OLIVIA

OR

IT WAS FOR HER SAKE

BY

CHARLES GARVICE

AUTHOR OF

“Lonie; or, Hollow Gold,” “Claire,” “Elaine,” “Leola Dale’s Fortune,” “Leslie’s Loyalty,” etc.

NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, Publishers

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OLIVIA.

CHAPTER I.
SOMETHING OF A MYSTERY.

It was in the “merry month” of May, the “beautiful harbinger of summer,” as the poets call it; and one of those charming east winds which render England such a delightful place of residence for the delicate and consumptive, and are truly a boon and a blessing to the doctors and undertakers, was blowing gaily through one of the lovely villages of Devonshire, and insidiously stealing through the half opened French windows of the drawing-room of Hawkwood Grange.

Three persons were seated in this drawing-room. An old gentleman, a lady—who would have had a fit on the spot if any one had called her old—and a young girl.

The old gentleman was called Sparrow—Mr. Sparrow, the solicitor, of Wainford, the market town and borough three miles off. The old—the middle-aged and would-be youthful lady—was Miss Amelia Vanley, the maiden sister of the master of Hawkwood Grange; and the young lady was Olivia Vanley, his daughter, and, therefore, Miss Amelia’s niece.

Miss Amelia was presiding at the five o’clock teatable; Mr. Sparrow was performing the difficult feat of balancing a teacup in one hand and a bread-and-butter plate in the other; and Olivia was seated at the piano, which she occasionally touched absently as she half listened to the other two. On a chair beside her was a sealskin jacket—there had been snow on this “merry” May morning, if you please—and she still wore her hat.

Above the piano hung one of those old-fashioned circular mirrors which reflect the face and bust of the player, and it presented a face which was beautiful, and something more than beautiful.

We have lost our climate and our trade—so it is said—but thank Heaven, there are still pretty girls left in England. When they disappear, it will be time for us to put up the shutters and vacate the island; but until that happens, it will still be worth living in.

To be consistent with her name, Olivia should have been of a dark and olive complexion; but the only thing dark in the lovely face were the hazel eyes. Her hair was an auburn chestnut, which Joshua Reynolds loved to paint, with eyebrows to match; mouth “rather large,” as Miss Amelia declared—she possessed, and was exceedingly proud of, one of the well known speaking doll pattern—but as expressive as the eyes. Face and figure were eloquent of youth and perfect health, and her voice was full of that music which youth and health and womanly refinement and delicacy combine to give.

The Grange was the principal house in Hawkwood, and the room was a very fair specimen of the drawing-rooms in a modern country mansion.

Mr. Sparrow was speaking, and his thin, piping voice chimed in not discordantly with the treble notes which Olivia’s hand now and again touched.

“There is—er—something of a mystery about it, and I—er—dislike mysteries, Miss Amelia.”

“Do you, really?” responded Miss Amelia, with a girlish simper. “Now, I love a mystery, Mr. Sparrow; but then we poor women are so fond of romance and—and all that. We have the softer, the more poetic nature, I suppose. You men are so hard!” And she stuck her head very much on one side at the tame-looking old lawyer, who straightened himself as well as he was able under the disadvantage of the teacup and plate, and tried to look as if he were, indeed, hard and practical. “And you do think, there is a mystery! How charming! You really must tell us all about it; we are dying to hear the whole—the whole story. Aren’t we, Olivia?”

The young girl gave the very faintest inclination of her head by way of response, and silently pressed down a chord.

“There’s not much to tell, as a matter of fact,” said Mr. Sparrow, with the little cough with which old gentlemen preface a story they are anxious to relate. “Last Friday my clerk came into my room and said that a gentleman wished to see me. He gave the name of Faradeane.”

“Faradeane! Dear me, how strange, really!” murmured Miss Amelia, who would have made the same comment if the name had been Smith.

“Yes, Faradeane. It was quite unknown to me,” continued Mr. Sparrow, “and the gentleman was quite as unknown. He was a young man and—and a gentleman. There can be no doubt about that. I—er—think I know a gentleman when I see him, Miss Amelia.”

“Indeed, yes,” murmured Miss Amelia, promptly. “Was he very young?”

“About thirty, I should say,” replied Mr. Sparrow, thoughtfully. “Yes, about thirty. A London man; I should say, judging by his clothes. He was very well dressed, very well, indeed. Plainly, but well. I gave him a chair, and he came to the point at once by asking me if I were the owner of The Dell. I said I was, with some surprise, for really I had quite forgotten the little place. It has been shut up so long—it must be just seven years since the last people left it; rather over seven years. He said he had heard that I wanted to sell it, and asked the price. I told him, and—eh—on the spur of the moment, taken so completely by surprise, I stated a price which I cannot help thinking was—er—rather low.”

“Then he accepted it?” said the low, sweet voice of Olivia, and Mr. Sparrow started and colored slightly.

“I nearly forgot you were in the room, my dear Miss Olivia,” he said, with a smile. “Yes, like the Jew who regretted he hadn’t asked more. Yes, yes! He accepted, and at once! ‘If you will have the draft deed made out, I’ll sign it,’ he said, quietly.”

“Dear me, how very sudden and prompt!” murmured Miss Amelia.

“Y—es,” said the old man; “but we lawyers are not accustomed to such suddenness, and I—er—I felt it my duty to ask him for the name of his legal adviser, to whom I might send the draft, and—er—for references.”

