“I’m afraid you are wasting your breath, Mr. Bradstone,” said Olivia. “I do not in the least comprehend you——”
“But you will presently,” he said, with a half-cunning, half-furious smile. “Look here; your father, the squire, is, as he put it, a fraud——”
She drew herself up, and sent a lightning shot from her eyes that made him quail.
“Leave the room!” she exclaimed, pointing to the door.
“Stop!” he said. “Wait!” for she had swept, with the dignity of an insulted goddess toward the bell. “So help me Heaven, it is true! He will tell you so himself, if you are foolish enough to ask him. He is a fraud—well, well, he’s a ruined man, then. Up to his neck in debts, the Grange is sunk, the very furniture under a bill of sale; nothing can save him—nothing. He will have to turn out, neck and crop. Turn out! You don’t know what that means. But he does! The day he leaves here a ruined, broken man, dates his death-warrant! It does, by Heaven! and out he goes, unless you accept me, Olivia!”
“Unless—unless——Oh, you are mad!” she panted.
“Am I? No, I’m not. It’s you who are mad—with pride. Do you think I’m an idiot and don’t know what I’m talking about? What I tell you is true; and what is more, I hold your father’s bonds——”
“You——”
“Yes,” and he nodded, with a smile. “I’ve got ’em, one and all. At a word from me, he can be sold up and turned out. A word, a sign, and”—with a sudden, sullen light in his suspicious, restless eyes—“and, by God! I’ll do it if——Look here, it will rest with you! Say you’ll be my wife—by Heaven! I’ll do my best to make you happy—and the day we’re married I’ll put the whole of these bonds and mortgages into your hands—you can light a fire with them. And I’ll do more; I’ll give you twenty thousand pounds—fifty—what do I care! I tell you I’m a millionaire! Money is dirt, stones, dross—you can fling it broadcast, roll in it——”
She stopped him with a gesture, entreating, piteous, desperate.