“Mr. Bradstone, miss,” he said, handing her a card on a salver. “He is in the drawing-room with Mr. Vanley.”
Olivia hesitated, but only for a moment; then, in a voice that sounded strained and unnatural, she said:
“Very well, I will see him in a minute or two.”
Then she went upstairs to her room, and flung herself on the bed, and for a few minutes lay motionless, struggling for calm and self-possession.
She had passed the Rubicon; she had declared herself engaged to marry Bartley Bradstone, and she would carry out her resolution; but how gladly would she have died rather than go down and tell him so!
She rose after a few minutes and bathed her face, then went slowly downstairs.
The squire had left the room, and Bartley Bradstone was walking to and fro over the thick Persian carpet, biting his nails, and looking like a man waiting for the verdict of a court trying him for a capital offense, and as the door opened he turned with a start that was very much like that of a culprit.
Olivia did not offer him her hand, but stood before him with pale face and downcast eyes.
“You wished to see me,” she said, and the words sounded like those spoken by a cleverly-constructed automaton.
“Yes,” he said, nervously, raising his restless eyes to her beautiful face. “Yes, I—I could not wait any longer. I—I was anxious and—and upset. I meant to give you more time, but—I haven’t slept a wink since last night. Miss Vanley—Olivia—you can’t guess how I love you,” and he moistened his dry lips.