“Of course,” assented Miss Amelia.

The girl held her hands above the keys, and turned half round, as if absently waiting for the sequel.

“Well, my dear Miss Amelia, I was very much surprised, indeed, by his response to my very natural request. ‘Send the draft to me at the George Inn, where I am staying,’ he said, quite quietly and indifferently. Oh, quite! His manner was perfect, though—er—rather haughty and reserved, perhaps. ‘Send the draft to the George. As to the references, I need not trouble you with them, as I am quite willing to pay any deposit—or the whole amount, if you like, here and now.’”

“Now, really!” exclaimed Miss Amelia, in a subdued murmur.

Olivia struck the chord softly, and smiled.

“Of course, such a proceeding was quite unusual and—er—unbusinesslike,” continued Mr. Sparrow; “but it was scarcely one I could object to. I was the vendor, he the purchaser, and—er—in short, I declined to accept any money, and sent the draft to the George the next morning. It came back in an hour, the deeds were engrossed that afternoon, duly signed, and the money paid.”

“By check?” murmured Miss Amelia, with some shrewdness.

Mr. Sparrow nodded approvingly.

“No, my dear Miss Amelia, for if it had been a check I should probably, as it no doubt occurred to you, have been able to learn something of Mr. Faradeane through his bankers. The money was paid in gold and notes, which are, to all intents and purposes, untraceable. Thank you; one more cup. Two pieces of sugar. Thank you. In gold and notes. So far, I think you will admit, the proceedings were—er—slightly mysterious.”

“Charmingly so,” assented Miss Amelia.

“And they are nothing to what follows,” said Mr. Sparrow, with a knowing nod. “Having obtained possession of The Dell, Mr. Faradeane has had it put in repair throughout, and is now actually residing there!”

“There was only one thing more mysterious he could have been guilty of,” said Olivia, with a smile. “He could have let it!”

“Wait a moment, my dear Miss Olivia,” said Mr. Sparrow. “There is nothing mysterious in his living at The Dell, but the manner of his living. In the first place, he is living there with only one servant—a manservant; in the next, no woman is permitted to pass the gate. I must give it as a fact. Old Mrs. Williams, from the farm, was stopped by the manservant as she was entering the gate with some eggs and butter, and informed, quite civilly, but firmly, that no female would be permitted to enter the premises, and that for the future she must leave her basket outside.”

“Good gra——” gasped Miss Amelia.

“More than that,” continued Mr. Sparrow, in a state of mild excitement; “Mrs. Williams tells me that the place is barricaded as if for a siege, and that a large mastiff is prowling—loose, actually loose!—about the place, day and night.”

“Great Heav——” Miss Amelia tried to ejaculate, but Mr. Sparrow, thoroughly warmed to his work, rushed on:

“I’ve heard, too, from several people, that lights are seen burning in the windows nearly the whole night through. Indeed, the people in the village—of course it’s very foolish—declare that Mr. Faradeane never goes to bed. Several persons have seen him walking up and down The Dell lane at the most unearthly hours. Now, Miss Olivia, what do you think of the affair?” and the little man leaned back with an air of satisfaction.

Olivia laughed thoughtfully.

“Yes, it is rather mysterious,” she admitted, to his palpable delight. “Do you think that he is a coiner, or simply a gentleman suffering from the pangs of a guilty conscience?”

Mr. Sparrow could not see the twinkle in the dark eyes, and as the sweet voice was perfectly grave, took the question seriously.

“Well, I must confess that the thought did—er—cross my mind; I mean in respect to coining; one reads such—er—extraordinary stories.”

“Ah, yes!” breathed Miss Amelia, with a delighted little gasp. “Good gracious! fancy a coiner in Hawkwood! Of course you have hinted your suspicions to Smallbone?”

Smallbone was the village policeman, who, if having nothing to do from one year’s end to the other can produce happiness, should have been in a continual state of felicity.

“Well—er—no,” said Mr. Sparrow.

“Perhaps it occurred to Mr. Sparrow, aunt, that even coiners are not so utterly imbecile as to set about their work by attracting the attention of all their neighbors,” said Olivia.

“Ahem! That is true! That is very true,” remarked Mr. Sparrow, with a little cough. “And I confess that the counterfeit coinage theory scarcely holds good. Mr. Faradeane does not give one the idea of—er—that class of criminal.”

“Is he more like a burglar?” asked Olivia, with apparent innocence.

Mr. Sparrow shook his head.

“No, no, dear me, no! I think I said he was most distinguished-looking. Quite—er—aristocratic, and—er—patrician. Remarkably good looking, also.”

Miss Amelia pushed her chair nearer a book cabinet, and seized “The Peerage.”

“Oh, I’ve looked through that,” remarked Mr. Sparrow, with charming simplicity. “There is no mention of the name of Faradeane in that or ‘The County Families.’”

Miss Amelia closed the book with a gesture of despair.

“Is there no way of finding out something about him, dear Mr. Sparrow?”

“I know of none,” he replied, solemnly.

“And I can only think of one,” said Olivia.

Both pairs of eyes were turned upon her with eager impatience.

“Really! Now, what is that, my dear?” demanded Aunt Amelia.

“You might ask him to tell you his history,” she said, without moving a muscle.

