Olivia

As a rule it is only necessary to arrange a picnic to insure a wet day; but the day of Mr. Bradstone’s picnic proved an exception, and the morning was as clear and bright, and almost as warm, as a spring day in the sunny south.

Mr. Bradstone had bestowed a great deal of thought on this little outing which he had planned for Olivia’s amusement—and his own advantage, of course—and when, but only the day before, she consented, in response to the squire’s pressure, to join the party, Mr. Bradstone redoubled his exertions.

Lord Carfield had been asked; but, while accepting for Bertie, he had declined for himself. “My picnic days are over, Mr. Bradstone,” he said; “I have arrived at the period when cold pie and salad, when eaten in the posture absolutely unavoidable on these occasions, settle somewhere in the small of my back. But my son Bertie will be delighted, I am sure.”

And he had spoken the truth. Bertie would have eaten cold pie or poison, if, by so doing, he could insure a few hours of Olivia’s society.

The only other persons besides the Vanleys who had been asked were Mary and Annie Penstone, the two daughters of Sir William Penstone, whose estates lay about five miles from Hawkwood Grange.

They were going to ride over to Glenmaire, the spot Mr. Bradstone had fixed upon for the luncheon, and Mr. Bradstone had arranged to drive the squire and Olivia to the rendezvous in a brand-new mail phæton, of which he was, not altogether without reason, exceedingly proud. Imagine his disappointment, then, when, having dashed up to the Grange door, he saw Olivia standing on the steps in her riding-habit, and Bertie just below her with his arm hooked in the bridles of his own and her horse.

“I—I thought you were going to drive with me and your father, Miss Olivia?” he said, as she gave him her hand; and he muttered some almost inaudible response to Bertie’s cheery “Good-morning!”

“Did I promise?” said Olivia. “I don’t think it was a distinct promise. I had to ride into Wainford this morning for some medicine for Bessie, and I kept my habit on.”

“I am afraid I am the culprit, really, Mr. Bradstone,” said Bertie, pleasantly. “I rode over to ask after Bessie at the Lodge, and, being lucky enough to find Miss Vanley just starting for Wainford, I persuaded her to ride to Glenmaire. Her horse really wants a little more work.”

Bartley Bradstone bit his lip. After all his carefully laid plans, this young lordling had managed not only to balk him, but to snatch a tête-à-tête gallop with Olivia.

“I’m afraid you’ll be tired,” he said, ignoring Bertie’s explanation. “I should have thought you would have sent for the medicine.”

Bertie’s eyes opened widely, and he looked at Olivia to see how she would take this piece of impertinence; but her clear, calm gaze did not change in the slightest.

“Yes, I might have done so,” she said, quietly. “However, if you wish me to drive, I can change my habit in ten minutes.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t worth while,” he said; “don’t trouble.”

“Very well,” said Olivia, at once.

With an effort Bartley Bradstone cleared the sullen cloud from his brow, and forced himself to look more amiable.

“And how is the girl?” he asked. “I heard some cock-and-bull story of this accident. I always knew she’d have an accident with that brute of a pony. One of my men said that that fellow who has taken The Dell had a hand in it—startled the pony or something.”

Olivia did not offer to correct this amiable representation of the affair, and stood flicking her habit with her whip in silence; but the ready flush rose to Bertie’s face in a moment, and he said:

“You have heard an extraordinarily wrong version of the story. Instead of being in any way the cause of the accident, Mr. Faradeane, at some peril to his own limbs and life, stopped the pony, and saved Bessie from a serious fall.”

“Oh! quite a hero,” said Bartley Bradstone, with as much of a sneer as he dared display to a viscount.

“As you say, quite a hero,” assented the Cherub, simply.

At that moment the squire appeared at the door, and came down the steps.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, young people,” he said, in a brighter tone than usual; but his face fell as he saw that Olivia was in her habit. “I thought you were going to drive with Mr. Bradstone and me, Olivia,” he said.

