Olivia

“Faradeane?” replied Bertie. “I never heard the name before.”

Nothing more was said on the subject. It was dropped as if by the tacit consent of both; which showed plainly how much they were both affected by the incident; for what would have been more natural than that they should discuss the appearance and manner of this stranger who had come so suddenly and mysteriously into their neighborhood?

Olivia could scarcely have told how much, or explained why, his appearance had affected her. She saw him for a few minutes only, he had spoken about half-a-dozen words, and yet she felt that if she were never to see him again she should never forget the strange expression of the dark, sorrowful eyes, or the peculiar music of the deep, grave voice.

Mesmerism is a recognized fact; and if she had known anything of it Olivia might easily have explained the sensation she felt as that resulting from mesmerization. The dark eyes had seemed to penetrate to her inmost heart, the voice to have set up an echo within her ears which should never fade.

A shadow seemed to have fallen over both her and Bertie, and for a time they actually walked toward the Grange in absolute silence. And for Bertie to be silent was a very remarkable state of things.

It was in the midst of this silence that a voice was heard coming from a walk behind the shrubbery. It was the voice of Mr. Bartley Bradstone, and both Olivia and Bertie heard these words:

“It’s a deuce of a mess, a regular tangle; but we’ll get out of it. Just trust to me——”

Bertie looked up at Olivia, and saw her start and her dark brows come together.

“Who is that?” he asked, in a slightly lowered voice.

“That is Mr. Bradstone,” she said.

The same moment that gentleman and the squire came out upon them.

The squire started slightly, and Bartley Bradstone looked from one to the other with the suspicious, searching look peculiar to him. Then the squire’s face cleared, and he gave both hands to Lord Granville.

“Why, Cherub!” he exclaimed, in altogether happier tones than we have hitherto heard him use. “Welcome back! How well you look, my boy!”

“Doesn’t he, papa!” exclaimed Olivia, eagerly.

“Why, you’ve—yes, you’ve actually grown,” said the squire.

“Oh, come now!” remonstrated Bertie, laughing and blushing. “That’s rather too thin, even for me, squire.”

“But you have. How glad I am to see you! And your father—is he well?” As he turned he caught sight of Mr. Bartley Bradstone, who was standing looking at them with a half-sullen, half-jealous air, and the smile vanished from the squire’s face. “I beg your pardon,” he said; “let me introduce you to our neighbor and friend, Mr. Bradstone. This is Lord Granville, our old friend Bertie, Bradstone.”

The two men exchanged bows; Bertie with a pleasant frankness and cordiality, Bartley Bradstone with hardly suppressed sullenness.

“I was going to call on you to-morrow, Mr. Bradstone,” said Bertie. “I am happy to make your acquaintance. My father tells me that you have gone in very heavily for preserving. By George! it was time some one did, for, begging the squire’s pardon, pheasants and partridges in Hawkwood were getting very rare birds, indeed!” and he nodded with much gravity at Mr. Vanley.

“Oh, yes,” said Bartley Bradstone, with an affected drawl. “I’m going to preserve; it’s the duty of every country gentleman, I take it.”

Bertie looked at him quickly, and a shade of disapproval swept over his handsome, girlish face. Bartley Bradstone’s voice was that of the cad, and of course Bertie detected it.

“The squire hasn’t preserved as closely as he might have done,” he said, rather gravely for him, “because he is too tender-hearted to the village people.”

“The village people will find me a very different kind of customer if they come poaching on my land, my lord,” retorted Bartley Bradstone.

Now, a gentleman, though he be a commoner, does not address a nobleman, to whom he has been introduced on equal terms, as “my lord,” and this time Bertie glanced coldly at the new neighbor, and, apparently now quite satisfied, turned from him to the squire and talked with him.

They made their way to the house, Olivia and her father chatting over old times and Bertie’s travels with Bertie, and thus Bartley Bradstone was left out in the cold, or thought that he was. He stopped at the bottom of the flight of steps and looked at his watch.

“It’s time I was going,” he said, sullenly.

The squire started.

“I hope you’ll stay to dinner, Bradstone,” he said, and the preoccupied, almost anxious look which had been absent while he had been talking to Bertie, came over his face again.