Aunt Amelia sunk back with a gesture of disgusted disappointment, and Mr. Sparrow coughed.

“I—er—have reason to believe that the manservant was asked a question or two——”

“By you, Mr. Sparrow?” said Olivia, still with the expression of an innocent child.

The little man blushed.

“Well, not exactly; but my man Walker happened to meet Mr. Faradeane’s man, and got into conversation.”

“And what did he say?” demanded Miss Amelia, eagerly.

“Well, I regret to say that he told poor Walker to mind his own business.”

Olivia had only time to turn to the piano to hide the smile which seemed to flash across her face and dance in her eyes like a ray of sunshine.

“Well, I really never——Of course, no one will think of calling upon him,” said Miss Amelia.

Again Mr. Sparrow colored guiltily.

“I—er—thought it my duty as a neighbor,” he said, hesitatingly, “to just call. It was yesterday. The dog”—he shuddered, and screwed up his slender legs, as if at some painful recollection—“the dog is one of the largest and—most awful animals, and I am convinced if the servant hadn’t come up at the moment, I——” He shuddered again. “He said his master was out. I saw Mr. Faradeane walking in the orchard at the side of the cottage quite distinctly.”

“Then he was out,” said Olivia, gravely.

“My dear Olivia,” exclaimed her aunt, “you seem to be quite anxious to make excuses for this extraordinary young man; you do, indeed!”

“Well, it can’t be denied that he was out of the house,” said Olivia, as gravely as before. “We usually look over the stairs and whisper to the servants to say that we are not at home. For the future I shall imitate Mr.—what-is-his-name’s veracity, and go out into the garden.”

“The man added that his master never saw visitors,” said Mr. Sparrow, solemnly.

There was something so irresistibly ludicrous in the little old man’s tone that Olivia’s gravity broke down, and she burst into a peal of laughter. While it was ringing through the room, and the other two were staring at her in startled astonishment and indignation, two gentlemen entered. One—an elderly man, tall and thin, with gray hair and eyes that had a look of Olivia’s in them—was her father, Mr. Vanley. The other was a young man in flannels—a young man who would have been good looking but for a remarkably faulty mouth and an expression in his eyes which seemed to convey the idea to the spectator that their owner was always on the alert listening and watching, and yet endeavoring to conceal the fact.

As Olivia looked up and met the eyes fixed upon her with a sudden, eager curiosity, then turned aside with as sudden an attempt at indifference, the laughter died away abruptly and a sudden change came over her expressive face. It was as if she had hardened it. A moment ago it had been full of girlish mirth and abandon; now in an instant it was eloquent of reserve and almost hauteur.

“What is the matter, Olivia?” asked Mr. Vanley, not irritably, but with a touch of sober earnestness, almost amounting to anxiety, which was always present with him. “What are you laughing at? Good-afternoon, Mr. Sparrow.”

The young man came forward.

“Do tell us, Miss Olivia!” he said, throwing as much eagerness into his voice as possible. “Pray let us share the joke.”

“It was no joke,” she said, calmly; and turning away, began to arrange some music.

“Miss Olivia was laughing at me,” said Mr. Sparrow, almost plaintively.

“My dear Edwin—and you, Mr. Bradstone—you must hear this strange story of Mr. Sparrow’s. Now, Mr. Sparrow, I insist!” exclaimed Miss Amelia, clasping her hands in the latest “intensity.”

Mr. Sparrow was nothing loth, and Mr. Vanley sank into a chair with so palpable an air of resignation that a smile flitted across Olivia’s face. Perhaps that encouraged Bartley Bradstone, for he approached her in a slow, hesitating kind of fashion, and talked to her in a low voice—he was watching her cold, downcast face covertly all the time—while Mr. Sparrow inflicted his story of the mysterious stranger upon Mr. Vanley.

The master of the Grange listened in silence until the narration was complete, and the old gentleman paused to see the effect of his recital; then Mr. Vanley looked up and said, quietly:

“Not a very promising neighbor. One would think he was insane; not that the purchase of The Dell is the act of a lunatic. It is the prettiest little place in the country.”

He rose as he spoke, and, walking to the window, looked out pensively at the chimneys of The Dell, which just peeped over the tops of his own elms growing on the slope of the lane, at the bottom of which The Dell nestled.

“Yes, it is,” said Miss Amelia; “and I am sure I have always wondered why you didn’t buy it yourself, my dear Edwin, seeing that it is almost within your own estate.”

Mr. Vanley’s face clouded for an instant, and he cast a glance toward Bartley Bradstone; then he said, with a slight shrug:

“I have quite enough to worry about. Besides, I didn’t know that Mr. Sparrow wished to part with it.”

“I didn’t—that is—I had no idea of it,” said the old gentleman, nervously. “The—the fact is, this young man—Mr. Faradeane, I mean—took me by surprise.”

“At all events, you have got your price for it,” said Mr. Vanley, as if rather tired of the subject, “and I”—with a grave smile—“should in all probability have beaten you down.”

“I’d rather you had bought it at half the price,” murmured Mr. Sparrow, meekly.

“Well, well,” said Mr. Vanley, almost impatiently. “It is too late now, and—there’s an end of the matter.” He turned to the pair at the piano, and regarded them for a moment. “I shall be in the library if you want to see me before you go, Bradstone,” he said.

