THE ASSASSIN.
The words and action of the woman were unnoticed in the excitement, and
she slipped back behind the crowd and was instantly swallowed up.
Mr. Bartley Bradstone’s face could not have looked whiter than it had
done, and after the first start of alarm as the flowers struck him in
the face, and the woman’s mocking voice rang in his ears, he collected
himself sufficiently to force a smile, which he bestowed upon the lines
of people.
As the carriages dashed off to the Grange the crowd of spectators
closed up behind them and followed in the same direction, for the
squire had invited every man and woman and child to a good, old
roast-beef-and-beer banquet, which was to be served in a huge _marquee_
on the lawn.
In a whirl of excitement the guests thronged into the drawing-room.
There is an old-fashioned custom which ordains that the bride shall
hold a kind of _levee_ in the interval between the ceremony and the
breakfast, and Olivia took her place in the drawing-room to receive the
usual homage.
She was still pale, and the absent, preoccupied expression was just as
marked as it had been in the church, and her voice as she spoke to one
and another seemed like that of one who was repeating some well-learned
lesson.
The ordeal--for it is an ordeal to even the ordinary commonplace bride,
with happiness to help her through it--passed, and the party went into
the dining-room.
Most wedding breakfasts or lunches are alike, and there was the usual
amount of chatter and laughter among the young people, mingled with
the clatter of knives and forks, and the popping of champagne corks.
Bartley Bradstone sat beside Olivia, making a pretense of eating, and
trying to talk and look at his ease; but the bridegroom is not much
noticed on these occasions--so utterly disregarded, in fact, that it
would seem almost possible to give the play of “Marriage” with the part
of the bridegroom left out. But all eyes wandered to the bride, the
loveliest and most charming girl in the county; and many a young fellow
who had, perhaps for years, cherished somewhere in the bottom of his
soul a vague hope that he might win her for himself, felt his heart
throb and ache as he looked at her in her pure loveliness and realized
that she was lost to him forever.
The servants did their spiriting nimbly, and before very long the
bishop, who had been carrying on a dual flirtation of a mild order with
Annie and Mary, laughed softly, looked round with a blandly benedictory
air, and rose to propose the bride and bridegroom.
No man could do this kind of thing better than his grace, and eyes grew
moist and the lace handkerchiefs fluttered, as, in melting tones, he
wished the dear and well-beloved child of a beloved and honored parent
all happiness in this and the next world.
Bartley Bradstone fidgeted with his wineglass, which he had permitted
the butler to fill pretty frequently; but Olivia sat white and
impassive as a statue.
Then, after the well-bred cheering had subsided, all eyes were turned
upon the bridegroom. His face flushed and went pale by turns as he
rose, and for a moment it seemed as if he would sit down without
saying a word; but he seized his full glass and drank off the wine it
contained, and started, nervously at first, but presently fell into his
usual bombastic, self-satisfied tone, and declared his intention of
making his wife happy if he spent every shilling in the attempt.
People exchanged glances, the men of cold, critical contempt, the women
with a little shudder; but they applauded him as in duty bound, and
as he sat down Lord Carfield rose to propose the remaining toast--the
health of the squire.
In few, well-chosen words, which in themselves and in the manner of
their delivery presented a striking contrast to the last speaker, he
spoke of his deep regard and affection for his old neighbor, who was
not only the lord of their manor, but of their hearts, and declared
that, speaking for himself, he felt that he, too, had lost, like the
squire, a well-beloved daughter.
And now for the first time, as the squire just rose and bowed--too
moved to speak, his aristocratic, high-bred face working visibly in
his attempt to suppress his emotion--for the first time a change came
over Olivia’s white face. It seemed to melt as did the Snow Maiden’s,
but not into a smile. Her lips quivered and trembled, and as she raised
her eyes to the old man’s face, a tear rolled down her cheek. Then
Aunt Amelia made a signal to the rest of the ladies, Bartley Bradstone
looked at his watch--a silver one, by the way--and said to Olivia:
“There’s just--just an hour and five minutes; don’t hurry--I mean I’ll
keep the carriage a few minutes for you.”
“Very well,” she said, without looking at him, and she followed her
aunt out of the room. Annie and Mary seized her at the door and hurried
her upstairs. Bessie was waiting for her with her traveling dress laid
out on the bed, and everything that required packing ready to start.