“And so I shall, if you will wait ten minutes,” she said.

But Bartley Bradstone had got his temper under mastery by this time, and he said, quickly:

“Indeed you shall not take the trouble to change, Miss Olivia. I won’t wait a minute.”

And with a nod and a smile he sprang up to the box-seat and took the reins.

Olivia watched them drive off in her calm, reflective way, and then allowed Bertie to lift her to her saddle.

He was in the seventh heaven of delight which followed the dread of the loss of her society, and the two rode side by side, as they had ridden scores of times when they were schoolboy and schoolgirl, chatting with frank freedom on Olivia’s part, and with that half-shy timidity which the timorous lover always feels.

By the time they had reached Glenmaire the Cherub’s light-heartedness had awakened a responsive sentiment in Olivia’s breast, and she was laughing and forgetting the sudden and mysterious repulse which Mr. Faradeane had inflicted upon her on the preceding day, when Bertie pulled up, and uttered an exclamation.

“Good heavens! Just look at that!”

Before them, in a space which had been cleared for the occasion by Mr. Bartley Bradstone’s woodman—Glenmaire was a part of the property he had purchased—were four huge footmen in the Bradstone livery setting out an elaborate collation, adorned by a complete service of plate, and flanked by several magnums of Pommery.

A luggage fourgon, with a pair of horses in silver-plated harness, which had conveyed the feast from The Maples, stood at a little distance, and presiding over the whole of the preparations was The Maples’ butler in regulation white tie and suit of solemn black.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Bertie, “fancy a picnic with plate, four footmen, and a butler!” And he laughed; then, with his usual good-nature, he added, quickly, “But it is awfully good of Mr. Bradstone to have taken so much trouble.”

“Yes,” said Olivia, dreamily. “But he might have had a brass band.”

This so tickled the Cherub that he burst into a loud laugh, which brought two bright-eyed, fresh young girls to their side. They were the two Penstone girls, who were in nowise remarkable, excepting for their position as Sir William’s daughters—the baronetage was one of the oldest in the county—and their perfectly frank and unenvying delight in, and admiration for, Olivia.

To these two simple country girls there had never been, since the world was created, so beautiful and clever and altogether fascinating a creature as Olivia Vanley.

They pounced upon her, one on each side of the horse, and clung to her with loving eagerness.

“Why, dear, we thought you were never coming!” exclaimed Mary, drawing the supple neck downward that she might kiss the fresh, red lips. “How well you are looking!”

“And how beautiful!” murmured Annie, drawing her gauntlet from her hand.

“You flatterers!” said Olivia, kissing them both and slipping from her horse.

“We were so afraid you wouldn’t come,” said Mary, “and we are so glad to see you, you can’t tell. And isn’t this delightful? So kind of Mr. Bradstone! And you rode over with dear Bertie. No wonder he looks so bright and happy!” and she shot a half-playful, half-jealous glance from her boyish eyes at the Cherub, who, having got rid of one of the giants in plush, was mixing a salad.

“He will look ever so much brighter and happier when he has had some lunch,” said Olivia.

“For Heaven’s sake persuade him to send some of those fellows away, sir,” said Bertie in a low voice to the squire, as they seated themselves; “it isn’t a bit like a picnic with them hovering like huge birds-of-paradise over us!”

The squire shrugged his shoulders.

“Let him alone—he means well,” he said, good-naturedly.

Bartley Bradstone came up to them at this moment. He was looking flushed and excited and—fussy.

“Have you got all you want? Miss Olivia, let them give you some of this pâté. Squire, I think you will find this champagne correct—Pommery ’73.”

The butler swooped solemnly down with the bottle, just as he would have done in the dining-room at The Maples.