Bartley Bradstone looked over his shoulder carelessly—too carelessly for a young man addressing his senior.

“All right,” he said, “I’ll look in as I go.”

CHAPTER II.
“THE CHERUB.”

Mr. Vanley was not only Bartley Bradstone’s senior, but his superior in looks and status.

The Vanleys had held Hawkwood Grange for centuries, and there was no name better known in Devonshire than that which the squire bore. Twice a baronetage and once a peerage had been offered to the Vanleys; but to a Vanley the old English and old Devonshire title of “Squire” was too dear to be exchanged for any other, though it might be higher rank; and so Squire Vanley, the master of the Grange, refused, and certainly was not the less respected for his refusal of a peerage.

While as to Mr. Bartley Bradstone, as the French wit remarked, “He may have had a grandfather, but no one has yet been found credulous enough to believe it!”

Five years before this notable afternoon, Mr. Bradstone had purchased an estate within three miles of the Grange. Perhaps it would be as well to be exact, and explain that he had loaned money on the place, and, foreclosing, got possession of it.

An old, but rather ramshackle house stood upon it—a house quite large enough for a bachelor, by the way—but Mr. Bradstone pulled it down, and in its place built a huge mansion which, by its highly florid architecture, was far more suitable to South Kensington than North Devon.

It was a tremendous place, all gables and turrets, and being built of red brick, with white stone facings, was terribly conspicuous. Olivia had remarked, the first time she saw it, which happened to be on a blazing hot day, that “no one ought to look upon it, except through green spectacles.” And she added that it would be useful in winter—to warm one’s hands at!

The interior was decorated and furnished in strict accordance with the very latest canons of the very latest art craze; and, as if to atone for the red glare of the exterior, the inside was cold and repelling.

Mr. Bartley Bradstone, however, considered it perfection; and here he settled down. The country people were shy of him at first. Devonshire is celebrated for apples, cider and—exclusiveness. Nothing was known of the newcomer, excepting that he was rich; there was no doubt about that—immensely rich; and those who had been thrown into his company were not prepossessed by him. There was that look in his eyes, for one thing; and, for another, with all his careful dressing and studiously “correct” manners, Mr. Bartley Bradstone did not seem, to the very particular country people, to be—well, exactly a gentleman.

But after a time the squire, who had met him once or twice in the market town, seen him at church, touched his hat to him at the meet—of course the squire was the master of the hounds—at last the squire made a formal call upon Mr. Bartley Bradstone at The Maples, as he called the red monstrosity.

That which was good enough for Squire Vanley was, of course, good enough for the rest of the county people, and Mr. Bartley Bradstone was not only asked out to dinner, but, greater honor still, had the gratification of seeing the best people of the neighborhood round his own—new—mahogany.

He gave good dinners—too good, it was whispered; too many covers, too many wines, with too much plate, and too many servants.

“It’s a pity,” remarked Lord Carfield to the squire, as they walked home after one of Mr. Bartley’s dinners, “that there is no one to caution these parvenus against overdoing it. Give you my word, Vanley, I felt all the evening as if I were dining at one of those new hotels in London, where they give you twelve courses, served in a gaudy room, all gilt and white paint, and play music at you all the time. I suppose you have twice as much plate? I have some”—the Carfield plate was the boast of that part of Devonshire—“but we never think of making a silversmith’s counter of our dinner-table every time we ask a neighbor to dinner.”

“He means well,” said the squire.

“Just so,” said the old lord. “That makes it all the worse. It’s a hopeless case.”

They were near neighbors, and an intimacy sprang up between Mr. Bartley Bradstone, the millionaire, and the Squire of Hawkwood. The young man would ride over—on a long park horse, which he rode abominably!—to the Grange in the morning, and was often easily persuaded to stop to lunch. Sometimes he would remain to dinner, a servant being sent to The Maples for Mr. Bradstone’s evening clothes. Miss Amelia quite liked him, and the squire, as has been said, was intimate with him; but he made no way with Olivia. From the first moment she had seen him, when her frank eyes had rested upon his restless, shifting ones, she had kept him at a distance, so to speak.

If her father had brought home the village sweep to dinner, she would have treated him courteously and extended a welcome to him; and that is all she did to Bartley Bradstone. While he——! He was as much in love with Olivia Vanley as utterly selfish man can be, and he had sworn to himself that he would have her. Now, Bartley Bradstone, though he was not a gentleman, though he overdressed, gave too elaborate dinners, and made occasional mistakes in etiquette, was both rich and clever. The man who had bought him for a fool would have lost his money. Olivia, who despised him, was wrong in doing so. She should have been on her guard and—feared him. All the while Mr. Sparrow was repeating his story to Mr. Vanley, Bartley Bradstone was talking in an undertone to her.

“It’s just a simple picnic, a rough affair, but I’ll promise you shan’t be bored, Miss Vanley,” he said. “The squire is coming, and he told me—that is, he said I might ask you. I hope you will come. Lord Carfield is coming, and has promised to bring his son, Viscount Granville. Lord Granville arrives at his father’s to-night. You know him—the viscount, I mean?”

“Bertie Granville? Oh, yes. ‘The Cherub,’ as he is called.”

“That’s the man,” said Bartley Bradstone, with a faint flush. He would not have dared to call him “Bertie” or “The Cherub.” “Well, he is coming, and I hope to persuade Miss Amelia, too. But the whole thing will be spoilt if you refuse.”