“No, thanks; I’ve got an engagement,” replied Mr. Bradstone. “Good-day; don’t trouble, I can get my horse,” for the squire made a movement to accompany him; and raising his hat a couple of inches to Olivia, who bowed in silence, he strode off.

An awkward silence fell upon the three.

“That’s—that’s a very clever young man,” said the squire, with a little cough; “very clever. I think you’ll find him quite an acquisition to the neighborhood, Bertie.”

“Oh, yes,” said Bertie; “rather a—er—rough kind of fellow, isn’t he? Not very good tempered, is he?” and he looked with a smile from the squire, whose brows contracted, to Olivia, whose face seemed like a mask in its cold reserve. “Not quite a—a gentleman?”

The squire bit his lips.

“Well—he is a very good-natured young fellow, and”—he paused again—“very rich.”

“That’s more his misfortune than his fault, perhaps,” said Bertie, with a laugh.

“Misfortune!” echoed the squire, in a strange tone; then he laughed. “I don’t think he would so describe it. I rather think it is his fault.”

“I see,” said Bertie, easily. “Made his money himself, and all that. Well, that’s in his favor, anyhow. I dare say he is a good fellow, and it’s a capital idea of his, this preserving. Oh, yes! I like a man who has made his own fortune, don’t you, Olivia?”

“It all depends,” replied Olivia, dryly.

The squire glanced at her, not impatiently, but anxiously, questioningly, doubtfully.

“I’ve never heard a word against Mr. Bradstone,” he remarked, with a querulousness which was so new to him that Bertie almost stared at him. “He is the essence of good-nature, and has exerted it on—on several occasions. I hope you’ll like him, Bertie.”

“Of course I shall—if you wish it,” said Bertie, promptly and heartily.

“I wish it?” repeated the squire, almost frowning; “why should I——” Then he stopped short, and rather inconsistently said, with something like irritation: “My dear Bertie, the man has settled here in our midst, and—and is our neighbor. But don’t let us talk any more about him. Come in. Of course you will dine with us?”

But, strange to say, Bertie, with a faint accession of color, pulled out his watch and shook his head.

“I can’t, I’m sorry to say. I’ll come over to dinner to-morrow, if I may.”

The squire looked disappointed.

“I thought your father would have spared you to-night, my boy,” he said. “But come over to us to-morrow, then,” he added, as he shook his hand.

Bertie lingered a moment or two beside Olivia, after the squire had gone up the steps.

“What do you think of Mr. Bradstone, Olivia?” he said, in a low voice.

Olivia smiled faintly; then her brows contracted.

“Exactly as you do,” she replied, and held out her hand.

Bertie took it and held it.

“Yes? Then why on earth does the squire have him here, and—and—praise him, and all that?” he asked. “I never knew him make excuses for a cad before.”

Olivia looked straight before her.

“I give it up,” she said; “ask me another.”

Bertie looked at her averted face with a half-troubled questioning, then his brow cleared.

“I tell you what it is, Olivia,” he said, as if he had found the solution, “the squire is too good-natured by half, that’s what it is!”

“I dare say!” she said, quietly. “Mind, we expect you to-morrow!” and covering him with one of her rare smiles as with a flash of sunlight, she drew her hand from his clasp and ran up the steps.

Bertie watched her till she had disappeared through the French window; watched her with an expression on his handsome, girlish face that made it very sweet and tender with its reverent admiration; then, with a little sigh of wistful longing, turned and walked quickly across the lawn.

He passed out into the lane that led to The Dell, and stopping at the rustic gate, pushed it open.

As he did so, a man dressed something between a butler and a gamekeeper, came toward him.

“Can I see——” commenced Bertie; then he stopped, for the “mysterious stranger” himself appeared in the doorway and walked down the path.

“Hallo! why, my dear——”

“Mr. Faradeane,” interrupted the owner of The Dell. “Come in, Lord Granville,” and he opened the door.

Bertie, coloring with a look of mystification and bewilderment, passed in and followed his host into the sitting-room of the cottage. The latter shut the door, and placing his hands—they were long and white as a woman’s, but as strong as a blacksmith’s—on Bertie’s shoulders, gently forced him into a chair.

