Olivia

The squire looked after the retreating figure in astonishment, and then at Olivia. She was trembling slightly, and the red and white were chasing each other on her downcast face.

“What is the matter? Who was he? Why did he go off like that?” he said.

Olivia was silent for a moment.

“That is the gentleman who has bought The Dell, papa. Mr. Faradeane.”

The squire started.

“It was he, was it? And he saved Bessie’s life?”

“She says so, papa. He was hurt. Did you see the marks on his forehead?”

“No,” said the squire. “I scarcely saw his face, and yet from what I saw of it I should say, emphatically, that he was a gentleman.”

“Oh, yes!” murmured Olivia, drawing her shawl round her.

“Most certainly a gentleman. It was a striking face. What nonsense was it that Sparrow was talking of a coiner or something of that kind? He could not have seen the man.”

“It was not Mr. Sparrow, but Mr. Bradstone, who suggested that Mr. Faradeane was a coiner,” she said in a low voice.

“Nonsense!” said the squire, almost impatiently. “That is not the face of a man in hiding from the consequences of some vulgar crime. There was not a trace of vice in it. Sad and melancholy it was, without doubt, but——Why did he go off like that?”

Olivia was silent a moment.

“You heard what Mr. Sparrow said, papa. He is a woman-hater.”

“What, Sparrow!” exclaimed the squire, staring at her.

“No, no; this—this Mr. Faradeane.”

“And he takes the trouble—and gets knocked about—in saving a girl’s life. What rubbish!” he said. “That is a poor kind of woman-hater. Sparrow has got hold of some cock-and-bull story. I scarcely listened to him this afternoon, and don’t remember what it was he said; but it is nonsense, utter nonsense. This man is a gentleman. I never saw a finer face.” He paused and knit his brows. “Now I recall it, I seem to think that I remember having seen it before.”

Olivia drew nearer to him with an eager expression in her beautiful eyes.

“Papa!”

“Yes,” he said, “I have a vague kind of impression, but I can’t fix it. Are you coming now?”

Olivia breathed a short sigh of disappointment.

“I thought you might have remembered,” she said. “I will come in one moment, papa. I must just see Bessie again.”

“All right, I am in no hurry,” said the squire, and he sat down on the settle outside the door, and instantly, as it would seem, was absorbed by his own thoughts.

Olivia ran upstairs on tiptoe, and entered Bessie’s room.

The girl turned her large, innocent eyes upon the lovely face of her young mistress with eager gratitude.

“Not gone yet, miss?” she said in a low voice.

“Not yet, Bessie. Are you better?”

“I am all right now, Miss Olivia; only weak and trembling like. Has—has the gentleman gone?”

“Mr. Faradeane? Yes,” said Olivia, and she leaned down and smoothed the white coverlid.

Bessie drew a long breath.

“And I scarcely thanked him!” she said.

“Oh, but I think you did, Bessie,” said Olivia.

The girl shook her head, and the color came into her pale, childlike face.

“I couldn’t thank him long enough, miss. He did save my life, though he made light of it, and put it off as nothing at all. Toby had bolted, and was racing like the wind, and the gentleman—tell me his name again, miss; it is a hard one to remember, and yet it sounds nice——”

“Faradeane,” said Olivia.

“Ah, yes, Faradeane! I shan’t forget it. Well, miss, he came out of the cottage, straight like a lion, and he leaped onto Toby. I could just see him before I fainted, and Toby knocked him down, and I thought he was killed, and then—I don’t recollect any more till he carried me in here. He said he wasn’t hurt, miss; but I saw the blood running from his forehead.” She shuddered. “Ah, miss, if I were a lady like you I could thank him as he deserves; but I’m only a poor girl that doesn’t know how to speak what she feels.”

“I think you thanked him very prettily, Bessie,” said Olivia. “But I don’t think he wanted or liked being thanked. He would not stop to speak to papa, outside, just now.”

A swift look of apprehension rose to Bessie’s eyes.

“Ah, miss, he was hurt, and was trying to hide it; he didn’t want the squire to see. Oh, Miss Olivia, what shall I do? There is no one there to see after him.”

Olivia soothed her, and returned to the squire.