Olivia looked at him from under her lids—the look which makes a man—that is, if he has a sensitive skin—feel as if he had been struck by a whip. “I don’t quite see how my absence could spoil your picnic, Mr. Bradstone,” she said, coldly.

He lowered his restless eyes, and caught at his upper lip with his teeth. They were whole and even, but rather too large.

“I mean that it would be spoilt for me,” he said, and added, nervously, “and—and for the rest, of course. Please say ‘Yes,’ Miss Vanley.”

Olivia looked straight before her, with that expression in her eyes which belongs to the unfettered maiden spirit. “I will see,” she said, calmly. “You are not listening to Mr. Sparrow’s story, Mr. Bradstone.”

He was too wise to press her further, and at once turned away toward the old lawyer, and listened to him for a moment or two; then he turned to the door with a contemptuous laugh.

“You’ve sold your property to some fellow who is in hiding from his tailor, Mr. Sparrow,” he said. “Pity you didn’t sell it to me; I’d have given you twice the sum for it this man has given. Shouldn’t be surprised if we have the police down here directly looking for him. ’Pon my word, you ought to be more careful, Mr. Sparrow,” and with a patronizing nod he left the room, pausing for a minute or two to present his invitation to Miss Amelia.

This last straw broke down Mr. Sparrow’s back, and shortly afterward he took himself off, feeling that he had, by selling his property to the mysterious unknown, not only offended his neighbor, but actually lost money!

“How nice of Mr. Bradstone to arrange this picnic, Olivia,” said her aunt, when Mr. Sparrow had sorrowfully taken his departure. “He is always so kind and thoughtful in planning these little parties. Of course you will go, dear.”

“I don’t know,” said Olivia, absently.

She was standing by the window, looking down on the chimneys of The Dell, as her father had done, and thinking of the strange character who had become owner of the cottage.

“You don’t know! My dear Olivia, what a strange reply. Why shouldn’t you go?”

“Why should I?” said Olivia, without turning her head.

Miss Amelia sniffed, and uttered the little cough which always served as a prelude to the lectures which she frequently felt it “her duty” to deliver to her niece.

“Now, my dear Olivia, I do hope that you will not permit yourself to—to—disappoint our excellent young friend. It is evident that he has got up this little affair in your honor, and it would surely be ungracious to disappoint him. Ungraciousness, if I may coin a word, in a lady is, my dear Olivia, unpardonable. Often and often have I, at great inconvenience, accepted an invitation rather than appear ungracious. And I do hope——”

“Is there any tea left, auntie?” broke in Olivia. “You forget me when you are surrounded by your admirers.”

Miss Amelia bridled, then smiled, and simpered:

“My dear Olivia, how can you be so ridiculous? My admirers! I’m sure Mr. Sparrow is old enough to be my grandfather”—in which case poor Mr. Sparrow must have been a modern Methuselah—“and as to Mr. Bradstone, it is not me whom he admires——”

“No sugar, thanks,” said Olivia, cutting in abruptly.

“No! Any one with half an eye could see who it is that he admires, and whose society he seeks. And I must say, my dear Olivia, while I am on the subject, that for a young girl, scarcely out of her teens, your conduct is too cold——”

“This tea is cold,” said Olivia.

“Far too cold,” continued Miss Amelia, disregarding the interruption. “Mr. Bartley Bradstone is a young man worthy of every respect.”

“It is a pity his horse doesn’t share your opinion, auntie,” said Olivia, looking through the window. “It doesn’t appear to respect him in the least. Some of these days it will carry its disrespect so far as to throw him off.”

“Mr. Bradstone may not be a jockey. I repeat, he may not be a jockey; but, all the same, he is a young man worth due consideration. Olivia, do you forget that he is a millionaire—a millionaire!”

“Neither I nor he forgets it,” said Olivia, succinctly.

“Wealth—wealth, my dear Olivia, has its responsibilities and its—its—I may say its claims to our respect.”

“Yes, I know,” said Olivia. “No one accuses you of forgetting what is due to it, auntie.”

“No, my dear. I can lay my hand upon my heart——”

But Olivia had already stepped through the window, and what Miss Amelia would do or say when she laid her hand upon her heart, must remain a mystery.

Olivia paused a moment, looking out upon the view which stretched over an exquisite panorama of wooded vales, and

“... Meadows all bedight

With buttercups and daisies, elves’ delight.”

Then she wandered down the broad garden path, and, with the same air of dreamy self-communion, passed out by the lodge gate into the road. Two dogs, which had been lying asleep on the lawn, had sprung up at the sound of her light footstep, and followed her, barking and yapping in frantic delight.

As she stopped to speak to and pet them, there came out from behind the lodge a small pony-cart, in which was seated a young girl. She was about seventeen, with a pretty, innocent face, from which a pair of soft, brown eyes looked out appealingly. It was the lodge-keeper’s daughter. She colored with timid pleasure at the sight of Olivia, and pulled up the pony, who resented the operation, and made the courtesy she attempted an impossibility.

“Why, Bessie!” said Olivia, going up to the side of the cart. “Are you going for a drive?”

“Yes, miss,” replied the girl, with respectful affection alike in her eyes and in her voice. “I am going to Wainford for father.”

“To Wainford?” said Olivia. “I am almost tempted to go with you.”