She glanced at her beloved mistress with an inquiring look, and her
eyes grew moist as she saw that the cold, stony look which had been
upon her white face still dwelt there.
“Are you tired, Miss Ol--ma’am?” she said, coloring at her mistake.
Olivia started and stared at her; then, seeming to realize all that had
happened to her in the loss of the maiden prefix, she made a gesture
of assent, and sank into the old chair in which she had spent so many
hours of late, dreaming of the past and dreading the future.
Bessie bent over her.
“Wouldn’t you like to rest, miss? There is plenty of time; I can dress
you in half an hour.”
Olivia raised her eyes to the face of the devoted girl.
“Oh, if I could!” she breathed.
Bessie turned to the others instantly, and said, firmly, but
respectfully:
“Miss Olivia--my mistress would like to rest a little while, ma’am, if
you wouldn’t mind leaving her.”
“To rest, my dear Olivia!” exclaimed Aunt Amelia; but Annie and Mary,
after a glance at the white, weary face of the bride, took the old lady
gently by the arm and drew her out of the room.
Then Bessie tenderly, but quickly, took off the wedding finery, and,
wrapping Olivia in a soft dressing-gown, put a pillow under her head,
and drew the curtains over the window.
“Try and sleep, ma’am,” she said, in the loving voice of a sister
rather than a servant. “I will wake you----”
“Sleep!” said Olivia, in a voice of despair, but she turned her head
from the light and closed her eyes.
Meanwhile the guests of the gentler sex were drinking tea in the
drawing-room or flirting with some of the young fellows upon the
terrace. Bartley Bradstone moved from one group to the other
restlessly, for a few minutes, then, after glancing at his watch for
the third or fourth time in a quarter of an hour, he went up to the
squire.
“I’ll just run over to The Maples,” he said, with eyes that carefully
avoided the squire’s. “I--I--there are one or two things I have
forgotten. It will not take me long.”
“Let me send for them,” said the squire, going toward the bell. “It is
a pity you should trouble.”
“No, no,” he replied quickly. “I--shall have to go. You--you need not
tell Olivia. I shall be back long before she is down.”
“Very well,” said the squire. “Take any carriage you can find.”
“Take mine, pray,” Lord Carfield called after him.
The squire sighed as, with a hurried step, his son-in-law left the room.
“It has been a trying day for Bradstone,” he said.
“Yes, it is always so, when the bridegroom is really in love with the
bride,” said Lord Carfield.
The squire pressed his hand.
“Thank you for that, Carfield,” he murmured, and his voice trembled
with emotion. “Yes, I know that he loves her, and that--and that is
everything.”
“Is everything,” echoed the earl, encouragingly.
Bartley Bradstone almost ran down the terrace steps, and stopped before
one of the long line of carriages which stood in the drive; then, as
if he had changed his mind, he glanced at his watch and hurried down
the avenue.
After going a hundred yards or so he pulled up and looked round. Not
a soul was in sight; almost the whole village was feasting in the
_marquee_, from which shouts and laughter floated toward him, and,
climbing the low park railing, he, running now, made his way into the
wood.
The clock struck the hour; three minutes afterward he emerged from
among the trees into the open space where he had arranged to meet
Bella. She was not there. While yet breathless he flung himself on to
the trunk of the tree, and, taking off his hat, mopped his wet forehead.
Five, ten minutes passed; he got up and paced to and fro with his watch
in his hand, cursing and chafing.
Then he heard a laugh, the laugh that had made him writhe yesterday,
and she stood before him. For a minute she stood and looked at him with
a mocking smile that scarcely harmonized with a certain angry light in
her black eyes, and a hard tightening of her lips.
“Well,” she said, eying him up and down. “So you were too afraid to
stop away, were you? By Heaven! you were right. Do you know what I
would have done if you hadn’t come?”
“Well, I’m here, am I not?” he exclaimed, timidly. “What are you going
to do, Bella? Don’t--don’t be too hard upon me----” and he moistened
his lips.
“Hard upon you!” she echoed. “As if anybody could be too hard upon you.
