Olivia

The shades of evening fell upon the wedding day; the guests had gone, with one theme upon their lips; the village was all astir with excitement; the Grange was thronged with a hustling crowd, all talking of the tragic event which had fallen like a thunderbolt upon the marriage festivities.

Olivia lay still unconscious. The Wainford doctor was in close attendance, and had issued a strict command for profound quiet. A hush deep as that which waits on death prevailed throughout the great house, which a few hours ago had been brimming over with talk and laughter.

Beside the bed, his white head buried in his hands, sat the squire, and, kneeling with her beloved mistress’ hand in hers, was Bessie. She was almost as white as the face that lay so calm and still on the pillow, but every now and then her lips twitched, and a spasm of agony passed across her face.

Downstairs in the library Bartley Bradstone paced to and fro. He had got a decanter of brandy from the dining-room cellaret, and every now and then he filled a glass with unsteady hand.

Now and again he stole to the door and, opening it cautiously, listened intently. Then, as no sound reached him from the room upstairs, he went back to his brandy and his restless, fearful pacing.

For hours, far into the night, Olivia lay wrapped in the deep unconsciousness which is so nearly akin to the great sleep; then suddenly the doctor held up his hand and bent over her.

“Do not speak to her!” he whispered to the squire, who rose tremblingly.

She opened her eyes, and looked round dully and vacantly, then she murmured, faintly:

“Where am I?”

Bessie drew herself up and put her arm across her.

“Here, Miss Olivia, here in your own room, at home, at the Grange. I am with you—Bessie—and the squire.”

A look of relief crossed the lovely face.

“Thank God!” she breathed. “I—I thought—I dreamed—ah!” and she made an effort to rise. “Where is he?”

“Hush, hush, my darling!” said the poor squire. “He is downstairs in the library.”

She sank back, and her lips quivered.

“In the library. Here, and—and safe! Ah, what a dreadful dream!”

“Bartley is safe, quite safe, of course, dear,” he said, soothingly.

She started, and her eyes dilated, as they fixed themselves on his face.

“Bartley Bradstone! Is he here? Father!” and her voice rang with an awful dread. “You will not let him take me away, you will not——”

“No, no, no, dear!” said Bessie, quick to divine her fear. “No one shall take you!”

She sank back again, but tossed her head from one side to the other, her eyes glittering feverishly.

“I—I am trying to think; I can’t remember! What has happened? Something dreadful—dreadful! Tell me, Bessie—tell me, or I shall go mad!”

The squire bent over her; but the doctor held up his hand.

“Let the girl speak to her,” he whispered.

With the tears filling her eyes, Bessie drew the hot, restless head upon her bosom.

“Is it this mistake about Mr. Faradeane, miss?” she said, with forced carelessness.

“Yes, yes!” panted Olivia, her eyes seeming to glow upon Bessie’s face. “Tell me!”

“It’s all a mistake,” said Bessie, calmly, setting her teeth almost defiantly, “a stupid, senseless mistake that people will be sorry for——” and unconsciously her voice rose.

The doctor raised a warning finger.

“Don’t excite her,” he said.

Bessie’s voice sank again.

“Don’t think anything of it, dear Miss Olivia. It will all come right. You and I—everybody knows he didn’t do it—couldn’t do it.”

“Couldn’t? Ah!” Her hand clutched Bessie’s arm, and she stared at her wildly. “They say he had committed murder! I heard them! I heard them! They have taken him away, Bessie. Bessie, I must go. No”—and she moaned—“I cannot. But you must go and tell him that I know—do you hear?—I know he is innocent. That if any harm comes to him I—shall die!”

She sank back breathless and exhausted. The squire’s face went white, and he turned his head away.

“She is wandering, poor girl,” said the doctor, with prompt presence of mind. “The shock of—of this terrible business coming so closely upon the excitement of the day has prostrated her. There has been a strain upon her mind for some time past. Don’t attach any value to her wild words, sir.”

The squire drew back into the shadow and groaned:

“My poor girl!”

The doctor went round and, taking his arm, led him outside into the corridor.

