Olivia

The miserable wretch shrank back, putting out his hands as if to ward off the stern, accusing eyes, and groaned. Faradeane flung himself down on one knee beside the prostrate form, and raising her head, looked into her face. As he recognized her, he gave a start of surprise, but instantly placed his hand over her heart. Then he turned his eyes upon the cowering Bradstone.

“You have killed her!” he said, in a low, hoarse voice.

“No, no!” groaned Bartley Bradstone. “She—she is not dead. For God’s sake, don’t say that!”

“You have killed her!” repeated Faradeane, grimly. “Why did you do it? What was she to you——”

He stopped, for Bartley Bradstone had crawled to his knees.

“Faradeane, have mercy on me, have pity,” he whined, almost speechless with terror. “I—I didn’t mean to—to—kill her, only to stun her—to—to—I’ll tell you all, so help me Heaven, if you’ll let me go——”

Faradeane, with Bella’s head upon his knee, held up one hand.

“They will hang you,” he said, grimly. “You are mad! What have I to do with saving you? You are beyond help, and you must know it.”

Bartley Bradstone uttered a whine.

“Oh, my Heaven! What shall I do? Faradeane! Faradeane! save me!”

Faradeane scarcely heeded him; his brain was whirling as he loosened the woman’s collar, and tried to pour some brandy past her paling lips.

“Save me, save me, Faradeane!” cried Bartley Bradstone, in a kind of suppressed shriek. “I can explain everything. I’ll do anything! I’ll—I’ll—oh, God! if you won’t do it for me, do it for her! Remember whom I married this morning!”

A quick shudder ran through Faradeane’s veins, and the blood left his face. In the horror and excitement of the moment he had forgotten—forgotten that this blood-stained wretch, who crawled at his feet and begged like a cur for his life, was the husband of Olivia Vanley! The husband!

He looked up speechless for a moment.

“Great God! I had forgotten!” dropped from his white lips. “You—you fiend!”

“Don’t—don’t!” whined Bartley. “I—I know all you can say; but—but if you’d seen how she drove me! She had no mercy! She drove me till I was mad! Yes, that’s what I am!” he gasped, hoarsely. “I’m mad! Tell them I’m mad! They can’t hang me! They can’t! You said so yourself. Oh, Faradeane, have pity on me! Think how young I am! I—I am no older than you! Have pity on me!”

“Silence!” said Faradeane, and his voice rose like that of a stern, relentless judge. “I am thinking. But not of you! I am thinking of her—of the girl whose life you have wrecked and ruined, whose heart you have broken! Don’t speak!” He held up his hand. “Every word you utter tempts me to call for some one to drag you away. You, the husband of——For your own sake, don’t speak to me.”

Bartley Bradstone crouched on the ground, his hands clutching at the grass, his face hidden.

A minute or two passed, as Faradeane bent over the pallid face upon his knee, his own almost as white, his heart racked by the awful torture of the position. All his thought was of the sweet, innocent, pure-hearted girl, for whom he would have gladly laid down his life, and whom this blood-stained wretch had linked to his own shameful name.

Then, as he looked down upon the woman, scarcely seeing her, he was recalled to the fact of her presence by a slight movement of her eyelids.

They opened. For a moment there was nothing but a dense shadow over them; then she recognized him.

“You!” she breathed, with a faint flicker of surprise in her face.

He bent down.

“It is I,” he said. “My poor Bella!”

The shadow of a smile swept over her face.

“Poor Bella, eh?” she gasped, so low that he could just hear her, and no more. “You—you didn’t speak like that last night, Cly! No! But—but why am I lying here—what’s this pain in my side? Ah!” a shudder ran through her; “I—I remember! Cly, he—he shot me! The coward! the coward! He didn’t give me time! If he had——” She tried to raise her arm. “Cly,” and a spasm quivered on her lips, “am I—am I—going to die? Tell me the—truth? You always did that.”

“My poor girl!” dropped from his lips again.

She closed her eyes, and for a second or two remained silent; then she opened them with a lurid light in them. “Cly, listen to me. Take—take down what I—I tell you. The man who shot me—was—was Bartley Bradstone! You know—him?”

He made a faint gesture of assent.

“He—he is a scoundrel; the worst, the meanest; he’s—he’s married an innocent—girl—this morning, and—and—he wanted to put me out of the way.”

She gasped for breath.

A strange change flashed into Faradeane’s face. Was it a sudden hope—a sudden, almost overwhelming relief?