“Oh, Miss Olivia,” murmured the girl, with a rapturous delight, “if you would!”

Olivia shook her head laughingly.

“I’m afraid I mustn’t, Bessie. Wainford is too far; I should be late for dinner, and the squire would never forgive either of us. Never mind,” she added, consolingly, as Bessie’s face fell from the dizzy heights of eagerness to the uttermost depths of disappointment; “I will go some other time. I have often wanted to have a ride with you behind that famous pony. What a restless little monkey it is! Take care of him, Bessie! But I suppose you understand each other?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Olivia!” said Bessie. “And you won’t come?” with a sigh. “Well! Is there anything I can do for you, miss? Anything I can bring you?”

Olivia was about to shake her head, when, divining that the girl would be somewhat consoled for her disappointment if she had some errand to perform, she said:

“Oh, yes, Bessie! Will you bring me a yard of ribbon to match this on my hat?”

“Yes, miss,” said Bessie, brightening up. “To match exactly?”

“Oh, near will do” said Olivia. “Stay!” And, taking off her hat, she clipped a piece of ribbon off a bow. “There, as near as you can get it. I hope you will have a pleasant drive, and remember I am coming with you some day—soon.”

“Oh, do, miss!” Bessie exclaimed, or rather jerked out, for the pony, having completely exhausted its patience, declined to wait any longer over such trivialities, and dashed off; and Olivia stood watching Bessie’s frantic efforts to reduce the gallop to a trot, until the pony and its pretty, innocent-faced mistress were lost in a bend of the road.

Then, all unconsciously, though she was thinking of Mr. Sparrow’s account of the new owner of The Dell, Olivia wandered in that direction, and it was almost with a start that she found herself within a few yards of the gate, through which, according to Mr. Sparrow, no female would be allowed to pass.

The Dell was one of those picturesque cottages which all of us have, at some time or other in our lives, had a hankering after. It stood in a hollow, shaded by some beautiful trees, and in a garden which was literally ablaze with crocuses and hyacinths, and the spring flowers which Wordsworth—and Lord Beaconsfield—so dearly loved. The roof was of thatch, the windows diamond-paned, and the whole place as choice a specimen of a country cottage as ever shone on painter’s canvas.

Olivia glanced at it for a moment, then turned aside to follow a lane opposite the gate, when a voice called in accents of delighted greeting:

“Miss Vanley! Olivia!” and a young fellow sprang over a stile and ran toward her.

He was young, not more than twenty, with bright blue eyes, and hair—too short to allow it to curl—of a bright golden yellow. When he smiled—as he was doing now—his whole face, eyes, lips, and even his slight yellow mustache, seemed to smile, and his voice rang out soft and musical almost as a girl’s. This was Viscount Granville, the Earl of Carfield’s son and heir, though Bertie and the Cherub were his usual appellations, bestowed on him by a vast circle of friends and admirers of both sexes, who did their level best to spoil one of the sweetest natures which Heaven had ever bestowed upon a lad.

Olivia went to meet him with a smile which Mr. Bartley Bradstone would have given a thousand pounds to have called up.

“Why, Bertie!” she exclaimed.

“I’m the luckiest beggar in the world,” he said, laughingly, as he wrung her hand in his own ridiculously small one. “Do you know I was going up to the Grange; but I just stepped into the wood to see if I could find an anemone or two—I know you like them—and I saw the dogs. Now, fancy my meeting you, and having you all to myself to walk up to the Grange with! But perhaps you weren’t going back? If not, let me come with you, will you?”

“I’m not going anywhere in particular,” said Olivia, still smiling at the fair, girlishly boyish face. “I’ll go back. Why, what a time it is since I saw you!”

“Isn’t it! Isn’t it!” he responded, letting go her hand reluctantly, and taking his hat off his forehead, which was the only part of his face untanned. “I am so glad to come back. Yes, two years; seems like twenty. Have I got very gray? Now, be candid, Olivia—I mean Miss Vanley,” he corrected himself, with a blush.

“Why Miss Vanley?” said Olivia, blushing too, but looking at him with her frank eyes in a sisterly way that was inexpressibly sweet.

“Well,” he said, raising his eyes to her face, “you—you have altered so, you know.”

“Is that a polite way of informing me that I am gray?” said Olivia, archly.

“You—you have grown such a woman,” he said, his blue eyes all aglow with admiring wonder. “You were quite a girl when I left; at least, I seem to remember. And now”—the pause was as significant as any verbal finale could be—“I suppose I must mind my manners, and call you Miss Vanley?”

“Better keep to the old name,” said Olivia. “Why, it seems only the other day we used to play cricket together.”

“Yes,” he said, wistfully. “I suppose you’d rather die than play now?”

“Much rather,” she said, laughing. “And besides, look at my long dress! But tell me all about yourself and where you have been and what you’ve seen.”

“All?” he said, with a smile. “All right; but perhaps we’d better sit down, for it will take some time; say three weeks. Oh, we had an awfully high old time! Been everywhere. And everybody and everything were so jolly, don’t you know. But I’m very glad to get back to the governor and”—he glanced up shyly at the lovely face so intent upon and absorbed in him—“and all of you. I wanted to come up last night after dinner, but my father didn’t seem to care about my leaving him even for an hour or two. And you are all well? You can’t tell how jolly it is to come back to the old place. It’s all just the same. No, it isn’t, by the way. What on earth is that big red place, like an asylum gone æsthetically mad, on the hill?”