It was fearfully and dreadfully unlike a picnic; but the high spirits of the two Penstone girls rose even above the overwhelming presence of the footmen and butler, and they were soon laughing and romping, and Olivia was smiling at them in sympathy, when suddenly, in the very middle of the informally formal repast, and just as Mr. Bartley Bradstone was mentally congratulating himself upon its complete success, a man and a woman, with a couple of children clinging to them, came through the opening of the trees. The woman stopped short, and, with the true gypsy whine, said, as she hungrily eyed the costly spread:

“Will the pretty ladies cross the poor gypsy’s hand with silver, and let her tell them their fortunes?”

Mr. Bradstone looked up, almost choking with rage. That gypsies should dare at any time to trespass upon his property was bad enough to bear, but that they should inflict their odious presence upon his special picnic party was simply unendurable.

“What do you mean?” he demanded, angrily. “Here! Go away! Go away at once!”

The woman shrank back a little; but the man, at the sound of his voice, gave a little start, and came a step nearer.

“We means no harm, gentleman,” he said, whiningly, his dark eyes fixed upon Bartley Bradstone’s angry face. “Let the wise woman tell the pretty ladies’ fortunes.”

Bartley Bradstone was about to send them about their business with the nearest approach to an oath he dared to utter in the presence of the ladies, when Mary Penstone, with a laugh, said:

“Oh, don’t send them away, Mr. Bradstone. I should like to have my fortune told, I should indeed.”

“It’s all nonsense,” he said, with ill-concealed impatience.

“But is it?” demanded Annie, eying the dark-hued gypsy woman, wistfully. “Oh, yes, of course it is, I know; but let her stay, Mr. Bradstone, just for a minute. Mary, lend me a shilling. I’ll be the first.”

Mary did not possess the coin; but Olivia found one, and Mary, with manifold gigglings, gave it to the gypsy.

The woman crossed the soft palm with it.

“Your fortune is easy to tell, miss,” she said. “You’ll marry the man of your choice and live happy.”

Annie snatched her hand away with a disappointed pout of her full lips.

“I don’t think that’s worth a shilling,” she said. “It’s a swindle. I ought to have fallen in love with the wrong man and died of consumption. Now, Mary.”

But Mary declined, positively.

“Well, you, then, squire,” said Annie, tugging at his arm.

“My fortune’s made or marred long ago,” he said, shaking his head as he tossed half a crown to the woman.

“Well, then, it’s Olivia’s turn,” said Annie. “Now, Olivia, you must, you must have your fortune told.”

Olivia smiled, and held out her hand promptly.

“Don’t prophesy anything very dreadful, please,” she said.

The woman crossed her long, shapely hand and peered at it; then she slowly let the hand drop.

“Is there any other gentleman or lady would like their fortune told?” she said.

“Oh, but that isn’t fair!” exclaimed Annie Penstone. “You must tell this lady’s, you know.”

The woman glanced at her, then at Olivia.

“Am I to tell it, miss?” she said.

Olivia smiled. “Of course,” she said. “Why not?”

The woman took her hand, and looked into her eyes, just as a short-sighted person might have done; then she glanced behind her at the spot where the man stood in an attitude of perfect repose and self-possession, his dark eyes fixed upon Bartley Bradstone.

“Shall I tell this pretty lady her fortune, Seth——”

The man nodded, and the woman in a low voice said:

“There are lines of much sorrow, miss, and much doubt. You will mate with a man you do not love, and love a man you do not mate. But in the end——”

She stopped short, and, dropping Olivia’s hand, bent over one of the children.

Olivia smiled her calm, sweet smile.

“It is your turn now,” she said to Bertie; but Bertie, with affected horror and awe, shook his head.

“Your experience is enough for me,” he said.

“That will do,” said Bartley Bradstone, and he flung a coin toward the group. “Clear off now.”

The woman darted at the coin, but as her hand closed over it she said:

“Let me tell this gentleman his fortune.”

