Genres: Fiction
Dime Novel Bibliography: https://dimenovels.org/Item/301/Show
Goodreads link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/193492434-olivia
Gutenberg link: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70446
Chapters: 37
Warning: This may include outdated and derogatory language and attitudes.
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 that 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 anyone 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 that 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 was 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 that 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 that 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 that 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.”
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