smoke, and the next instant the magnificent form of Bella-Bella, the Queen of the Air, was lying full length on the mossy ground.

She had scarcely uttered a cry louder than the fear-breathing “Ah!” and yet it seemed to the trembling wretch who stood with the smoking revolver in his hand that the wood echoed with fiendish yells. The great trees waved and danced before him, the earth seemed to rock under his feet, and he quaked like one of the rustling leaves, which all had tongues to cry “Murder!”

So he stood, and so she lay, breathing short, but speechless, while one could count twenty. Then the assassin’s first instinct, flight, smote upon him, and he turned and fled. But no farther than the edge of the drive. There a horrid remembrance flashed upon him. On that prostrate figure which he had left for dead, were the notes, which could be traced, his watch, his silver cigar case, which a hundred people would recognize as his.

There was a direct path to the scaffold before him. With a low cry, he turned back, and, bending over her, forced the notes from her hand, keeping his eyes away from the white face, and above all—ah, above all—the thin stream of red which trickled from her side.

The notes were his. With a shudder he thrust them into his pocket, and bent over her again, when suddenly he uttered a cry, a smothered yell of hysterical fear, and looked up. Above him stood Harold Faradeane!