“Come, squire,” he said, gently but firmly, “you mustn’t give way; our only chance is to keep her free from excitement. If I can only keep her quiet she will be safe. If not—the first thing to do is to get rid of Mr. Bradstone.”

“Get rid of him?” groaned the squire.

“Yes,” he said; “his presence here in the house affects her; there is no accounting for the fancies of fever. Tell him how ill she is, and persuade him to go home, so that I may tell her he has gone. Leave the rest to me. I can manage very well with Bessie for nurse; and no one else must enter the room. You understand?”

The squire grasped his hand and wrung it.

“Yes, I understand,” he said, sorrowfully. “I will do as you say—if he will go.”

“Tell him her life depends on it,” said the doctor, sternly.

The squire went downstairs into the library, and Bartley Bradstone turned and faced him. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips hot and dry, and his hands plucked nervously at the edge of his coat.

“Is—is she better?” he demanded, huskily.

The squire shook his head.

“My poor child is very ill, Bartley,” he said. “I fear there is—danger! You must go home!”

“Go home?” repeated Bartley Bradstone, dully.

“Yes,” said the squire; “the fact of your being here in the house agitates her—her mind is wandering. You will go home, will you not? I will send to you every hour.”

To his surprise, Bartley Bradstone made no remonstrance.

“I’ll go if you—if she wishes it,” he said, staring at the carpet like a man in a dream. “Yes, of course.”

“I’ll tell them to get a carriage—and yet the noise. Will you walk?”

“Yes,” he said; then he looked up with a sudden start of fear, and shuddered. “Yes, I’ll walk; but—but I’d like to have some one—one of the servants with me. I’m—I’m upset, you see,” he stammered, wiping the cold sweat from his brow.

The squire looked at him and the decanter; but his gentle nature found some excuse for him.

“My poor fellow!” he said. “But this will not help you,” and he pointed to the brandy.

“No, I know; but—I’m upset, I’m dreadfully upset. This—this murder business——”

The squire sighed deeply.

“My brain is in a whirl. It was the sudden shock that struck my poor girl down. There is some hideous mistake, some dreadful mystery! It is impossible that he can be guilty!”

“He—he didn’t deny it,” said Bartley Bradstone, sullenly.

The squire looked at him with sad surprise.

“You do not think him guilty?” he said.

“I? Oh, no; certainly not,” was the quick response. “But—but—of course it’s a mystery. I—I wish it had happened at some other time. Curse it! It will never be found out.”

“Yes, it will be found out,” said the squire, solemnly.

He took two or three turns across the room, his hand to his brow; then he stopped suddenly.

“Why, I remember! It must have occurred while you were on your way to The Maples. Did you hear nothing? The glade is not far from the drive.”

Bartley Bradstone was putting on his overcoat, and stopped with one arm in the sleeve.

“Who, I?” he exclaimed, indignantly. “What do you mean? What do I know about it?” Then, recalled to himself by the squire’s look of sad astonishment at his tone, he continued, more quietly, “For Heaven’s sake, don’t get me mixed up in the business; that—that would make it bad for Olivia, you know. I don’t know anything about it. I—I cut across the park in the other direction.”

“With the carriage?” exclaimed the squire.

“No, no, I didn’t take a carriage; didn’t I tell you? I thought I should save time by running across the park, and—and I wasn’t anywhere near the spot, I’m glad to say. They can’t force me to attend the inquest and all that, can they?” he asked, averting his face.

The squire shook his head.

“No, as you know nothing about it,” he said.

Bartley Bradstone drew a breath of relief.

“That’s all right!” he said. “Olivia would be awfully cut up if I got mixed up in this wretched business. It would make her worse than she is.”

“She can scarcely be worse,” said the poor squire, sorrowfully.

“She’ll get over it,” said Bartley Bradstone, putting on his hat. “It’s—it’s the shock, and all that. I’ll go now, I think. Give her my love, and tell her I’ll come and see her directly they’ll let me. We’ll get away the moment she’s strong enough; the—the change will do her good. If it hadn’t been for their dragging that fellow Faradeane here we should have been miles away by this time, confound it!”