“Bella!” he whispered, hoarsely, “what was there between you? Was he your husband?”

She understood the significance of his tone, the hope that shone so vividly in his dark eyes, and she managed to shake her head.

“No! Yes—we were married, but—he is not my husband. You——”

Her breath failed her; the hope died out of his eyes, but he raised her into a more comfortable position. Both had forgotten the miserable wretch who crouched near them, listening as well as the tolling of the death bell in his ears would let him. After a pause—during which she struggled for breath—she panted, her voice almost inaudible:

“Don’t—don’t spare him, Cly! He—he isn’t—worth it! Ah—I—I can’t tell you! And there’s so—so much! so much! If I could, you’d—you’d forgive me! Yes, you would! Hold me higher, Cly! Have pity on me, and—and forgive me! I’m not so—so bad as you—think! Oh, if I—could tell you! Cly—there’s—there’s a mistake! I——” a low cry of terror and dread, a piteous cry rang from her lips, and her eyes dwelt upon his face with a terrible entreaty. “Forgive me, Cly, it’s—it’s not so bad—you are——Forgive——”

She stopped. Death, who had been hovering over with outstretched hand, let his iron fingers fall and grasp her. A slight tremor passed over her face, and then——

Will it be remembered when the final account is settled that the last words on her lips were a prayer for forgiveness?

The silence of the grave reigned in the dreadful spot for a moment or two; then Bartley Bradstone raised himself, and, crawling nearer, peered at her. He fell back with a moaning whine.

“She’s—she’s dead!” he gasped.

“Yes,” said Faradeane, in a strangely subdued tone, “she is dead. Your work is finished.”

He laid the body down gently, reverently, and looked at his watch.

Bartley Bradstone rose to his knees.

“What are you going to do?” he demanded, hoarsely. “Are you—are you going to betray me?”

Faradeane stood looking down at the still form, scarcely seeming to hear him.

“Are you? Are you?” persisted the wretch. “Think, for Heaven’s sake, think! It isn’t for me! It isn’t for me! I don’t care what becomes of me! No, I don’t. They—they may hang me when they like! But it’s her—Olivia——”

Faradeane started, and turned his eyes upon him.

“It’s of her I’m thinking; and you’d—you’d better remember her, too. If—if I’m taken it will kill her with—with shame. You know that! Oh, be quick, for God’s sake! I—I can get away if—if you’ll help me. There’s—there’s time even now,” he panted, in a frenzied tone. “Nobody knows she was here, nobody heard the—the shot! She won’t be missed till I’m clear away! For her sake—for Olivia’s, Faradeane. I know you love her.”

“Silence!” broke from Faradeane’s white lips. He turned his back upon him, as if the sight of him was more than he could endure.

The leaves rustled overhead, the noise of the villagers over on the lawn came faintly on the breeze, mingling with the joyous music of the bells—Olivia’s wedding bells!

Suddenly he turned as if he had made his decision, and Bradstone, who had been watching him, caught a shred of hope from something in his face.

“Ah!” he gasped.

Faradeane held up his hand.

“I will save you,” he said, and his voice sounded grim and solemn. “Do not speak, but listen. Every moment is one of life or death—to you. You speak of flying. It would be useless. You cannot get away; if you did, suspicion would turn upon you at once. You understand, you realize that? Get up!”

Bradstone obeyed with the prompt obedience of a dog, and stood shuddering and shivering, wiping his face and lips. Faradeane thought for a moment.

“Go to The Maples and change your clothes, and stay there.”

Bartley Bradstone looked at him.

“And stay there,” said Faradeane, slowly and sternly. “On one condition only will I attempt to save you. You can guess what it is.”

The red of shame, perhaps of remorse, flickered on his pallid lips.

“You—you mean that—that I’m not to go near her!”

Faradeane made a gesture of assent.

“You know it is that,” he said, in a low voice. “Attempt to claim her as your wife”—he seemed scarcely able to go on—“and I denounce you! That is my condition; do you accept it? Quick!”

“I accept, I accept,” panted Bradstone. “I agree to anything. I swear”—he uttered a frightful oath—“I’ll do anything, everything you tell me,” he whined.

Faradeane averted his face with disgust and loathing.

“Your life depends upon it,” he said. “Go now, and say nothing to any one. Did any one see you on your way here?”

“No, no!”

“Answer no questions; keep silence. Now go,” and he pointed toward the drive.