“Well?” said Mr. Faradeane, standing over him and looking at him with a strange smile, which was as sad as the shadow that dwelt in his eyes. “Well?”

“Well!” repeated Bertie, almost glaring at him. “My dear——”

“Faradeane,” interposed the other.

“What on earth does this mean?” continued Bertie.

Instead of replying, his companion took a cigar case from the mantelshelf and tossed it to him, then slowly and deliberately lit a pipe.

Bertie took a cigar, but instead of lighting it, stared round the room at the old oak chairs and table, at the gun and pistol rack over the fireplace, at the books in the bookcase, at the grave and singularly handsome face of his host.

“A light?” said Mr. Faradeane, with a smile which was almost an amused one. “Better smoke, my dear Bertie; there is nothing like tobacco on these occasions.”

Bertie pliantly and helplessly lit his cigar, and, still staring at the dark, thoughtful face, said:

“Well, this beats——”

“Cock fighting,” filled in Mr. Faradeane. “Fire off all your battery of astonishment, my dear Bertie. Don’t mind me.”

“Yes; but I say!” exclaimed Bertie. “This is—don’t you know—extraordinary! What on earth! My dear——”

“Faradeane,” put in the other, quietly.

Bertie sprang to his feet, but the strong, white hands fell softly on his shoulders and forced him into his chair again.

“Take time, Bertie,” he said, grimly, “take half an hour, if you like. But don’t forget that my name is Faradeane.”

Bertie leaned forward and stared at him for a moment in densest perplexity; then he laughed.

“Confound it!” he said, “this is the strangest business; Why, my dear——”

“Faradeane,” put in the other, with a faint smile. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Bertie; but if walls have ears, as they say they have, I have the strongest objection to their hearing the name you will persist in trying to shout. I know what you want to say, what you want to ask. You want to ask me why I am living in this out-of-the-way place, and why I decline—absolutely decline—to be addressed by any other name than that which I have, I am afraid, rather obtrusively given you.”

“By George!” said Bertie, puffing at his cigar, “that’s just what I do want to know! I parted from you rather more than two years ago in London, and left you as jolly and chirpy as a cricket; well, not exactly that, for you never were one of the mad ones; but you were all right, at any rate, and now——It’s the strangest business! Why, I scarcely knew you just now, when you came up with the dog; you’ve—you’ve——”

“Aged so much!” finished Faradeane, with a grim smile, as he leaned against the mantelshelf and looked down at Bertie’s bewildered face. “Yes, I have aged, Bertie. But not so much as some people have done. Didn’t Marie Antoinette’s hair turn white in two days? Whereas mine, you see, has only got speckled in a couple of years. Still, I’ll admit I am, as you say, changed.”

“What—what has happened, old fellow?” asked Bertie, in a lowered voice. “I’m afraid you have had some big trouble——”

The other looked down at him and then at the floor, and appeared to be considering some question. Presently he looked up again and shook his head.

“I’ve been wondering whether I could bring myself to tell you my story—the story of the last two years, Bertie; and I’m sorry to say that I have come to the conclusion that I can’t. For two reasons: First, because the recital would shock you, and cause me a rather unpleasant half hour; and secondly, because the secret is not all my own. I’m only a partner.”

“Secret! There is a secret! And you—you——”

The other held up his hand.

“Take care!” he said, warningly. “My man is just outside. I beg of you not to speak my name.”

“No, no, I won’t. I will be careful,” said Bertie, flushing. “But you have a secret—Faradeane! You who were always so—so——”

“Too ‘high and proud’ for that kind of thing, you were going to say? Thanks for the compliment, my dear Bertie; but, alas! it is quite unmerited. I have a secret, and I cannot tell it to you.”

“And it is of such a character,” said Bertie, slowly, and regarding him with pained surprise, “that you feel compelled to—to——”

“Hide myself here like a poisoned rat in a hole,” put in the other, calmly. “Yes, it is. It is so bad that it has put me out of the world as completely as if I had turned hermit. The shady side of Pall Mall and I have seen the last of each other, Bertie; I have bidden good-by to the world you and I found so pleasant. Scarcely that, however, for I left it so suddenly as to leave no time for good-bys.”