He passed into the hall and beckoned to a footman who was passing.

“Let him come with me, will you, squire? It’s—it’s dark, and I’m upset and nervous. It’s enough to drive a fellow out of his mind.”

The squire motioned an assent to the servant, who brought his hat and a lantern.

At the hall door Bartley Bradstone paused, and came back to where the squire stood, looking vacantly and sadly out at the silent night.

“Don’t—don’t tell anybody I walked over to The Maples unless you’re obliged,” he said, with forced carelessness. “These police fellows are always too ready to get a gentleman mixed up in the business, and they’d make a mountain of a molehill, and want me to appear at the trial, and all that. Good-night. Give my love to—to—my wife.”

He held out his hand, with his restless, bloodshot eyes fixed on the squire’s boots, and as the old man took it, he noticed, in a dull way, how cold and clammy it felt.

The door closed on Mr. Bartley Bradstone and his protector, and the squire went upstairs again.

As he approached the door, he could hear his darling’s voice talking wildly and incoherently, and the doctor met him with a grave face.

“She is delirious,” he said, gravely. “Has Mr. Bradstone gone?”

They entered the room. Olivia was lying in Bessie’s arms, her eyes open and staring, a torrent of words streaming from her feverish lips.

“Bessie! Bessie! Save him! He is not guilty! My love commit—murder! Ha, ha!” and her wild laughter rang through the room. “He’s so good and gentle! They are mad, mad, mad! Take me to him, father! Take me to him! It is my place! I tell you that if all the world pronounced him guilty, I would love—love—love him! He is innocent! Father, don’t let him take me away! No! Let me stay! Hide me from him! I hate him! I hate him!”

“What does it mean?” moaned the squire, piteously.

“It means just nothing,” replied the doctor, who had watched beside many a delirious patient, and was as discreet and silent as the grave. “Pay no attention. Who’s that?”

It was Aunt Amelia’s voice at the door, begging to be admitted.

“Miss Amelia can do no good. Keep her away, please,” he said, quietly; and the squire persuaded her, weeping bitterly—for Aunt Amelia’s heart was sound, though her head was flighty—to go back to her own room.

All through the night—and how long it seemed!—the three watched beside the fever-stricken girl, listening to her delirious cries; but toward morning they grew less wild, and as the dawn broke they ceased altogether and she lapsed into a deep sleep.

The doctor’s grave face cleared.

“Thank God!” he said, with a long breath of relief. “Go and lie down, squire; the worst has passed. We shall only have to fight against the weakness and exhaustion now. But mind,” he added, as he gently forced the squire out of the room, “keep Mr. Bradstone out of the way, and don’t mention his name before her. There must be no excitement.”

The squire asked if he should send to Wainford for a skilled nurse; but the doctor shook his head.

“No,” he said, decisively. “You could not get a better than this girl Bessie, and—nurses talk,” he added, under his breath.

The morning came and the long day passed. The hushed household moved about on tiptoe and spoke in whispers. Almost every hour, as he had promised, the squire sent word to Bartley Bradstone; Olivia was lying in the sleep of unconsciousness.

About six o’clock in the evening Bartley Bradstone entered the library, where the squire sat, his head resting in his hands.

“I—I couldn’t stop away any longer,” he said, sinking into a chair. “How is she now?”

“Just the same,” replied the squire, looking at his white face, pityingly. “She lies now like one dead, indeed——”

Bartley Bradstone groaned and wiped his forehead.

“I’ve spent a wretched night,” he said; “wretched. I suppose you’ve heard the news?” he asked, suddenly.

The squire shook his head.

“They’ve held the inquest and brought in a verdict of willful murder against Faradeane.”

The squire sprang to his feet, then dropped down again.

“They must be mad!” he exclaimed, tremulously.

“I don’t know anything more than I’ve heard,” said Bartley Bradstone. “My man was there and—and told me what passed. They had Faradeane up, and he—he just behaved as he did here. Wouldn’t say anything, or give any explanation. What were they to do, under the circumstances?”