“Bessie thinks Mr. Faradeane was hurt, badly perhaps—and that was the reason he did not stay, papa,” she said, with a little catch in her voice.

“Eh?” said the squire. “Well, that may be so.” And, instead of turning up the drive, he went down the lane toward The Dell. Olivia walked in silence by his side, and the squire stopped at the gate, and put his hand upon it. It was fastened securely. “The gate is locked,” he said, looking puzzled and baffled.

Olivia touched his arm, and pointed to the window, upon the white blind of which was the shadow of a tall figure pacing up and down.

“Look, papa,” she whispered.

The squire stared at the shadow with a thoughtful frown.

“That is an unhappy man,” he remarked to her, also in a whisper. “At any rate, he is not so much hurt as Bessie imagined.”

“No,” said Olivia, with a little sigh of relief. Then she touched her father’s hand. “Come away, papa,” she said, almost inaudibly. “I—I feel as if we were watching him.”

“Well, so we are,” retorted the squire, with a suppressed laugh. Then he looked at her uneasily. “Yes; let us go home,” he said. “You look tired and upset. This has been too much for you. I will walk down in the morning and inquire how he is. I suppose he will not refuse me admittance. I am not a woman.”

And he laughed.

But Olivia did not echo the laugh as he had expected; and she remained silent all the way along the drive.

Meanwhile Mr. Bartley Bradstone had ridden back to his splendid and gorgeous house in anything but a good humor. Your parvenu, while he would give half his newly gotten wealth to be a gentleman, invariably hates every gentleman he meets. Bartley Bradstone had taken a dislike to Lord Bertie, first because he was a gentleman, and secondly because he was, evidently, an old friend of Olivia’s, and possibly a lover. As he contrasted her manner to Bertie with the cold reserve with which she treated him, he clinched his teeth and jerked at the reins, making the horse start and shy.

“She treats me as if I were the dirt under her feet,” he muttered, sullenly, “just the dirt under her feet! And I like her all the better for it, confound her! But it’s a dangerous game to play with Bartley Bradstone, Miss Olivia, if you only knew it! Perhaps the day will come when you will lower your pride a little. It will be my turn then. By Heaven! I’d give—I don’t know what I wouldn’t give, to see you at my feet! And it shall come to that, too, or I’m not the clever fellow people think me. It is very hard if Bartley Bradstone isn’t a match for a dozen Lord Granvilles, though he is the son of an earl.”

He rode up the long, newly planted avenue to The Maples, and a couple of grooms came out to take his horse; but, as they had kept him waiting half a moment, he snarled at them as he flung himself from the saddle and mounted the stone steps—painfully white and new—which led to the front entrance. A footman was waiting to take his hat and stick, and his valet stood at the top of the stairs.

The squire and Lord Carfield were capable of hanging up their hats for themselves; but that would not have been “good enough” for Mr. Bartley Bradstone, who liked to see his gorgeous footmen whenever he could, and insisted upon being waited upon, literally, hand and foot.

He passed through the hall—which, notwithstanding its painted windows, and men in armor, and brown oak, looked as new as the rest of the place—and, going into the dining-room, rang for a glass of sherry; the squire would have got it for himself from the sideboard, but Mr. Bradstone flung himself into a chair while the butler and footman “served” the glass of wine on a heavy silver salver. The master of The Maples drank it, and looked round with a restless sigh.

“I was a fool not to stay, after all,” he muttered. “It was cutting off my nose to spite my face. It’s deuced dreary here by one’s self, but it shan’t be for long. Before long she’ll be begging me to stay at the Grange—yes, begging me.”

Then he got up, and, with his hands thrust in his pockets, wandered about the room. Presently he cast a glance at the many pictures, all in heavy gilt frames, and stood before one representing a girl reading a book. It was a recent purchase, and he had bought it because he fancied that it somewhat resembled Olivia; and twenty times a day he would stand before it and gaze at it.

“I’ll have her own portrait here presently,” he murmured, moodily. “I’ll give Millais the commission to paint it the day we’re engaged.”

This resolution seemed to afford some satisfaction, for with something less of his recent sullenness, he rang the bell for his valet to dress him for dinner.

As he did so the footman entered with a note on the salver.

Bartley Bradstone opened and eyed it with an expression of displeased surprise.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“The person is in the hall, sir,” replied the footman.