“Great Heaven!” murmured Bertie, still staring up at the handsome face with its sombre, quietly resigned smile. “But—but why did you come here? Why didn’t you go abroad?”

Faradeane smiled.

“For the best of all reasons. Because my pursuers, when I disappeared, at once jumped to the conclusion that I had sought refuge on foreign shores, and are now, I humbly trust, spending their time and energy in scouring the Continent after me.”

Bertie almost groaned.

“Your pursuers!”

Such a word in connection with the noble form and face seemed, indeed, incongruous and absurd.

“Yes, my pursuers,” said the other, gravely and quietly, “and now you wonder what it is that I have done. I wish I could tell you, Cherub, but I can’t. There are some things a man cannot bring himself to confess, even to his dearest friend; this is one of them. And now what will you do?” he asked, fixing his eyes intently upon Bertie’s eloquent face. “I’ve told you enough to show you that my society is not desirable, and that you will do wisely to get up and go. You see, after all, it is a mistake on your part. The man you are listening to is not the old friend you mistook him for, but only a certain Mr. Faradeane, a perfect stranger who somewhat resembles that old friend. Take my advice—I don’t offer it often—take my advice, Lord Granville; make a polite bow, excusing yourself for intruding, and leave me.”

Bertie’s face grew crimson, and he sprang to his feet and laid his small hand upon the broad, straight shoulder.

“Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?” he said, in a voice that trembled with indignation. “What do you take me for, old fellow?”

Faradeane put up his hand, and clasping the tiny one, pressed it in silence for a moment.

“I might have known what you would say, Cherub,” he said, his voice softening for the first time. “I might have known——Well, so be it! But remember, remember”—impressively—“that it is, indeed, and in truth a mistake, and that I am not the man you mistook me for. I am Harold Faradeane, and you make my acquaintance for the first time to-day.”

Bertie nodded, and dropped back into his chair.

“I—I consent,” he said, in a low voice. “Of course I consent. But is there nothing I can do——”

“Nothing,” was the calm and instant response. “My case is beyond the help of man. Neither you nor any one else can help me, Bertie. I have got to ‘dree my weird,’ as the Scotch say, and—alone!” He looked round the room slowly, then went on: “You asked me why I chose this place. It was an accident. Knowing that the people who were hunting me”—Bertie winced—“would jump to the conclusion that I had gone on the Continent, I determined to remain in England. In the course of my wanderings I happened to come upon this place. Its utter seclusion struck me; its beauty—it’s pretty, isn’t it?”—Bertie nodded—“its beauty completed the conquest. You remember, I was always inclined to the artistic in the old days when I was not an outcast and a fugitive,” and he smiled.

Bertie sighed.

“You don’t know how it pains me to hear you talk like this, Faradeane!” he said, in a low voice.

“And it costs me a great deal to talk like it, though I try to hide it,” said the other, gravely. “I don’t think there is much more to tell you. It isn’t much, is it, that I have told you?”

Bertie shook his head.

“And—and you mean to remain here? What will you do with yourself? Do you intend to live in complete seclusion—to make no friends?”

Faradeane was silent for a moment.

“I shall remain here until chance puts my pursuers on my track,” he replied. “What am I going to do?” He shrugged his shoulders. “That’s rather a difficult question to answer, Cherub. I find time hangs rather heavily on my hands; but I read a great deal, and I write. You know I always had a knack of scribbling. And I have indulged myself in a horse; he and I—it is a new one—are very good friends already. As to friends of the human kind, barring yourself, Cherub, I must do without them. If you like to take pity on the recluse, and run in now and again, well and good; but no one else.”

“Great Heaven!” muttered Bertie; “and you—you who were so popular, such a favorite with us all! I——Forgive me, Faradeane; but while I have been listening, a possible idea has struck me.”

The other laughed.