You! Do you know what I meant to do if you hadn’t turned up? I’ll tell
you.” She came a step nearer. “I meant to go up to the house--what’s
it called, your father-in-law’s grand place?” (no words would convey
an idea of the diabolical mockery of her tone)--“your father-in-law’s
place, and ask for you. I don’t think they’d have refused me, when I’d
told them who and what I was to you.”
“For God’s sake, don’t go on like this, Bella,” he said, nervously, his
eyes half-raised imploringly. “I’m--I’m at your mercy, I know. If--if
you had turned up before yesterday, if it had only been the day before,
I wouldn’t have done this; but--but it was too late then. I--I couldn’t
break it off.”
“You’re a nice villain, ain’t you?” she sneered. “I wonder what they’d
do to you if I up and told them all, eh?”
“God knows,” he said, hoarsely. “But you won’t do that, for your own
sake.”
“For my own sake,” she repeated, advancing upon him threateningly. “Why
should I care? I wouldn’t mind. Don’t you dare me! If you only knew
what a little would make me do it, how I’m simply dying for the fun
that it would make, you wouldn’t talk like that, you scoundrel!”
“Hush, hush,” he said, looking round nervously. “You’ll--you’ll have
somebody hear you. The place is full of people; some one may come this
way any moment----”
“And find Mr. Bartley Bradstone has left his newly-made bride to meet
a strange young woman in his father-in-law’s park.” She leaned against
the tree and laughed with malicious enjoyment. “What a row there’d
be! What a prime, glorious row! Lord! I’d like to be in it. As for
you”--her tone changed--“you deserve anything. Nothing’s too bad for
you. You to go and make a victim of that girl! What harm had she done
you, I should like to know?”
“Hush!”
“And what did she marry you for?” she went on, unheeding his
remonstrance. “You don’t mean to tell me she cares for you, because if
you do I’d tell you that you lied. She care for you! Why, you ain’t fit
to wipe the dust off her boots! And--you’ve--married her!”
“Bella, listen to me,” he said, hoarsely. “I’ve--I’ve met you as you
insisted, you know at what risk, and I’ve brought you what you wanted
and fifty pounds more. Now, what are you going to do? Be sensible, for
Heaven’s sake, be sensible. It--it can’t matter to you what I’ve done.”
“You’re right. So far as you are concerned,” she put in with
unmitigated contempt, “you might marry twenty times a month for what I
cared.”
“I know that; don’t I say so?” he went on hurriedly, “and--and so--as
it’s a matter of indifference to you--you said so, you know--why--why,
you can keep your tongue quiet. There’s--there’s no reason why--why
anybody should know anything about. If--if we meet at any time,
you--you--can pass me by----”
She stopped him with a laugh.
“Do you think I’m a child?” she said, scornfully. “I know what you
want, and I’ll do it--for a price.”
“That’s right,” he said, with a gasp of relief. “That’s talking
sensibly. I knew you’d say so, Bell.”
“Yes, you knew I’d sell myself, didn’t you?” she retorted, with a
dangerous flash of her black eyes. “Well, we’ll see. Give me hold of
that money first.”
He took out his pocketbook, and with a hot, trembling hand extracted
the notes and held them out to her.
She took them carelessly, but counted them.
“Right,” she said. “And now about the future. You think I’m a fool----”
“Bella----”
“No; I suppose we lived long enough together for you to think different
to that; it wasn’t long, was it?” with a grin.
“It wasn’t my fault we didn’t get on,” he stammered.
She laughed scornfully.
“Yours? No, I’d had enough of you pretty quickly. I don’t like
your kind, Mr. Bradstone. I like a gentleman or a rough; you’re a
half-and-half, and a thorough cad! Poor girl! how I pity her!” and she
laughed.
He winced and his face went livid.
“Never mind her----” he said, hoarsely.
“Oh,” she cut in, “I’m not good enough to mention her, ain’t I? What’s
her name?”
“Olivia,” he said, reluctantly.
“O--livia. And she’s a swell, of course? Oh, I’ve heard all about her,
excepting how you managed to get her in your clutches. And I’ll know
that soon. I’ll get her to tell me.”
He started, and let his shifty eyes fix themselves on her face.
“You’ll get her to tell you?” he breathed.
“Yes,” she said, defiantly, with a grin. “I’m going to make you open
your eyes, Mr. Bradstone. I’m going to be a great lady myself. Oh, you
may stare! And I mean to know your wife. I’ve took a fancy to her;
she’s the swellest thing I’ve ever seen, even among the swells, and I
mean to get as close as wax with her.”
