Olivia

Dinner was over at the Grange, and Miss Amelia and Olivia were in the drawing-room waiting for the appearance of the squire, who, for form’s sake, lingered behind for a quarter of an hour in the dining-room to sip a glass of the famous Vanley port.

It was Miss Amelia’s custom every evening during this quarter of an hour to enjoy a peaceful snooze in an armchair carefully placed by the footman out of the light of the lamps, from which she awoke on the appearance of her brother to declare with a start that really in another moment she should have been asleep.

Olivia was sitting as usual with a book in her hand; but this evening the volume remained open at the same page, and instead of reading she was thinking of her strange meeting with the “mysterious stranger” of The Dell.

It need scarcely be said that Olivia was not sentimental. She was the last girl in the world to invest any one with a romantic halo or to “get up a sentiment” over any man; but try as she would she could not dismiss the remembrance of the handsome face with its sad eyes, and the grave voice with its almost tragic tones, from her mind, and it was with a feeling of actual relief from her own too persistent dwelling upon him that she heard the door open, and, looking up, saw her father enter.

Miss Amelia heard it too, and jerked herself upright with the usual “Is that you, Edwin? Another moment,” etc.

Olivia, looking at her father, saw that instead of the smile of amused incredulity with which he usually received Miss Amelia’s assertion, his face wore an anxious and thoughtful expression, and as he came up to her to get his cup of coffee, she said in a low voice:

“Is anything the matter, papa?”

“Anything the matter?” he repeated, with a little start. “No. What should be that matter?”

“I don’t know,” said Olivia, “but I thought you looked rather worried, dear.”

“No, no,” he said, with a forced kind of cheerfulness. “I am a little tired, I think, that is all. I am sorry Bertie did not stay to dinner.”

“So am I,” said Olivia, promptly. “How well he looked! Dear Bertie!”

The squire glanced at her.

“Or Mr. Bradstone,” he said. “I thought he meant staying.”

“Yes?” said Olivia in a colder voice.

“A good fellow, Bradstone!” said the squire, stirring his coffee. “I don’t think Bertie did him justice this afternoon. If he knew him as well as I do——”

“But you do not know him very well, papa,” said Olivia, gently.

The squire frowned slightly.

“I don’t know why you should say that, Olivia,” he said. “I—you—have seen a great deal of him——”

“That is true,” responded Olivia, dryly, “and all we have seen is to his credit. Don’t let us discuss Mr. Bradstone, papa,” she was saying almost pleadingly, when the butler entered, and, approaching the squire, said something in a low and guarded voice, and the squire’s face changed.

But Olivia’s ears were quick, and she caught the word “accident.”

“Oh, papa! what is it? Tell me, Fleming.” Fleming, the butler, glanced from her to the squire. “Something has happened,” she said, growing pale, but speaking calmly and composedly, for Olivia was not hysterical by any means. “What is it? Why do you not tell me, papa?”

“Don’t be alarmed,” said the squire, putting his hand upon her arm. “There has been an accident. Tell us again, Fleming; you need not be afraid of your mistress.”

“It’s Bessie Alford, Miss Olivia,” began the butler.

“Ah!” breathed Olivia, with a little, piteous catch in her voice. “Poor Bessie! the pony!”

“Yes, miss,” said Fleming, gravely. “The pony—she was driving him home—has run away with her. I always told Alford that it wasn’t safe for her to drive. He’s run away and Bessie is hurt.”

Olivia’s face grew pale.

“Bessie hurt!” she murmured, piteously.

“What’s that? Who’s killed?” exclaimed Aunt Amelia, springing to her feet like a jack-in-the-box. “Don’t attempt to keep it from me. I will know who is killed! Oh, dear! I feel—I feel as if I was going to faint. Fleming, a glass of water. Oh, Edwin, I know something dreadful is going to happen!” she wound up with a groan and a wail.

Fleming stolidly got her a glass of water; no one else took any notice of her.

Olivia stood for a moment pale and thoughtful; then she moved to the door.

“I must go to her, papa,” she said. “Where is she, Fleming?”

“At the lodge, miss,” he replied, gravely. “The pony fell down or was stopped not far from there—I have not got the rights of it quite, miss—and they carried Bessie home.”

Olivia opened the door, and, disregarding her aunt’s shriek of “Where are you going, Olivia?” ran into the hall and caught up a shawl. The squire, without a word, put on his hat, and they went out together.

