At any time in the past the idea of accepting him would have been repugnant; but now, since the last few days, she shrank from the prospect with an absolute loathing. She rose, pale and weakened, bewildered; she felt she could not meet her father that morning. She dreaded to hear even Bartley Bradstone’s name. And yet what escape was there for her? If what he had said were true, he held her in an iron thrall. For her father she would sacrifice anything—life itself. But she must have time to think, time to realize the awful ordeal through which she must pass; time to learn how to school her voice and conceal the agony that racked her.
Taking up her hat, and telling the footman that her father was not to wait breakfast for her, she went out, caring nothing about the direction she should take, and, after leaving Bessie, she wandered aimlessly on to the woods and threw herself down on the thick undergrowth in an abandon of misery and dread.
She—she Bartley Bradstone’s wife; she who could not endure the sight of his face, she upon whose ear his very voice and laugh jarred! It was terrible; and yet—and yet there was no other way of saving her father, whom she loved with a passionate devotion. Her hot hands clasped each other fiercely, her cheek burned as if she could almost feel the outrage of the man’s kiss; then the paroxysm passed, and left her pale and wan and weary, and she lay with her head against a tree and her hands lying loosely in her lap, lovelier in her exhaustion than in her passionate indignation.
And it was at this moment that Harold Faradeane, leading his horse up the narrow footpath, came upon her. For a moment she did not hear the sound of the horse’s feet upon the thick undergrowth of moss and bracken; then it seemed as if she felt the dark, sad eyes fixed upon her, for she turned her head and, her pale, lovely face growing warmer, rose to her feet, putting her hand to her brow with a half-startled gesture.
He tossed the bridle over the horse’s neck, and came toward her; and as he did so Olivia knew why the idea of being Bartley Bradstone’s wife seemed more terrible now than it had done a few weeks ago: knew by the sudden leap of her heart, the swift rush of her young blood through all her veins at the sight of this other man!
“I’m afraid I’ve startled you,” he said, as he took her hand; it burnt and throbbed like an imprisoned bird in his firm grasp. “Miss Bessie told me I should find you here, and I was lucky enough to hit upon the right path. What a delightful spot you have chosen! A Dryads’ perfect nook,” he added, talking to give her time to recover from her surprise, and looking round slowly.
She put her hands to her face and smoothed her hair, with one of those delicate, little touches peculiar to her, and stooped for her hat, which she had tossed aside, but he was quicker, and got it for her.
“Thank you,” she said, and her voice, sweet at all times, smote upon his ears like a melody too subtle for description. “Yes, it is pretty; I—I often come here. Were you going to the house? My father is in, I know. I will come, too.”
“I was going to the house,” he said, and he spoke slowly, as if he were keeping a strict guard upon his words, his very tone. “But it was not to see Mr. Vanley; I wanted to see you.”
“To see me!” she echoed, and, his gaze fixed on the ground, he did not see the sudden expansion of her eyes or the swift rush of blood to her face. “To see me!” and her hand stole shyly to her heart for an instant.