“Show him into the library,” said Bradstone; then he stood looking at the sheet of paper, which contained only two words—“Ezekiel Mowle”—with a thoughtful frown, and a few minutes afterward went into the library.

In the brand-new room with its brand-new furniture and rows of newly bound books sat, on the edge of one of the morocco chairs, a thin, hatchet-faced man, dressed like a clerk. He would have served very well as a model for Uriah Heep; but instead of that “’umble” personage’s red hair he wore a palpable wig, whose hyacinthine curls, clustering in pious falsehood upon the cadaverous forehead, made the face look like a skull; indeed, being close shaven and without a single eyebrow or eyelash, it would have closely resembled one under any conditions.

Bartley Bradstone shut the door close.

“Well, Mowle,” he said, with marked coldness, “this is an unexpected pleasure. What has brought you down here?”

Mr. Mowle stretched his thin, colorless lips by way of a smile, and coughed apologetically behind a huge, bony hand.

“I thought it best to run down, sir,” he said, and his voice matched his person, being hollow and strained, as if his throat were totally devoid of moisture. “I considered the question most anxiously, Mr. Bartley, and I thought it best to run down,” and he glanced upward with a peculiar expression of servile obsequiousness.

“What’s wrong?” demanded Bartley Bradstone, eyeing him with suppressed irritation. “Why didn’t you telegraph, whatever it is?”

Mr. Mowle fingered his chin and blinked his lashless lids.

“The wire’s useful, but not always to be trusted, especially in country places like this. The young lady at the office is generally so curious, having so little to do, Mr. Bartley. I might have written, but I thought from what you said that time was important; so I ran down.”

“Yes, yes, I see you have,” said Bartley Bradstone, with ill-concealed impatience; “and now you’re here you had better stop to dinner——”

Mr. Mowle shook his head.

“No, no, thank you, sir. There is a train in an hour and a half’s time, and I’ve kept the fly——”

Bartley Bradstone frowned.

“There is no occasion for that,” he said, with bombastic pride. “I dare say I can find something to take you back to the station.” He rang the bell. “Pay the flyman and discharge him,” he said to the footman, “and order the dogcart.”

Mr. Mowle, pawing at his lank chin, watched the pompously attired footman with a vapid air, and then allowed his eyes to roam round the extravagant decorations and furniture of the room.

“You’ll have some wine?” said Bartley Bradstone.

“Thank you, sir; thank you, Mr. Bartley; but I’m a teetotaler, if you remember.”

Bartley Bradstone nodded.

“Oh, yes, I remember. But what is it?”

Mr. Mowle produced a pocketbook from the interior of his shiny frock coat, and, taking out a paper, handed it to Bartley Bradstone.

“You can rely upon that information, sir,” he said in his hollow voice.

Bartley Bradstone looked at the paper.

“When did you get this?” he asked in a constrained voice.

“At a quarter past ten this morning. I considered it, and caught the eleven fast train, Mr. Bartley,” he replied, meekly.

“And—and you think it is right?” said Bartley Bradstone in a low voice.

“I’m sure of it, sir,” replied Mowle. “I got it from a source which has never yet sold me. I’d stake my oath upon it, sir.”

Bartley Bradstone went to the window and looked out, probably to hide the light of satisfaction which gleamed in his eyes. Then, after a moment or two, he turned to Mowle again.

“You were quite right to come down with this, Mowle,” he said; “it is too important to be trusted to a wire.”

“Thank you for your approbation, Mr. Bartley,” said Mowle, servilely.

“According to this,” said Bradstone, touching the paper with his forefinger, “the person named—we will mention no names, Mowle, just, take the initial V.—according to this information V. is liable for something like forty thousand pounds. That’s so?”

“That is so,” assented Mowle, blinking, and rubbing his chin. “Rather more than less, Mr. Bartley. Nearer fifty. Of course it’s a secret.”

“How do you account for it?” asked Bartley Bradstone, thoughtfully, and watching his companion covertly and closely.

Mr. Mowle stretched his lips into the undertaker-like smile, and coughed.

“Seems singular and improbable, doesn’t it, sir? Here’s a gentleman, a tip-top swell, as we may say, one of the old county families, looked up to and respected as a sound man, and yet——” He rubbed his chin, and smiled again. “This is the key to the riddle, Mr. Bartley: Wild oats!”