“Yes, I know what you mean. You have almost doubted my sanity; have felt inclined to set me down as mad.” He put his hands on Bertie’s shoulders, and looked down at him with an expression which haunted the light-hearted Cherub for many a day. “Bertie, I wish I were mad!” There was a moment’s pause. “Yes, I wish I could persuade myself that it was a horrible dream, and wake up——”

He stretched out his arms, and drew a long breath, then let them fall to his side and turned away.

Bertie rose and went to the window. It is not “the thing” to exhibit emotion, even on behalf of one’s dearest friend; but there was a suspicious moisture in Bertie’s blue eyes.

He turned to him after a moment or two.

“One question more, Faradeane, about your affairs. They must give you a great deal of trouble, anxiety. Can I do nothing to help you respecting them?”

Faradeane shook his head.

“No, thanks, Cherub. Just before I fled I placed all of my business affairs in the hands of Elsmere, my solicitor. He does everything; acts as my other self, in fact, under a power of attorney, as they call it. He is the only man who knows my whereabouts, or my present name, excepting yourself, and I can trust you both, thank Heaven. I have given out that I am a woman-hater—there is more truth in that, by the way,” he put in grimly, “than you think; and my man has instructions to allow no petticoat to enter the premises. I dare say the simple folks down here will be rather curious; but they will get over it in time. At present I rather think they imagine that I am a little mad, and give me a wide berth. The dog, too, is supposed to be dangerous—he is as quiet and gentle as a lamb, poor old fellow!—and so I fancy I shall be left alone. And now that’s enough, and more than enough about myself. Let us talk about a far more interesting subject—you; where are you staying—what are you doing?”

“I am staying with my father,” said Bertie. “You have never met him?”

“No, I am glad to say,” said Faradeane, grimly. “I should not like him to know me as I was—and as I am! Was that your sister with whom I saw you this morning?” he asked, rather abruptly.

A beautiful rose tint suffused Bertie’s face.

“No, no!” he replied. “That was Miss Vanley.”

Faradeane nodded.

“The daughter of the squire here? I have heard of him through my man.”

“Yes,” said Bertie; “Olivia. Didn’t—didn’t you think she was very beautiful, Faradeane?”

Faradeane turned to the fireplace to knock his pipe out, and nodded.

“Yes,” he said, slowly.

“I think she is lovely!” said Bertie, in a low voice. “Olivia was always beautiful; but now—I hadn’t seen her for two years,” he went on, “and—and she startled me. She has grown into a woman. I wish you knew her, old fellow. She is as good as she is beautiful. She is just the girl you would approve of, I know. You always said that women were stupid; you wouldn’t say it of Olivia. Not that I mean that she’s clever in the way of knowing all the things women go in for now; no, not clever in that way; but—but——Oh, I can’t describe her! You must know her to understand what she is like.”

The other man watched, with a smile, the handsome face, as it grew rapt and enthusiastic.

“You have described her very well, Cherub,” he said, quietly. “‘To know her is to love her, and to love her is a liberal education,’” he quoted.

Bertie’s face flushed.

“That’s just it!” he exclaimed. “You always put things so well, Cly——I—I beg your pardon, I mean Faradeane!” he stammered.

“Be careful, Bertie,” said the other, gravely. “Try and get used to my name. A slip at an unwary moment and I am”—he shrugged his shoulders—“ruined. Yes, Miss Vanley is something more than lovely. It is a face ‘that carries goodness in its eyes.’ You ought to be very happy, Cherub.”

Bertie grew scarlet as a poppy.

“No, no,” he said, hurriedly. “You—you have quite misunderstood. I—I——There is nothing between us—no engagement, I mean. I—I don’t think, I’ve no reason to think, that she cares——Why, don’t you see, dear old fellow, that I’m not worthy to—to——Oh, no!”

“No?” said Faradeane. “I thought——Well, you are still happy in loving her,” he added. “Yes, though you never have an iota of hope, though you may never dare to tell her of your love, though your lips may never touch her hands, you are still happy in loving so sweet, so good a woman.”

His voice had grown very earnest, and there was a subtle ring of pain in it that found an echo in Bertie’s heart. He hung his head.

“I know what you mean,” he said, in a low voice.

“‘’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,’” said Faradeane. “Better to have loved an angel from afar than——” He stopped short suddenly. “But there’s every hope for you, Cherub,” he said, with a smile.