The squire let his hand fall upon the table.

“I would stake my life upon his innocence!” he said, solemnly.

Bartley Bradstone eyed him with sullen displeasure.

“That wouldn’t save him,” he said. “Things look black against him.”

“I care not how black they look,” responded the squire. “I know that Faradeane is incapable of such a crime.”

As he spoke the door opened.

“A gentleman wishes to see you, sir,” said the butler; and as the squire made a motion of assent, a short, commonplace-looking man, dressed like a well-to-do farmer, entered.

“Good-evening, sir,” he said, quietly and respectfully. “My name is McAndrew, detective, from Scotland Yard. I’ve got charge of this case.”

The squire waved him to a seat and leaned back wearily.

“Why do you wish to see me?” he asked.

“Yes, we know nothing about it,” said Bartley Bradstone.

The detective looked at him as if he had not noticed the presence of a third person, and bowed.

“Certainly not, sir; but I called to pay my respects and to ask a few questions. You’ve heard how the verdict of the coroner’s inquest has gone, sir?” addressing the squire.

“Yes.”

“Well, sir, I don’t attach too much weight to coroners’ verdicts, but this seems reasonable enough. There’s the fact of the prisoner’s presence on the scene, and the revolver with his name engraved on it being found near the body.”

“That’s very bad,” remarked Bartley Bradstone.

“Yes, sir, very bad, as you say,” assented Mr. McAndrew; “but I’m not quite satisfied yet. I’ve seen the prisoner, and watched him through the inquest. And—I’ve had a good deal of experience, Mr. Vanley—he doesn’t look guilty.”

“He is not guilty!” said the squire, earnestly.

Mr. McAndrew nodded respectfully.

“He’s a friend of yours, sir?”

“He is,” assented the squire; “a very dear friend.”

Bartley Bradstone shot a glance of jealousy at the sad, worn face.

“Just so, sir; then you can tell me something about him—who he is and so on.”

The squire passed his hand across his brow.

“I—I’m afraid I cannot,” he replied. “I know nothing about Mr. Faradeane, excepting that he came here, to a cottage called The Dell, a few months ago——”

“When, sir?”

“In May; and that he is distinctly a gentleman, and incapable of the crime laid to his charge.”

“That’s it, sir,” exclaimed the detective; “Mr. Faradeane is a gentleman, as you say, and I’ve never in all my experience known a real, genuine gentleman commit a crime of this kind. In the heat of the moment—in a sudden fit of jealousy, for instance—a gentleman might do it. But this was premeditated.”

“How do you know that?” said Bartley Bradstone, sharply.

The detective looked at him calmly and thoughtfully.

“Because the man who shot this woman went to meet her fully intending to shoot her,” he said, quietly. “What I want to get at is this gentleman’s, Mr. Faradeane’s, motive for getting rid of the woman. That’s what I want to find out.”

“Do you know the woman? Have you identified her?”

It was Bartley Bradstone who asked the question, and he did so with affected indifference, as if he were merely asking from curiosity.

The detective shook his head.

“Not had time yet, sir; but I shall know all about her directly.”

At this tone of confidence Bartley Bradstone shifted in his seat.

“What does Mr. Faradeane say?” he asked.

“Surely he has explained his presence on the spot, and the revolver?” said the squire.

Mr. McAndrew shook his head.

“That’s the queer part of it, sir,” he said. “I’ve seen Mr. Faradeane before and after the inquest, and he declines to say a word. Now, if he had been the man he’d have been full of explanations; do you follow me, sir?”

“Perfectly,” responded the squire, with a sigh.

“They always are. They can account for everything; but Mr. Faradeane doesn’t seem to take the trouble to explain. That strikes me as being peculiar.”

“Perhaps he can’t explain,” said Bartley Bradstone, his eyes fixed on the carpet.

The detective looked from him to the squire, and then out of the window, abstractedly.

“If he can’t, then——”

He stopped.

“Well?” demanded the squire.

“Then he’s a lost man,” replied the detective.