Bartley Bradstone sank into a chair and nodded.

“Wild oats, sir! Mr. V. began it early, and kept it up as long as he could. Went to the Jews—and the Christians. I don’t know which is worse,” and he coughed again. Bartley Bradstone’s eyes dropped with a faint shadow of consciousness.

“Borrowed right and left on post obits and I O U’s and reversions, and on anything or nothing. Quite the old story, Mr. Bartley. Sixty per cent. interest, any interest they liked to put on, so that he had some money to play ducks and drakes with.”

“That was before he came into the property,” said Bartley. “Why didn’t he pay it off then?”

“He did; some of it,” replied Mr. Mowle. “He has been trying to clear it for years past; but this kind of thing’s not easily got rid of, and these have been bad times for landlords. There are a good many in the same fix as Mr. V., but not so badly, perhaps.”

“And he cannot pay it off now?” asked Bartley Bradstone.

Mr. Mowle shook his head.

“If my information is correct—and I’ll answer for it—he certainly cannot.”

“How is it that his condition has been kept so secret? No one suspects it here—in his neighborhood.”

“The gentlemen who hold the bills are only too pleased to keep quiet while he pays the interest, of course; sixty per cent.”

“Of course,” assented Bartley, “and have you got a list of the names of these people?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mowle, and he handed him a paper from his pocketbook.

Bartley Bradstone examined it, and whistled.

“Tough customers!” he said. “Sharks, all of them. Are you sure this is all?”

“I am quite sure,” said Mowle. “I may as well tell you, sir, that my informant is the confidential clerk to Mr. V.’s solicitors.” He paused a moment. “He owes us a hundred or two——”

“Us?” said Bartley Bradstone, with a frown.

Mr. Mowle coughed and glanced up nervously.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Bartley; I should have said me! He owes me; just so.”

Bartley Bradstone eyed him with suspicious displeasure.

“Look here, Mowle,” he said. “That’s rather an awkward slip of yours. I hope it doesn’t occur with other people. They’ll be asking who the ‘us’ is.”

“No, sir; no, Mr. Bartley, I’m careful. I’m cautious in the extreme. Why, Mr. Bartley, if you think of the years I’ve kept the business dark——”

“I know, I know. I only warned you,” interrupted Bartley Bradstone. “Once let a hint of our connection get abroad, and—well, I think you know the consequences. I’ve still got that interesting little check you so kindly signed with my name.”

Mr. Mowle’s colorless face grew livid, his cadaverous lips twitched, and his bony hands closed convulsively.

“You’ve no reason to fear, Mr. Bartley,” he said, almost inaudibly, his hands shaking.

“No, it is you who have reason to fear,” retorted Mr. Bradstone. “I’m a man of my word, as you know, and I mean that if the slightest suspicion is aroused that you are working for me, I hand that check over to the police and send you to penal servitude.”

Mr. Mowle nodded.

“I know you will, sir,” he said, moistening his lips, “and I am cautious accordingly. I think you’ll admit that, Mr. Bartley? For nearly twelve years I’ve worked for you, and thousands upon thousands have passed through these hands”—he extended them—“and every penny has been accounted for. And no one—no one, Mr. Bartley—has ever heard me mention your name, or suspected that you were my master.”

Mr. Bradstone nodded.

“It’s well for you they haven’t,” he said, coldly. “It is more important than ever that our connection should be kept dark. I don’t like the risk of your coming here even.”

“I’ve been very careful,” said Mowle, meekly; “I didn’t give the servant my name. I said I’d brought a note from your London tailor.”

Mr. Bradstone nodded.

“Yes, and you’re right in going back to-night. Now take my instructions.”

Mr. Mowle took out his pencil, and looked up at his master with a dogged intentness.

“Buy Mr. V.’s debts,” said Bartley Bradstone, coolly, but with his eyes downcast.

Mr. Mowle did not start, but his eyes blinked, and he turned them upon Bartley Bradstone.

“You quite understand—I made myself clear, I hope, sir—that Mr. V. couldn’t possibly pay if he were pressed?”