“The Maples, do you mean?” said Olivia, her face crimsoning for one instant, ever so slightly. “That is Mr. Bartley Bradstone’s new house. You don’t admire it?”

“Good heavens! it is like a blot of red with——” He stopped and colored. “I beg your pardon, Olivia; perhaps he’s a friend of yours.”

“Oh, we know him,” she said, carelessly. “Isn’t it ugly; isn’t it? But that is the only change, Bertie; you will find us just the same, and very, very glad to see you.”

“Isn’t that just how you used to speak in the old times?” he exclaimed, enthusiastically. “Now you’re the little girl with the long, black legs——”

He stopped and stammered, and Olivia laughed. Suddenly the two dogs set up a violent barking, and the two young people, hurrying to see the cause, saw a huge mastiff with a broken chain attached to his collar traveling down the road toward them.

It is needless to say that neither Olivia nor Bertie was alarmed; but the dogs were very much upset at the terrific apparition, and, yelping, half-indignantly, half-affrightedly, made a noise loud enough to rouse the sleepers in Hawkwood churchyard.

“Is this one of your dogs?” asked Bertie. “(Be quiet, you two! Quiet, Fritz; shut up, Folly!) It has broken loose and followed you, I suppose?”

“It isn’t mine,” commenced Olivia; but before she—remembering Mr. Sparrow’s story—could explain, a tall gentleman opened the gate of The Dell, and came toward them, calling “Leo! Leo!”

The dog stopped instantly, and the owner seemed about to go back with him, when, as if reluctantly, he came forward and raised his hat.

Olivia felt rather than saw his dark eyes fixed on her, and, lifting hers, saw that this distinguished-looking man, with the handsome and strangely grave and reserved face, must be “the mysterious stranger,” as she had jestingly called him. He was young, as Mr. Sparrow had said, but the dark hair was touched where it was cut close on the temples with faint streaks of gray, and the eyes, with their singularly impressive expression, were full of a reserved melancholy.

“I am afraid my dog——” he said, in a grave voice. Then he stopped; and Olivia, looking up to see the cause, saw a strange thing.

On Bertie’s frank face were two expressions struggling for mastery—astonishment, that might or might not have been recognition, and a desire to crush down all sign of this recognition, if recognition it was.

On the stranger’s face was simply a set look of almost grim impassibility. No one, judging by his face, would have guessed that he had ever seen Lord Bertie before.

The pause was only that of a second, a flash of time; and as he continued his sentence, removing the steady gaze of his dark eyes from Bertie to Olivia, his voice remained just the same unfalteringly grave one. “I am sorry that my dog should have annoyed you; he has broken his chain, as you see. I may add that he is particularly quiet, and would not have attacked the dogs. Please forgive me.”

He raised his hat again to Olivia, she inclined her head, and, the dog following close upon his heels, he turned and walked back to The Dell.

There was a moment’s silence; then Olivia, a little pale—why, she could not have told—said:

“I forgot to tell you of another change. Mr. Sparrow has sold The Dell, and that gentleman, I suppose, is the owner.”

“Really?” said Bertie, slowly, and without lifting his eyes to hers. “What is his name?”

“Faradeane,” replied Olivia. “Do you know it?”

Bertie shook his head.

Olivia looked at him half-curiously.

“I fancied,” she said, “that you looked as if you knew him.”

For a second, for so short a time that the pause was imperceptible, Bertie hesitated; then he shook his head.

CHAPTER III.
“TO KNOW HER IS TO LOVE HER.”

“Faradeane?” replied Bertie. “I never heard the name before.”

Nothing more was said on the subject. It was dropped as if by the tacit consent of both; which showed plainly how much they were both affected by the incident; for what would have been more natural than that they should discuss the appearance and manner of this stranger who had come so suddenly and mysteriously into their neighborhood?

Olivia could scarcely have told how much, or explained why, his appearance had affected her. She saw him for a few minutes only, he had spoken about half-a-dozen words, and yet she felt that if she were never to see him again she should never forget the strange expression of the dark, sorrowful eyes, or the peculiar music of the deep, grave voice.

Mesmerism is a recognized fact; and if she had known anything of it Olivia might easily have explained the sensation she felt as that resulting from mesmerization. The dark eyes had seemed to penetrate to her inmost heart, the voice to have set up an echo within her ears which should never fade.

A shadow seemed to have fallen over both her and Bertie, and for a time they actually walked toward the Grange in absolute silence. And for Bertie to be silent was a very remarkable state of things.

It was in the midst of this silence that a voice was heard coming from a walk behind the shrubbery. It was the voice of Mr. Bartley Bradstone, and both Olivia and Bertie heard these words:

“It’s a deuce of a mess, a regular tangle; but we’ll get out of it. Just trust to me——”

Bertie looked up at Olivia, and saw her start and her dark brows come together.

“Who is that?” he asked, in a slightly lowered voice.

“That is Mr. Bradstone,” she said.

The same moment that gentleman and the squire came out upon them.

The squire started slightly, and Bartley Bradstone looked from one to the other with the suspicious, searching look peculiar to him. Then the squire’s face cleared, and he gave both hands to Lord Granville.

