Then she would sigh heavily—and ah! so wistfully and wearily—and go down to the drawing-room to see his tall, patrician figure and handsome face beside the plebeian one of Bartley Bradstone, her future husband.
All through the dinner Bartley Bradstone would covertly watch the two, even while he was apparently engaged with his plate or in talk with the squire; but his sharp, suspicious eyes never detected the slightest hint of any understanding between her and Faradeane. Always pleasant and courteous, sometimes witty and amusing, Faradeane never singled her out for any special attention of any kind; and Bartley Bradstone guessed nothing of the scene in the woods, had no idea of the effect upon Olivia which every word of Faradeane’s, every smile of his, produced.
The days sped on without anything of consequence occurring, until Bartley Bradstone struck.
One evening, just after the post had come in, Olivia went into the study to get a fresh supply of notepaper, and found the squire pacing up and down, with an ashen face and tightly-drawn lips. In his trembling hand was an open letter, which, at her entrance, he crushed up and thrust into his pocket.
“Papa!” she said in a low, anxious voice, and, going up to him instantly, “what is the matter?”
“Nothing, nothing, dear!” he said, and his voice sounded harsh and strained. “That is, I have had a troublesome letter.”
“Let me see it, dear,” she said, putting her arms round his neck.
“No, no!” he replied, hurriedly. “It—it is nothing you would understand; only a business matter.”
“But let me see it, dear,” she pleaded. “I may be able to help you; at any rate, I can share the trouble with you,” she added, sweetly.
But he shook his head.