Little dreaming of the scene that was being enacted by Olivia and Bartley Bradstone, Bertie started on his way home. He meant to walk to Carfield, and to think of Olivia every inch of the way. He had always loved her as a boy, and when they were playmates; but now he found his love of that absorbing kind which masters a man’s whole being and dominates his life.
Carfield was no great distance for a young man in first-rate condition, and he set out at a steady pace, thinking of Olivia at every step. Dearly as he loved her—perhaps because he loved her so dearly—he could not summon up courage to tell her so. They had been playmates together; it had been “Olly” and “Bertie” for as long back as he could remember, and yet—yet he had not the courage to go to her and say, “Olivia, be my wife!”
“I am a coward, that’s what it is!” he murmured, ruefully. “Now, if it was Faradeane, instead of me——”
He pulled up short. Strangely enough, the comparison had occurred to him at the very moment he was passing the top of the lane in which The Dell stood.
After a moment’s hesitation he turned into it, and opened the gate. As he did so, he saw, or fancied he saw, the figure of a man cross the path and disappear in the shrubs that grew on each side.
“Is that you, Faradeane?” he said. “Who’s there?”
No response came, and deciding that it was a trick of his imagination, aided by lights and shadows, he went up to the door.
It was ajar, which seemed strange to Bertie, and pushing it open, he entered, and opened the door of the sitting-room.
Faradeane was sitting beside the table; he had thrown off his dress coat and waistcoat, and was leaning on the table with his head resting upon his arms.
“Faradeane, old fellow!” said Bertie, softly.