“Yes, I understood,” said Bartley Bradstone. “I don’t suppose he could. All the same I want these bills and I O U’s. All of them, mind! Don’t let one escape.”

Mr. Mowle nodded.

“I shall have to pay, sir,” he said, succinctly.

Bartley Bradstone sighed.

“Yes, I expect so, confound them! Do the best you can; but buy them, and as soon as you can. When you have got them all, let me know. That’s all.”

Mr. Mowle closed his book.

“Very good, sir,” he said, shutting his lips. “I won’t detain you longer, sir. Everything is going on all right, as you saw by the last statement.”

Mr. Bradstone nodded, and opened the door.

“You’ve got a little time to spare. You may as well see the house,” he said, carelessly.

“Thank you, sir; thank you, Mr. Bartley, if it’s not giving you too much trouble,” croaked Mr. Mowle obsequiously, as he followed him.

“This is the hall,” said Bartley Bradstone, waving his hand. “Notice this window, Mowle. It cost me fifteen hundred pounds.”

Mowle blinked at the window, and cast a fishy eye round the oaken panels and the men in armor.

“The drawing-room,” said Mr. Bradstone. “Decorated by Marks. I paid him four hundred pounds. Had the furniture designed by Fox.”

“Beautiful! beautiful!” murmured Mowle.

“And this is the dining-room. Sorry you can’t stay to dinner, I’d have shown you the plate.”

“Superb apartment,” croaked Mowle, peering in with his shoulders bent meekly.

“Library you’ve seen. Here’s the billiard-room. Electric light, you see.”

“I see, sir. Delightful.”

“Come upstairs. First corridor. My rooms,” and he signed to a footman to open the door.

Mr. Mowle peered into the luxurious bedchamber and dressing-room, and his gaunt eyes took note of the silver toilet set and Brussels lace draperies.

“Fit for a prince!” he croaked.

“Guest chambers No. 1 and Nos. 2 and 3. There are fourteen of them, all like this,” said Mr. Bradstone.

“Delightful! quite delightful!” murmured Mowle. “Fourteen, Mr. Bradstone?”

“Fourteen,” assented the owner. “Reading-room and ladies’ boudoir, gray and yellow satin. Piano, Collard & Collard grand. Pictures by Long and Leighton.”

“Splendid! Fit for a queen, Mr. Bartley!” exclaimed Mowle, staring about him.

“Statuary gallery,” said. Mr. Bradstone. “‘Sleeping Nymph,’ two thousand pounds. ‘Hercules,’ by Boehm, a thousand pounds. Group, by Gleichen. Down there is the palm-garden—fountain of scented water. My own room.” He passed into a small room, luxuriously furnished, with cabinet pictures on the walls, and a large iron safe in the corner. “Books, guns, and all that kind of thing,” he said, waving his hand. “Safe by Milner.” He looked round, and, seeing the footman was out of hearing, added, with a smile, “That’s where your little check is, Mowle.”

Mr. Mowle’s face went livid, and he passed his hands over each other as if to warm them. “Don’t, Mr. Bartley, don’t!” he murmured, hoarsely.

Bartley Bradstone laughed.

“Oh, it is as well to remind you,” he said, coolly. “That door leads to the stables. This way,” and he led him across a courtyard covered by a glass roof. “Here you are; twenty-four stalls. I hunt, you know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes. That’s my best horse. Gave two hundred and fifty for him.”

“Beautiful creature, sir.”

“Yes. Carriage horses—six of them. And here’s your dogcart. Sure you won’t have anything before you go?”

“Nothing, thank you, sir,” replied Mr. Mowle. “Thank you for showing me over, Mr. Bradstone. It is a truly beautiful place, and fit for a king. Beautiful! I’ll see that your kind orders are properly executed, sir. Good-day.”

Mr. Bartley Bradstone nodded. “Good-day,” he replied, and, his hands thrust into his pockets, he returned to the house to dress for dinner.

Mr. Mowle climbed into the dogcart, and was driven rapidly away. At the end of the avenue he laid his hand upon the arm of the groom.

“One moment, young man,” he said.

The groom pulled up the impatient horse, and Mr. Mowle turned and looked back at the house.

“And to think that I made it all!” he muttered. “You—you beast!” Then he said aloud, “Thank you; drive on now, please.”