“You----”
He put his hand to his forehead and looked at her in amazement.
She laughed.
“Yes, and you can’t prevent me, Mr. Bradstone. No, I think not! Oh, I
know your game; but it won’t do. Just whisper a word against me to your
pretty wife, and I’ll up and tell her the whole story.”
His hand dropped, and he stood as if turned to stone, his small eyes
fixed upon her mocking face.
“I--I don’t understand. By God, you’re enough to drive a man mad.” His
teeth clinched. “If this is a joke, get it over and come to business.
How much do you want to hold your tongue? Out with it and have done
with it.”
She advanced toward him, threateningly.
“Drop that,” she said. “Don’t use that kind of tone to me. I’m not
going to be bullied, Mr. Bradstone. You’d better come down a peg or
two, or I’ll----” She looked round. “I suppose I could collect a
reg’lar crowd in a couple of minutes,” and she opened her lips.
He seized her arm, his face working.
“Hush!” he said. “I--I was only in fun. What is it you do mean? How
can you be a great lady, as you call it? How can you--you know my wife?”
“Your wife!” she laughed, scornfully, and he winced. “Never you mind;
you’re too curious, you are. Don’t ask me any questions, and I’ll tell
you no lies. Anyhow, you can tell your wife that I mean what I say.
Your wife--your wife!--and me is going to be great friends. I shouldn’t
be surprised if she asked me to stay with her. That will be fun!” and
she threw her head back and laughed with malicious enjoyment of the
vision her words called up. “Only fancy, Bella-Bella chumming with a
great swell’s daughter! Oh, Lor’!”
He stood and looked at her, and a new expression was coming into his
eyes, an expression of watchful cunning.
“Well,” he said, “funnier things have happened. It’s--it’s a strange
world----”
“I should think it is after the wedding I’ve seen this morning!” she
retorted.
“And--I’ve nothing to say against it,” he went on, trying to speak
carelessly; “only I should like to have a warning. But I’ll make a
bargain with you, Bella. Give up the idea--I don’t see anything in it
to your advantage--and I’ll give you----”
“How much?” she said, with a sneer. “But don’t trouble yourself, I
shan’t want it. I shall be as rich as you, I expect; and if it wasn’t
that I love bleeding you, you skinflint, I’d fling these notes back in
your face. But I’m going to keep ’em for the present. Perhaps I’ll buy
a weddin’ gift for your pretty, young wife, Mr. Bradstone,” and her
laugh rang out again.
He took out his watch--the silver one; and she, with a smile of
derision, pulled out his watch--the gold one.
“Gettin’ late, I suppose. You want to be off for the honeymoon. Well,
I’ll come with you--just as far as the drive. Perhaps we shall meet the
young lady, and you can introduce me, here and now. Ah----” she broke
off, for with a snarl he snatched something from his breast-pocket.
There was a flash, a sharp twang, a little puff of smoke, and the next
instant the magnificent form of Bella-Bella, the Queen of the Air, was
lying full length on the mossy ground.
She had scarcely uttered a cry louder than the fear-breathing “Ah!”
and yet it seemed to the trembling wretch who stood with the smoking
revolver in his hand that the wood echoed with fiendish yells. The
great trees waved and danced before him, the earth seemed to rock under
his feet, and he quaked like one of the rustling leaves, which all had
tongues to cry “Murder!”
So he stood, and so she lay, breathing short, but speechless, while one
could count twenty. Then the assassin’s first instinct, flight, smote
upon him, and he turned and fled. But no farther than the edge of the
drive. There a horrid remembrance flashed upon him. On that prostrate
figure which he had left for dead, were the notes, which could be
traced, his watch, his silver cigar case, which a hundred people would
recognize as his.
There was a direct path to the scaffold before him. With a low cry, he
turned back, and, bending over her, forced the notes from her hand,
keeping his eyes away from the white face, and above all--ah, above
all--the thin stream of red which trickled from her side.
The notes were his. With a shudder he thrust them into his pocket, and
bent over her again, when suddenly he uttered a cry, a smothered yell
of hysterical fear, and looked up. Above him stood Harold Faradeane!