Olivia

Mr. Vanley was not only Bartley Bradstone’s senior, but his superior in looks and status.

The Vanleys had held Hawkwood Grange for centuries, and there was no name better known in Devonshire than that which the squire bore. Twice a baronetage and once a peerage had been offered to the Vanleys; but to a Vanley the old English and old Devonshire title of “Squire” was too dear to be exchanged for any other, though it might be higher rank; and so Squire Vanley, the master of the Grange, refused, and certainly was not the less respected for his refusal of a peerage.

While as to Mr. Bartley Bradstone, as the French wit remarked, “He may have had a grandfather, but no one has yet been found credulous enough to believe it!”

Five years before this notable afternoon, Mr. Bradstone had purchased an estate within three miles of the Grange. Perhaps it would be as well to be exact, and explain that he had loaned money on the place, and, foreclosing, got possession of it.

An old, but rather ramshackle house stood upon it—a house quite large enough for a bachelor, by the way—but Mr. Bradstone pulled it down, and in its place built a huge mansion which, by its highly florid architecture, was far more suitable to South Kensington than North Devon.

It was a tremendous place, all gables and turrets, and being built of red brick, with white stone facings, was terribly conspicuous. Olivia had remarked, the first time she saw it, which happened to be on a blazing hot day, that “no one ought to look upon it, except through green spectacles.” And she added that it would be useful in winter—to warm one’s hands at!

The interior was decorated and furnished in strict accordance with the very latest canons of the very latest art craze; and, as if to atone for the red glare of the exterior, the inside was cold and repelling.

Mr. Bartley Bradstone, however, considered it perfection; and here he settled down. The country people were shy of him at first. Devonshire is celebrated for apples, cider and—exclusiveness. Nothing was known of the newcomer, excepting that he was rich; there was no doubt about that—immensely rich; and those who had been thrown into his company were not prepossessed by him. There was that look in his eyes, for one thing; and, for another, with all his careful dressing and studiously “correct” manners, Mr. Bartley Bradstone did not seem, to the very particular country people, to be—well, exactly a gentleman.

But after a time the squire, who had met him once or twice in the market town, seen him at church, touched his hat to him at the meet—of course the squire was the master of the hounds—at last the squire made a formal call upon Mr. Bartley Bradstone at The Maples, as he called the red monstrosity.

That which was good enough for Squire Vanley was, of course, good enough for the rest of the county people, and Mr. Bartley Bradstone was not only asked out to dinner, but, greater honor still, had the gratification of seeing the best people of the neighborhood round his own—new—mahogany.

He gave good dinners—too good, it was whispered; too many covers, too many wines, with too much plate, and too many servants.

“It’s a pity,” remarked Lord Carfield to the squire, as they walked home after one of Mr. Bartley’s dinners, “that there is no one to caution these parvenus against overdoing it. Give you my word, Vanley, I felt all the evening as if I were dining at one of those new hotels in London, where they give you twelve courses, served in a gaudy room, all gilt and white paint, and play music at you all the time. I suppose you have twice as much plate? I have some”—the Carfield plate was the boast of that part of Devonshire—“but we never think of making a silversmith’s counter of our dinner-table every time we ask a neighbor to dinner.”

“He means well,” said the squire.

“Just so,” said the old lord. “That makes it all the worse. It’s a hopeless case.”

They were near neighbors, and an intimacy sprang up between Mr. Bartley Bradstone, the millionaire, and the Squire of Hawkwood. The young man would ride over—on a long park horse, which he rode abominably!—to the Grange in the morning, and was often easily persuaded to stop to lunch. Sometimes he would remain to dinner, a servant being sent to The Maples for Mr. Bradstone’s evening clothes. Miss Amelia quite liked him, and the squire, as has been said, was intimate with him; but he made no way with Olivia. From the first moment she had seen him, when her frank eyes had rested upon his restless, shifting ones, she had kept him at a distance, so to speak.

If her father had brought home the village sweep to dinner, she would have treated him courteously and extended a welcome to him; and that is all she did to Bartley Bradstone. While he——! He was as much in love with Olivia Vanley as utterly selfish man can be, and he had sworn to himself that he would have her. Now, Bartley Bradstone, though he was not a gentleman, though he overdressed, gave too elaborate dinners, and made occasional mistakes in etiquette, was both rich and clever. The man who had bought him for a fool would have lost his money. Olivia, who despised him, was wrong in doing so. She should have been on her guard and—feared him. All the while Mr. Sparrow was repeating his story to Mr. Vanley, Bartley Bradstone was talking in an undertone to her.

“It’s just a simple picnic, a rough affair, but I’ll promise you shan’t be bored, Miss Vanley,” he said. “The squire is coming, and he told me—that is, he said I might ask you. I hope you will come. Lord Carfield is coming, and has promised to bring his son, Viscount Granville. Lord Granville arrives at his father’s to-night. You know him—the viscount, I mean?”

