“It is a compact,” he said, gravely. “Believe me, I will keep it. If ever the time should come——”
He stopped abruptly, for the window was flung open, and Bartley Bradstone came out hurriedly.
“It’s—it’s thoughtless and—and cruel of her,” they heard him say, angrily. “Out at this time of night and alone——”
“My dear Bartley,” said the squire’s quiet voice, “Olivia has been so accustomed to wandering about the place since she was a child.”
“Oh, ah, yes, that’s all very well; but it’s different now,” retorted Bartley Bradstone; “things are altered. She ought to remember that she’s going to be my wife, and——”
By this time Olivia and Faradeane had partly ascended the steps, and he had seen them. He stopped suddenly and glared down at them with an expression of angry suspicion and jealousy which rendered his rather good-looking face positively ugly, and a passionate oath leaped from his lips.
“This—this is pretty!” he exclaimed, looking between them—for even in his passion he could not face Olivia’s clear, cold eyes, or Faradeane’s calm gaze.
“Where have you been, Olivia?” asked the squire, gently.
She went up to him and laid her hand on his arm.
“I ran down to the lodge to see Bessie, and Mr. Faradeane kindly offered to come back to the house with me, dear,” she said.