“Poor Bessie!” murmured Olivia, as they ran down the drive. “I warned her against the pony this afternoon.”

They saw lights moving behind the windows of the lodge, and in response to the squire’s knock a boy opened the door.

“I will wait here; send for me if you want me,” said the squire.

Olivia passed in, and ran noiselessly up the stairs, and pushed open the half-closed door of Bessie’s room.

For a moment she saw only the pretty, innocent face lying white and pale upon the pillow; then as she entered she saw, in the flickering of the solitary candle, a tall figure bending over the bed.

It moved as she entered, and, turning, presented the face of Mr. Faradeane.

For a moment the two, girl and man, looked at each other, and she saw in that moment that the face was paler even than when she had seen it in the afternoon, and that there was a blood-red mark across the left temple. Alford stood by—stupefied and useless.

She drew near the bed, and went down on her knees beside the unconscious girl, and was about to murmur her name when she felt a hand upon her arm, and a voice said in low accents of command.

“Don’t speak to her, please.”

Olivia looked into the grave, handsome face with a meekness utterly novel and strange to her.

“Can I—can I do anything?” she whispered. “Poor Bessie!”

“Yes,” he said in the same low, calm tone. “Get me some cold water.”

She glided to the water-jug, and poured some out for him, and watched him in a frenzy of anxiety as he bathed the girl’s white forehead.

But, great as was her anxiety and excitement, she noticed—and remembered long afterward—how gently and pityingly he did his work. He, the woman-hater!

“Is—is she much hurt?” she whispered, after a time.

“No,” he whispered, in reply. “She is stunned. Do not be alarmed. She will recover consciousness presently.”

“Are you—are you a doctor?” asked Olivia, a few minutes later; and the question was caused by the calm, deliberate way in which he did what was best to be done.

He smiled.

“No; but it is not the first accident I have seen. She will come to presently. I have sent to Wainford for the doctor. Do not be alarmed; there is no danger.”

Almost as soon as he spoke, Bessie opened her eyes, and, after a wild glance or two, fixed them upon the pale, handsome face bending over her.

“Is—is he hurt?” she faltered.

“Do you mean me?” said Mr. Faradeane. “No, I am not hurt in the least.”

Bessie heaved a sigh, then she caught sight of the cut on his temple.

“What’s that? You are hurt!” she exclaimed.

“That is nothing,” he said, with a smile; “I think you had better not talk.”

But Bessie did not agree with him, evidently.

“He saved my life—this gentleman, Miss Olivia!” she panted. “I was just falling under the wheel when he stopped Toby, and I saw him go down.” She shuddered. “Yes, Miss Olivia, he saved my life, he did!” and her large, innocent eyes fixed themselves on Mr. Faradeane, and filled with tears.

He smiled.

“You will be quite ashamed of talking such nonsense when you have recovered, Miss Bessie,” he said. “Now drink this, will you, please?” and he held a flask of brandy to her lips.

She sipped it obediently, her brown eyes fixed upon his with the gratitude, the devotion which one sees in a dumb animal often enough, but in a human, alas! only too seldom. Then, with a sigh, she turned her face away, and closed her eyes.

Mr. Faradeane stood upright.

“She will be all right now,” he said. “No bones are broken, thank Heaven! It was the shock as much as the blow on the forehead that stunned her.”

There was a step on the stair, and the local doctor entered.

Mr. Faradeane drew him aside, and gave a short and succinct account of the accident.

“Yes, yes,” murmured the doctor, “and you, sir? you seem to have been hurt!”

“Not in the least,” said Mr. Faradeane, “not in the very least, thanks,” and, with a bow to Olivia, he passed out of the room.

Obeying an impulse she could not resist, Olivia followed him, and, darting at the squire, who was standing outside the lodge door, said:

“He—this gentleman—saved Bessie’s life!”

The squire started, as well he might, and approached the tall figure.

“My daughter tells me, sir,” he said, “that this poor girl owes her life to your courage and presence of mind. I hope you will allow me to express my sense of your bravery. My name is Vanley——”

For a moment Mr. Faradeane stood and regarded him with a frank smile; then his face changed suddenly.

“No thanks are due, sir; good-night,” he said, gravely, almost sternly; and before another word could be said he raised his hat and passed them.