“Bertie Granville? Oh, yes. ‘The Cherub,’ as he is called.”

“That’s the man,” said Bartley Bradstone, with a faint flush. He would not have dared to call him “Bertie” or “The Cherub.” “Well, he is coming, and I hope to persuade Miss Amelia, too. But the whole thing will be spoilt if you refuse.”

Olivia looked at him from under her lids—the look which makes a man—that is, if he has a sensitive skin—feel as if he had been struck by a whip. “I don’t quite see how my absence could spoil your picnic, Mr. Bradstone,” she said, coldly.

He lowered his restless eyes, and caught at his upper lip with his teeth. They were whole and even, but rather too large.

“I mean that it would be spoilt for me,” he said, and added, nervously, “and—and for the rest, of course. Please say ‘Yes,’ Miss Vanley.”

Olivia looked straight before her, with that expression in her eyes which belongs to the unfettered maiden spirit. “I will see,” she said, calmly. “You are not listening to Mr. Sparrow’s story, Mr. Bradstone.”

He was too wise to press her further, and at once turned away toward the old lawyer, and listened to him for a moment or two; then he turned to the door with a contemptuous laugh.

“You’ve sold your property to some fellow who is in hiding from his tailor, Mr. Sparrow,” he said. “Pity you didn’t sell it to me; I’d have given you twice the sum for it this man has given. Shouldn’t be surprised if we have the police down here directly looking for him. ’Pon my word, you ought to be more careful, Mr. Sparrow,” and with a patronizing nod he left the room, pausing for a minute or two to present his invitation to Miss Amelia.

This last straw broke down Mr. Sparrow’s back, and shortly afterward he took himself off, feeling that he had, by selling his property to the mysterious unknown, not only offended his neighbor, but actually lost money!

“How nice of Mr. Bradstone to arrange this picnic, Olivia,” said her aunt, when Mr. Sparrow had sorrowfully taken his departure. “He is always so kind and thoughtful in planning these little parties. Of course you will go, dear.”

“I don’t know,” said Olivia, absently.

She was standing by the window, looking down on the chimneys of The Dell, as her father had done, and thinking of the strange character who had become owner of the cottage.

“You don’t know! My dear Olivia, what a strange reply. Why shouldn’t you go?”

“Why should I?” said Olivia, without turning her head.

Miss Amelia sniffed, and uttered the little cough which always served as a prelude to the lectures which she frequently felt it “her duty” to deliver to her niece.

“Now, my dear Olivia, I do hope that you will not permit yourself to—to—disappoint our excellent young friend. It is evident that he has got up this little affair in your honor, and it would surely be ungracious to disappoint him. Ungraciousness, if I may coin a word, in a lady is, my dear Olivia, unpardonable. Often and often have I, at great inconvenience, accepted an invitation rather than appear ungracious. And I do hope——”

“Is there any tea left, auntie?” broke in Olivia. “You forget me when you are surrounded by your admirers.”

Miss Amelia bridled, then smiled, and simpered:

“My dear Olivia, how can you be so ridiculous? My admirers! I’m sure Mr. Sparrow is old enough to be my grandfather”—in which case poor Mr. Sparrow must have been a modern Methuselah—“and as to Mr. Bradstone, it is not me whom he admires——”

“No sugar, thanks,” said Olivia, cutting in abruptly.

“No! Any one with half an eye could see who it is that he admires, and whose society he seeks. And I must say, my dear Olivia, while I am on the subject, that for a young girl, scarcely out of her teens, your conduct is too cold——”

“This tea is cold,” said Olivia.

“Far too cold,” continued Miss Amelia, disregarding the interruption. “Mr. Bartley Bradstone is a young man worthy of every respect.”

“It is a pity his horse doesn’t share your opinion, auntie,” said Olivia, looking through the window. “It doesn’t appear to respect him in the least. Some of these days it will carry its disrespect so far as to throw him off.”

“Mr. Bradstone may not be a jockey. I repeat, he may not be a jockey; but, all the same, he is a young man worth due consideration. Olivia, do you forget that he is a millionaire—a millionaire!”

“Neither I nor he forgets it,” said Olivia, succinctly.

“Wealth—wealth, my dear Olivia, has its responsibilities and its—its—I may say its claims to our respect.”

“Yes, I know,” said Olivia. “No one accuses you of forgetting what is due to it, auntie.”

“No, my dear. I can lay my hand upon my heart——”

But Olivia had already stepped through the window, and what Miss Amelia would do or say when she laid her hand upon her heart, must remain a mystery.

Olivia paused a moment, looking out upon the view which stretched over an exquisite panorama of wooded vales, and

Then she wandered down the broad garden path, and, with the same air of dreamy self-communion, passed out by the lodge gate into the road. Two dogs, which had been lying asleep on the lawn, had sprung up at the sound of her light footstep, and followed her, barking and yapping in frantic delight.

