Bartley Bradstone grew pale; he was evidently as ill at ease as the squire.
“I—I want to speak to you about Miss Vanley—Miss Olivia,” he said.
A tremor passed over the squire’s face, and he lowered his eyes.
“About Olivia?” and his voice sounded dry and husky.
“Yes,” said Bartley Bradstone. “I don’t suppose you have been blind to the—the fact that I sincerely admire, and—and, indeed, that I—well”—he stammered—“I love her, and I want you to give her to me for my—wife.”
As he spoke the last word, his voice suddenly dropped and grew hoarse and indistinct. So much so that the squire, who had not expected such deep emotion, started and looked up at him. Bartley Bradstone’s face was perfectly white, and his eyes were fixed on the ground.
“I have been devoted to—to Miss Olivia for months past,” he continued. “I’m not good at this kind of thing, and I don’t express myself very well; but what I’ve said is true. I do love her, and I’ll do all in my power to make her happy.”
He cleared his throat, and took up a match to relight his cigar, which had gone out.
The squire stared at the carpet with grave, troubled eyes for a moment. He had expected this; in his heart of hearts he had desired it, and yet—yet now it had come, it seemed to chill him with an indefinable repugnance.
“Have you spoken to Olivia, Bradstone?” he asked, and his voice was rather that of a man speaking of a funeral than a contemplated marriage.