Bertie shook his head.

“I did think once—that is, I have thought of her always, and while I was away I sometimes plucked up heart, don’t you know, to fancy that I might have a chance. But now I’ve seen how beautiful and queenly and altogether too good for me——” He stopped with a sigh. “Besides, there is some one else in the field,” he added, ruefully.

“Yes?” Faradeane looked at him inquiringly.

“Yes,” said Bertie. “There is a fellow there—confound him! I fancy he is always at the Grange—a man named Bradstone. He has built that huge furnace, The Maples.”

Faradeane nodded.

“I know. He is a financier, or something of that kind. I have heard of him. But surely Miss Vanley——”

“No,” said Bertie, promptly, but with a troubled look. “No, I don’t think that Olivia cares for him, or is even very friendly; but”—he paused—“but the fellow is very much at home there, and the squire seems to have taken to him.”

“I see,” said Faradeane; “but keep your heart up. From the glimpse I got of Miss Vanley’s face I don’t think she is the girl to be smitten by Mr. Bradstone. No!” and a grave smile flickered across his face as he looked dreamily through the window. “No, I don’t think you need be apprehensive in that quarter, Cherub. If there is any truth in a woman’s eyes, Miss Vanley has a soul above the reach of such a man as this Bradstone.”

Bertie laid his hand upon his arm and pressed it gratefully.

“This is just like you, old fellow!” he said. “You understand at once, and—and always know how to sympathize and encourage a man. Thank you! Thank you! Ah, I wish you would know her,” he added, wistfully.

For a moment Faradeane stood silent and dreamy, then he roused himself and almost sternly said:

“No, no! by no means! And now, Cherub, you had better go. This is long enough for a first visit to a man you have never met before,” he smiled. “Some one has certainly seen you come in and will see you go out, and will be—confound them!—curious. If you are asked—you see I am obliged to coach you in falsehood,” he put in bitterly, “you can say that you called to remonstrate with me for allowing that savage dog of mine to be loose; and that, finding me rather a decent kind of a man, you stopped to make my acquaintance.”

“Very well,” assented Bertie, sadly.

“And now, good-by,” said Faradeane, gently pushing him to the door.

Bertie held his hand for a moment or two in a firm grasp, and then went down the path. At the gate he looked back. The tall, graceful figure was leaning against the door-post, and there was something in the attitude, something in the expression of the handsome Van Dyck face, a suggestion of such terrible loneliness and hopelessness and despair, combined with a noble kind of resignation and calmness, that the Cherub’s tender heart throbbed with a sympathetic pain.

Harold Faradeane remained there lost in thought for a moment; then, followed closely by the huge dog, he went back to the room, and, as if with an effort to discard something from his mind, sat down to the table and began to write.

He wrote for a few moments with that rapidity which indicates a stern determination; then gradually the pen slowed off, and presently he was absently sketching something on the blotting-pad.

Suddenly he started, and he gazed at what he had drawn, and a strange expression—of fear, almost—leaped into his eyes. He had drawn an outline, striking in its truth, of Olivia’s face.

With a kind of groan he sprang to his feet, tore the sketch into fragments, and, striding to the door, scattered them to the winds.

“Great Heaven!” he murmured, with a bitter smile. “Bertie must be right. I must be going mad! Stark, staring, raving mad!” and he thrust his hands into his pockets, and leaned against the door with his head drooping despondently upon his breast.

Suddenly in the silence of the gloaming—it was almost dark in the tree-shaded Dell—a sound smote upon his ears, and caused him to look up quickly.

It was the sound of a runaway horse, and no man who has heard it once can ever mistake it. It was coming down the road in the direction of the cottage. He ran down the narrow, flower-lined path, and vaulted over the gate just as a small pony, with a light cart behind it, came tearing up. Faradeane made a spring for the pony’s head, and caught the reins. Even small ponies, when they are on the bolt, are tough customers to tackle; and Faradeane was thrown to the ground. When he got to his feet again after a sharp tussle, and still holding to the reins with a grip of iron, he was shocked and horrified to see a slim, girlish figure lying half in and half out of the cart.