She stopped him by putting her arms round his neck and drawing his worn face to hers.
“Why did you buy me anything, dear?” she murmured. “I only want what I have got—your love!” and she strained him to her with an almost protecting embrace. But though the squire’s eyes filled with tears as he bent over her, hers were dry and hot, and wore a restless, feverish expression.
Restless would indeed best describe her state of mind since the day had been fixed for the wedding.
As Aunt Amelia said, reproachfully, it seemed as if she could not remain in one place for five minutes together, or settle to any one occupation. She wandered about the house and grounds during the day, and paced her room at night, her eyes fixed with a restless unquiet upon vacancy. But she wore the mask before the world so well that not even Faradeane could read the anguish and misery which tortured her; and if at times the ordeal through which she must pass seemed too terrible to be endured, the thought of her father and the peace she would purchase for him nerved her for the sacrifice.
Meanwhile, Bartley Bradstone had filled The Maples with an army of upholsterers, and new and luxurious as the place was already, it was to be made still more gorgeous for the reception of his bride.
Two days before the wedding, which was to take place on the Wednesday, it suddenly occurred to him that he had not yet got a best man; and, promoted by a malicious desire to make the most of his triumph, he proposed that Faradeane should occupy that position.
They were sitting at lunch, and Faradeane had walked across to the Grange, and allowed himself to be persuaded to stay.
“I want you to be my best man on Wednesday, Faradeane,” said Bradstone in an offhand way, and with a sidelong glance at Olivia. She kept her eyes fixed upon her plate, and did not see the swift change which came over Faradeane’s face. For a moment he was silent, and Bartley Bradstone, taking it for consent, went on, airily, “It isn’t a difficult part, I believe; anyway, I’m sure you’d play it capitally—wouldn’t he, squire?”
The squire looked at the grave face, which had grown paler even than usual, but was perfectly calm and self-possessed.
“Will you, Faradeane?” he said in his quiet way.