“Why, Cherub!” he exclaimed, in altogether happier tones than we have hitherto heard him use. “Welcome back! How well you look, my boy!”

“Doesn’t he, papa!” exclaimed Olivia, eagerly.

“Why, you’ve—yes, you’ve actually grown,” said the squire.

“Oh, come now!” remonstrated Bertie, laughing and blushing. “That’s rather too thin, even for me, squire.”

“But you have. How glad I am to see you! And your father—is he well?” As he turned he caught sight of Mr. Bartley Bradstone, who was standing looking at them with a half-sullen, half-jealous air, and the smile vanished from the squire’s face. “I beg your pardon,” he said; “let me introduce you to our neighbor and friend, Mr. Bradstone. This is Lord Granville, our old friend Bertie, Bradstone.”

The two men exchanged bows; Bertie with a pleasant frankness and cordiality, Bartley Bradstone with hardly suppressed sullenness.

“I was going to call on you to-morrow, Mr. Bradstone,” said Bertie. “I am happy to make your acquaintance. My father tells me that you have gone in very heavily for preserving. By George! it was time some one did, for, begging the squire’s pardon, pheasants and partridges in Hawkwood were getting very rare birds, indeed!” and he nodded with much gravity at Mr. Vanley.

“Oh, yes,” said Bartley Bradstone, with an affected drawl. “I’m going to preserve; it’s the duty of every country gentleman, I take it.”

Bertie looked at him quickly, and a shade of disapproval swept over his handsome, girlish face. Bartley Bradstone’s voice was that of the cad, and of course Bertie detected it.

“The squire hasn’t preserved as closely as he might have done,” he said, rather gravely for him, “because he is too tender-hearted to the village people.”

“The village people will find me a very different kind of customer if they come poaching on my land, my lord,” retorted Bartley Bradstone.

Now, a gentleman, though he be a commoner, does not address a nobleman, to whom he has been introduced on equal terms, as “my lord,” and this time Bertie glanced coldly at the new neighbor, and, apparently now quite satisfied, turned from him to the squire and talked with him.

They made their way to the house, Olivia and her father chatting over old times and Bertie’s travels with Bertie, and thus Bartley Bradstone was left out in the cold, or thought that he was. He stopped at the bottom of the flight of steps and looked at his watch.

“It’s time I was going,” he said, sullenly.

The squire started.

“I hope you’ll stay to dinner, Bradstone,” he said, and the preoccupied, almost anxious look which had been absent while he had been talking to Bertie, came over his face again.

“No, thanks; I’ve got an engagement,” replied Mr. Bradstone. “Good-day; don’t trouble, I can get my horse,” for the squire made a movement to accompany him; and raising his hat a couple of inches to Olivia, who bowed in silence, he strode off.

An awkward silence fell upon the three.

“That’s—that’s a very clever young man,” said the squire, with a little cough; “very clever. I think you’ll find him quite an acquisition to the neighborhood, Bertie.”

“Oh, yes,” said Bertie; “rather a—er—rough kind of fellow, isn’t he? Not very good tempered, is he?” and he looked with a smile from the squire, whose brows contracted, to Olivia, whose face seemed like a mask in its cold reserve. “Not quite a—a gentleman?”

The squire bit his lips.

“Well—he is a very good-natured young fellow, and”—he paused again—“very rich.”

“That’s more his misfortune than his fault, perhaps,” said Bertie, with a laugh.

“Misfortune!” echoed the squire, in a strange tone; then he laughed. “I don’t think he would so describe it. I rather think it is his fault.”

“I see,” said Bertie, easily. “Made his money himself, and all that. Well, that’s in his favor, anyhow. I dare say he is a good fellow, and it’s a capital idea of his, this preserving. Oh, yes! I like a man who has made his own fortune, don’t you, Olivia?”

“It all depends,” replied Olivia, dryly.

The squire glanced at her, not impatiently, but anxiously, questioningly, doubtfully.

“I’ve never heard a word against Mr. Bradstone,” he remarked, with a querulousness which was so new to him that Bertie almost stared at him. “He is the essence of good-nature, and has exerted it on—on several occasions. I hope you’ll like him, Bertie.”

“Of course I shall—if you wish it,” said Bertie, promptly and heartily.

“I wish it?” repeated the squire, almost frowning; “why should I——” Then he stopped short, and rather inconsistently said, with something like irritation: “My dear Bertie, the man has settled here in our midst, and—and is our neighbor. But don’t let us talk any more about him. Come in. Of course you will dine with us?”

But, strange to say, Bertie, with a faint accession of color, pulled out his watch and shook his head.

“I can’t, I’m sorry to say. I’ll come over to dinner to-morrow, if I may.”

The squire looked disappointed.

“I thought your father would have spared you to-night, my boy,” he said. “But come over to us to-morrow, then,” he added, as he shook his hand.

Bertie lingered a moment or two beside Olivia, after the squire had gone up the steps.

“What do you think of Mr. Bradstone, Olivia?” he said, in a low voice.

Olivia smiled faintly; then her brows contracted.

“Exactly as you do,” she replied, and held out her hand.

Bertie took it and held it.

“Yes? Then why on earth does the squire have him here, and—and—praise him, and all that?” he asked. “I never knew him make excuses for a cad before.”

Olivia looked straight before her.

“I give it up,” she said; “ask me another.”