As she stopped to speak to and pet them, there came out from behind the lodge a small pony-cart, in which was seated a young girl. She was about seventeen, with a pretty, innocent face, from which a pair of soft, brown eyes looked out appealingly. It was the lodge-keeper’s daughter. She colored with timid pleasure at the sight of Olivia, and pulled up the pony, who resented the operation, and made the courtesy she attempted an impossibility.

“Why, Bessie!” said Olivia, going up to the side of the cart. “Are you going for a drive?”

“Yes, miss,” replied the girl, with respectful affection alike in her eyes and in her voice. “I am going to Wainford for father.”

“To Wainford?” said Olivia. “I am almost tempted to go with you.”

“Oh, Miss Olivia,” murmured the girl, with a rapturous delight, “if you would!”

Olivia shook her head laughingly.

“I’m afraid I mustn’t, Bessie. Wainford is too far; I should be late for dinner, and the squire would never forgive either of us. Never mind,” she added, consolingly, as Bessie’s face fell from the dizzy heights of eagerness to the uttermost depths of disappointment; “I will go some other time. I have often wanted to have a ride with you behind that famous pony. What a restless little monkey it is! Take care of him, Bessie! But I suppose you understand each other?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Olivia!” said Bessie. “And you won’t come?” with a sigh. “Well! Is there anything I can do for you, miss? Anything I can bring you?”

Olivia was about to shake her head, when, divining that the girl would be somewhat consoled for her disappointment if she had some errand to perform, she said:

“Oh, yes, Bessie! Will you bring me a yard of ribbon to match this on my hat?”

“Yes, miss,” said Bessie, brightening up. “To match exactly?”

“Oh, near will do” said Olivia. “Stay!” And, taking off her hat, she clipped a piece of ribbon off a bow. “There, as near as you can get it. I hope you will have a pleasant drive, and remember I am coming with you some day—soon.”

“Oh, do, miss!” Bessie exclaimed, or rather jerked out, for the pony, having completely exhausted its patience, declined to wait any longer over such trivialities, and dashed off; and Olivia stood watching Bessie’s frantic efforts to reduce the gallop to a trot, until the pony and its pretty, innocent-faced mistress were lost in a bend of the road.

Then, all unconsciously, though she was thinking of Mr. Sparrow’s account of the new owner of The Dell, Olivia wandered in that direction, and it was almost with a start that she found herself within a few yards of the gate, through which, according to Mr. Sparrow, no female would be allowed to pass.

The Dell was one of those picturesque cottages which all of us have, at some time or other in our lives, had a hankering after. It stood in a hollow, shaded by some beautiful trees, and in a garden which was literally ablaze with crocuses and hyacinths, and the spring flowers which Wordsworth—and Lord Beaconsfield—so dearly loved. The roof was of thatch, the windows diamond-paned, and the whole place as choice a specimen of a country cottage as ever shone on painter’s canvas.

Olivia glanced at it for a moment, then turned aside to follow a lane opposite the gate, when a voice called in accents of delighted greeting:

“Miss Vanley! Olivia!” and a young fellow sprang over a stile and ran toward her.

He was young, not more than twenty, with bright blue eyes, and hair—too short to allow it to curl—of a bright golden yellow. When he smiled—as he was doing now—his whole face, eyes, lips, and even his slight yellow mustache, seemed to smile, and his voice rang out soft and musical almost as a girl’s. This was Viscount Granville, the Earl of Carfield’s son and heir, though Bertie and the Cherub were his usual appellations, bestowed on him by a vast circle of friends and admirers of both sexes, who did their level best to spoil one of the sweetest natures which Heaven had ever bestowed upon a lad.

Olivia went to meet him with a smile which Mr. Bartley Bradstone would have given a thousand pounds to have called up.

“Why, Bertie!” she exclaimed.

“I’m the luckiest beggar in the world,” he said, laughingly, as he wrung her hand in his own ridiculously small one. “Do you know I was going up to the Grange; but I just stepped into the wood to see if I could find an anemone or two—I know you like them—and I saw the dogs. Now, fancy my meeting you, and having you all to myself to walk up to the Grange with! But perhaps you weren’t going back? If not, let me come with you, will you?”

“I’m not going anywhere in particular,” said Olivia, still smiling at the fair, girlishly boyish face. “I’ll go back. Why, what a time it is since I saw you!”

“Isn’t it! Isn’t it!” he responded, letting go her hand reluctantly, and taking his hat off his forehead, which was the only part of his face untanned. “I am so glad to come back. Yes, two years; seems like twenty. Have I got very gray? Now, be candid, Olivia—I mean Miss Vanley,” he corrected himself, with a blush.

