“I am not so blind as not to see your game——” began Bartley Bradstone.
Faradeane held up his hand.
“Silence,” he said, sternly. “Do not connect her name with mine, even in your thoughts. You know as little of my heart and my motives as you know—Heaven help you!—of hers. Be content with your success; try, in Heaven’s name, try with all the strength you possess, to be more worthy of her. You think you love her—be sure you reverence her! I use no empty threats, Bradstone, when I say—I who am separated from her by a gulf that can never be bridged—that I demand her happiness at your hands. Dare to insult her again as you have done to-night——” He stopped, his face set, his eyes flashing. Then he laid his hand upon the other man’s now trembling arm. “That’s enough; we understand each other, I think.”
“I want to know——” stammered Bartley, looking him up and down, but carefully avoiding meeting the steadfast regard of the now calm eyes.
“You want to know by what authority I dare bid you to be careful of her happiness as you would of your wealth. By the authority which goes with the title of—friend. Yes”—his voice changed—“I am Miss Vanley’s friend in more than mere name. I know you, Bradstone; I read you through and through the first time we met, and I warn you against—yourself. It is because I am her friend that I will not quarrel with you. More: I am willing to regard you as”—the words came with some difficulty—“a friend, so long, and no longer, as you guard and protect her happiness. The moment you cease to do that——” He stopped, and looked the craven steadily in the eyes. “Go in now, and if you have a spark of manliness and gratitude in you, beg her pardon. Stop!” for Bradstone, not daring to utter the oath which trembled on his lips, made a movement as if to avail himself of the permission to retreat. “Think over what I have said, and for the future do not regard me as—your rival. If you and Miss Vanley had never met, there could have been no closer tie between her and me. Let that satisfy you. Good-night. As her future husband, Bradstone, I offer you my hand.”
Bradstone took it with lowered face, and Faradeane, with another steady look at him, turned and walked away.
Bartley Bradstone stood staring at the ground for a moment or two; then he raised his head, and, shaking his fist in the direction Faradeane had taken, relieved himself with a series of oaths.
If, as the Spaniards, say, bad men’s curses come home to roost, Mr. Bartley Bradstone’s future hencoop would have been full of them.
“Friend! Yes, I know the sort of friend. I’m not taken in by your fine talk! I’m not such a fool as you take me for! Friend! I’ve got a treasure, have I? Yes, a treasure you’d like to rob me of; but you won’t, I think, my fine Mr. Faradeane! No, I think not! You threaten me, do you? I’ll show you! Yes, and I’ll have her soon, too!” he breathed passionately. “There’s no time to lose if I understand your game, Mr. Faradeane.” He tugged at his cuffs, and endeavored to calm himself as he walked toward the house. “Yes, I’ll do it; the iron’s hot, and I’ll strike, and then——”