Bartley Bradstone took a step, then with a shudder he looked at the still form at Faradeane’s feet.

“There—there’s something of mine there,” he said, hoarsely. “If—if it’s found I’m—I’m lost.”

“Take it,” responded Faradeane, grimly.

He bent down, then shrank back, shuddering.

“I—I can’t!” he gasped. “I can’t touch her! It’s—it’s a watch and my cigar case——”

Faradeane bent down and reverently took the things from the dead woman’s pocket, and dropped them at Bradstone’s feet.

“Go, quick!” he said.

Bradstone snatched at the things, and turned; then he stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“What—what are you going to do?” he asked, hoarsely. “I—I haven’t thanked you; but by Heaven——”

“What I am going to do rests with me,” came the stern response. “Let it be what it may, it is not for your sake, but for her sake!”

He raised his hand again, and Bartley Bradstone, with one last parting glance at the woman he had murdered, staggered from the glade.

Faradeane leaned against a tree, and hid his face in his hands, and thought. And, incredible as it may seem, it was not of the woman who had ruined his life, and who now lay dead at his feet, not of the awful peril in which he had placed himself in shielding the murderer, not of Bartley Bradstone; it was upon Olivia his mind was fixed.

Surely never was a woman placed in a more awful, a more heartrending position. The wife of a scoundrel who had stained his hands with blood upon her wedding day!

“Oh, my darling, my darling!” broke from his lips in a despairing moan. Then he let his hands fall and looked up at the bright sky which shone through the thick branches of the trees. “Something I can save you from, something of the shame, the misery; but yet how little, how little! Oh, my darling! my poor, poor darling!” and in his burning eyes the hot tears gathered—tears wrung from his heart by the thought of the anguish which awaited her. “Yes, something I can save you and I will! I can save you from him even now! Thank God, thank God it is not too late!”

The thought restored him somewhat, and struggling for self-command, he looked around him. A small, shining object lying on the moss caught his eyes. It was the revolver which had dropped from Bradstone’s nerveless hand.

Faradeane took it up and looked at it absently. He thought a moment. Then he took out his penknife and scratched some initials on the glittering surface of the weapon.

He glanced down at his clothes as he did so, and a shudder ran through him. Two or three red spots stared up at him from his white wristband; there were similar spots on his coat and waistcoat.

He dropped on the trunk of the fallen tree, and with clasped hands and set face—waited!

And the sun streamed through the trees brightly, the birds flitted over the accursed spot with joyous trills, and, but for the music of their song, the echo of the villagers’ voices, and the ringing of the wedding bells, all was silent.

Olivia started awake with a low cry of fear, as Bessie’s gentle hand and loving voice aroused her.

“It’s time, miss,” she said, regretfully. “I’m sorry; I waited till the last moment——”

“I’m ready,” said Olivia, rising pale and wearily. “Have I been asleep long, Bessie?”

She tried to smile, but her strength of will, great as it was, failed her, and the smile was a look of agony.

Bessie turned away and caught up the traveling dress.

“Oh, try, try and keep up, miss!” she said, in a low, imploring voice. “Let me get you something—a little wine?”

Olivia shook her head.

“No, no; I do not want it. Don’t be afraid,” and she laid her hand on Bessie’s. “If I have kept up till now, I can——”

Bessie trembled at the stony, icelike touch, and went on with her work.

“I—I shall go down with you, miss,” she whispered.

“Yes, keep with me, dear,” said Olivia, calmly now. “Don’t”—her lips quivered—“don’t leave me alone with my father.”

Bessie understood the prayer. Her beloved mistress might endure all else on this day, but not a scene with the father she loved so passionately and was leaving.

“Yes, miss, I understand,” she murmured.

“Shall we go down?” said Olivia, as Bessie put on her hat. “I am ready!” and she raised her eyes to the glass mechanically.

The sight of her white, deathlike face startled her.

“I—I look as if I were going to die,” she said, dully. “Oh, if it were but true! If I could die now—now!” and a spasm convulsed her face.

“Hush, hush, dear, dear mistress!” implored Bessie. “Wait; there’s a little time left still. Wait till they send for us.”

She flung on her own jacket and hat, and then, going on her knees beside Olivia, put her arm round her.

“Forgive me, miss,” she whispered, “but I love you, and my heart bleeds——”

For answer, Olivia laid her cold face against the girl’s faithful one and let it rest there.