“Why Miss Vanley?” said Olivia, blushing too, but looking at him with her frank eyes in a sisterly way that was inexpressibly sweet.

“Well,” he said, raising his eyes to her face, “you—you have altered so, you know.”

“Is that a polite way of informing me that I am gray?” said Olivia, archly.

“You—you have grown such a woman,” he said, his blue eyes all aglow with admiring wonder. “You were quite a girl when I left; at least, I seem to remember. And now”—the pause was as significant as any verbal finale could be—“I suppose I must mind my manners, and call you Miss Vanley?”

“Better keep to the old name,” said Olivia. “Why, it seems only the other day we used to play cricket together.”

“Yes,” he said, wistfully. “I suppose you’d rather die than play now?”

“Much rather,” she said, laughing. “And besides, look at my long dress! But tell me all about yourself and where you have been and what you’ve seen.”

“All?” he said, with a smile. “All right; but perhaps we’d better sit down, for it will take some time; say three weeks. Oh, we had an awfully high old time! Been everywhere. And everybody and everything were so jolly, don’t you know. But I’m very glad to get back to the governor and”—he glanced up shyly at the lovely face so intent upon and absorbed in him—“and all of you. I wanted to come up last night after dinner, but my father didn’t seem to care about my leaving him even for an hour or two. And you are all well? You can’t tell how jolly it is to come back to the old place. It’s all just the same. No, it isn’t, by the way. What on earth is that big red place, like an asylum gone æsthetically mad, on the hill?”

“The Maples, do you mean?” said Olivia, her face crimsoning for one instant, ever so slightly. “That is Mr. Bartley Bradstone’s new house. You don’t admire it?”

“Good heavens! it is like a blot of red with——” He stopped and colored. “I beg your pardon, Olivia; perhaps he’s a friend of yours.”

“Oh, we know him,” she said, carelessly. “Isn’t it ugly; isn’t it? But that is the only change, Bertie; you will find us just the same, and very, very glad to see you.”

“Isn’t that just how you used to speak in the old times?” he exclaimed, enthusiastically. “Now you’re the little girl with the long, black legs——”

He stopped and stammered, and Olivia laughed. Suddenly the two dogs set up a violent barking, and the two young people, hurrying to see the cause, saw a huge mastiff with a broken chain attached to his collar traveling down the road toward them.

It is needless to say that neither Olivia nor Bertie was alarmed; but the dogs were very much upset at the terrific apparition, and, yelping, half-indignantly, half-affrightedly, made a noise loud enough to rouse the sleepers in Hawkwood churchyard.

“Is this one of your dogs?” asked Bertie. “(Be quiet, you two! Quiet, Fritz; shut up, Folly!) It has broken loose and followed you, I suppose?”

“It isn’t mine,” commenced Olivia; but before she—remembering Mr. Sparrow’s story—could explain, a tall gentleman opened the gate of The Dell, and came toward them, calling “Leo! Leo!”

The dog stopped instantly, and the owner seemed about to go back with him, when, as if reluctantly, he came forward and raised his hat.

Olivia felt rather than saw his dark eyes fixed on her, and, lifting hers, saw that this distinguished-looking man, with the handsome and strangely grave and reserved face, must be “the mysterious stranger,” as she had jestingly called him. He was young, as Mr. Sparrow had said, but the dark hair was touched where it was cut close on the temples with faint streaks of gray, and the eyes, with their singularly impressive expression, were full of a reserved melancholy.

“I am afraid my dog——” he said, in a grave voice. Then he stopped; and Olivia, looking up to see the cause, saw a strange thing.

On Bertie’s frank face were two expressions struggling for mastery—astonishment, that might or might not have been recognition, and a desire to crush down all sign of this recognition, if recognition it was.

On the stranger’s face was simply a set look of almost grim impassibility. No one, judging by his face, would have guessed that he had ever seen Lord Bertie before.

The pause was only that of a second, a flash of time; and as he continued his sentence, removing the steady gaze of his dark eyes from Bertie to Olivia, his voice remained just the same unfalteringly grave one. “I am sorry that my dog should have annoyed you; he has broken his chain, as you see. I may add that he is particularly quiet, and would not have attacked the dogs. Please forgive me.”

He raised his hat again to Olivia, she inclined her head, and, the dog following close upon his heels, he turned and walked back to The Dell.

There was a moment’s silence; then Olivia, a little pale—why, she could not have told—said:

“I forgot to tell you of another change. Mr. Sparrow has sold The Dell, and that gentleman, I suppose, is the owner.”

“Really?” said Bertie, slowly, and without lifting his eyes to hers. “What is his name?”

“Faradeane,” replied Olivia. “Do you know it?”

Bertie shook his head.

Olivia looked at him half-curiously.

“I fancied,” she said, “that you looked as if you knew him.”

For a second, for so short a time that the pause was imperceptible, Bertie hesitated; then he shook his head.