“Oh, do! oh, come, Mr. Bradstone!” exclaimed the two Penstone girls in chorus. “In common fairness——”

“Oh, I’m quite ready,” said Bartley Bradstone, but with anything but alacrity; and, leaning on his elbow, he extended his right hand reluctantly.

“The left, if you please, gentleman,” said the woman.

“You are mighty particular,” he said, with an uneasy laugh, and he shifted his position, and gave her the left hand.

As he did so the man took a step forward, and whispered something in the woman’s ear.

Her face did not change from its impassibility, but she bent lower over Bartley Bradstone’s hand, and amidst the almost solemn silence she said in the dreamy voice she had adopted in the former cases:

“It is a fair hand, a clever hand; but there are lines that trouble the poor gypsy. Lines of the past, and the coming future. Beware of the woman with the black eyes and the cut lip.”

Bartley Bradstone changed color, and snatched his hand away.

“That will do,” he said. “Don’t bother us with anymore, but take yourselves off. And look here; I don’t allow gypsies to settle or squat, or whatever you call it, upon my land.”

The woman tied the coins she had received in the corner of her apron with deliberate composure, then, dropping a curtsey, followed the man, who had already struck into the thick undergrowth.

“How delightful!” exclaimed Annie Penstone. “Mr. Bradstone, I believe you had them brought here on purpose, just to make your picnic complete.”

“No, I didn’t,” he said, abruptly. “I hate them. They are the worst thieves——” He stopped. “Bring some more wine,” he called to the butler.

“Beware of the woman with the cut lip and the black eyes, Mr. Bradstone!” exclaimed Annie, laughingly.

The butler filled their glasses, and in the midst of the general laughing and talking Bartley Bradstone was recovering his composure, and feeling pretty comfortable again, when he heard the sound of horse’s hoofs, and looking up, saw a man on horseback riding into the glade.

The horse was a hunter of good character, and his rider was evidently so lost in thought that he had thrown the reins almost on the animal’s neck, and was perfectly indifferent to the course it was taking.

All the picnic party stared at him, and Mary Penstone had just time to whisper to Olivia “What a handsome man!” when Bartley Bradstone sprang to his feet, and seized the horse’s loose rein.

It was bad enough to have his grand picnic interrupted by ill-conditioned gypsies, but that an unknown rider should dare to intrude was simply intolerable.

“Here, you, sir!” he exclaimed, angrily, “do you know you are trespassing?”

The gentleman pulled up, and looked from the angry face below him to the rest of the party with a half-awakened expression.

Then he drew the rein from Bartley Bradstone’s grasp, and, looking at him calmly, said:

“I beg your pardon. I did not know I was trespassing.”

“But you are!” insisted the giver of the feast. “This is private land, and you ought to know it! Confound it, sir, you’ve no right to ride over private property like this!”

The stranger’s face flushed; but before he could speak Bertie sprang to his feet, and approached the two men.

“Mr. Bradstone,” he said, “this gentleman is a friend of mine, and I can assure you that he had no desire to trespass——”

Bartley Bradstone looked from one to the other with his characteristic expression of moody suspicion.

“A friend of yours! Of course that makes a difference. I suppose it’s all right.”

Olivia had risen, and came slowly toward them. The rest kept their seats.

“Yes, this is a friend of mine—Mr. Faradeane,” said Bertie; and he laid his hand upon the bridle of the stranger’s horse.

He looked from Bertie to Bartley Bradstone, and then at Olivia, and on her face his eyes seemed fixed.

“Although a friend of Lord Granville, I am still a trespasser,” he said, “and I beg your pardon;” and he turned and rode off.

Both Bartley Bradstone and Olivia turned upon Bertie.

“Is he a friend of yours, Lord Granville?” demanded Bartley.

Olivia said nothing, though her eyes were eloquent enough. The color rose to poor Bertie’s face.

“It—it is Mr. Faradeane, of The Dell,” he stammered—fancy the Cherub stammering!—“I made his acquaintance the day his dog ran loose, Olivia. That’s all.”