The time was up; the guests had gathered in the hall with the customary slippers and handfuls of rice. The bride and bridegroom’s carriage was at the door.

Pacing to and fro in the study was the old man who was now to lose his darling, only child, the pride, the joy, the solace of his life.

He, too, had borne up well throughout the trying day; but he was feeling that his strength to command himself was growing weaker; and he waited, longing, dreading, for the moment of farewell.

The best man hurried to and fro, glancing at his watch anxiously.

“Time’s up,” he said to Lord Carfield. “They’ll lose the train if they don’t mind. Where the deuce has the fellow got to?”

Lord Carfield looked up at the great hall clock.

“He went home to fetch something he had forgotten. That was—oh, an hour since; he should have returned long ago. Perhaps he is with the squire, or somewhere about the place.”

The young fellow went to the study door and opened it, then closed it softly and reverently.

“No,” he said, anxiously. “The squire is there—alone. Bradstone may be in the house; but I don’t see how he could get in without our seeing him. But I’ll look.”

He was gone four or five minutes; then he came back looking still more worried and anxious.

“He’s not in the place, confound him!” he said. “I don’t know what to do.”

Aunt Amelia came fluttering out of the drawing-room with one elaborately embroidered slipper—which would have fitted a child of four, but which she fondly hoped would be mistaken for her own.

“Where’s dear Olivia? Where’s Bartley?” she simpered, with an hysterical little giggle. “Isn’t it time they started? Why, what is the matter?” she demanded, looking from one to the other of the now silent and curious groups.

“Hang it all,” said young Vernon, the best man, “I must do something or I shall get mad. Look here, I’ll dash off to The Maples. If I find him there, I’ll bring him; if I don’t—I mean if he passes me on the way—tell him I’ve gone on to the station to take the tickets. Every moment will be of consequence. Don’t be upset, Miss Vanley,” he added to Aunt Amelia, who was already exhibiting signs of hysterics; “it’s all right! I’ll bet ten to one Mr. Bradstone will be here before I’m back,” and he dashed off.

The study door opened and the squire looked out.

“Olivia,” he said, “isn’t—isn’t the time up?”

Lord Carfield went to him, and putting his arm through his, drew him into the study again.

“There’s a little delay, squire,” he said. “There is plenty of time.”

Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, and then there came upon the air the sound of rapidly approaching wheels, a carriage stopped at the door, a groom sprang to the heads of the steaming horses, and Vernon jumped out. Then he turned, and the crowd watching from the hall saw him help Bradstone out.

He was pale, but for two spots that burned like blood upon his cheeks, and his eyes glittered unnaturally.

“Hurrah! here they are!” said some one. “Look sharp, Bradstone!”

The two men came up the steps into the hall, Vernon with Bradstone’s arm in his.

“I’m—I’m late, I’m afraid,” stammered Bradstone; “the fact is I was kept by a most important letter involving thousands!”

As he spoke, those nearest him noticed that his lips were dry, and that he smelled strongly of brandy. Vernon left him and ran to the study, and Lord Carfield, hearing the shout, came out and seized him by the arm.

“I’ve got him,” whispered Vernon, “but—but—confound it, I have to say it! but—but I think the fellow is more than half drunk!”

“Impossible!” said Lord Carfield, in a low tone of horror.

“But—but I’m afraid it’s true, my lord,” said Vernon. “I’ve given him soda water, and made him bathe his head. Oh, Lord! it’s too awful to think of! That sweet young creature!” and the young fellow uttered an oath which will probably be forgiven him.

Lord Carfield held the study door in his hand.

“Keep him out of the squire’s sight,” he said, in a troubled voice. “I suppose she must go now with him. What can have come to him?”

“Oh, she must go,” assented Vernon, despairingly. “Here”—to the footman—“tell Miss—confound it! I mean Mrs. Bradstone’s maid—that the carriage is waiting. Be sharp.”

The footman was hurrying across the hall, when, forcing his way through the crowd of guests, a man whom everybody recognized as the head keeper, caught him by the arm.

“The squire!” he said, breathlessly. “The squire! Where is he? At once! I must see him!”

“S—sh!” warned the footman, “don’t make that noise, Browne. You can’t see him now!”

“I must—or Lord Carfield.”

The earl came forward.

“What is it, Browne? Why are you so excited? What’s the matter?”

“Beg pardon, my lord,” said the man, agitatedly. “It’s murder; that’s what’s the matter!”