"Hello," said that young man, "if you are on your way home I am going to
walk a while with you. I have not done a thing to-day."

When Dick heard these words his heart sank. He was on his way home
accompanied by Olive--Olive in his heart, Olive in his soul, Olive in
his brain, Olive in the sky and all over the earth--how dared a common
mortal intrude himself upon the scene?

"There is another thing," said Locker, who was now keeping step with
him. "My soul is filled with murderous intent. I thirst for human life,
and I need the restraints of companionship."

"Who is it you want to kill?" asked Dick coldly.

"It is an Austrian," replied the other. "I will not say what Austrian,
leaving that to your imagination. I don't suppose you ever killed an
Austrian. Neither have I, but I should like to do it. It would be a
novel and delightful experience."

Dick did not think it necessary that he should be told more; he
perfectly understood the state of the case, for it was impossible not to
see that this young man was paying marked attention to Olive, while Mr.
Du Brant was doing the same thing. But still it seemed well to say
something, and he remarked:

"What is the matter with the Austrian?"

"He is in love with Miss Asher," said Locker, "and so am I. I am
beginning to believe he is positively dangerous. I did not think so at
first, but I do now. He has actually taken to reading. I know that man;
I have often seen him in Washington. He was always running after some
lady or other, but I never knew him to read before. It is a dangerous
symptom. He reads with one eye, while the other sweeps the horizon to
catch a glimpse of her. By the way, that would be a splendid idea for a
district policeman; if he stood under a lamp-post in citizen's dress
reading a book, no criminal would suspect his identity, and he could
keep one eye on the printed page, and devote the other to the cause of
justice. But to return to our sallow mutton, or black sheep, if you
choose. That Austrian ought to be killed!"

Dick smiled sardonically. "He is not your only obstacle," he said.

"I know it," replied Locker. "There's that Chinese laundried fellow,
smooth-finished, who came up this morning. He must be an old offender,
for I saw her giving it to him hot this morning. I am sure she was
telling him exactly what she thought of him, for he turned as red as a
pickled beet. So he will have to scratch pretty hard if he expects to
get into her good graces again, and I suppose that is what he came here
for. But I am not so much afraid of him as I am of that Austrian. If he
keeps on the literary lay, and reads books with her, looking up the
words in the dictionary, it is dangerous."

"I do not see," said Lancaster, somewhat loftily, "why you speak of
these things to me."

"Then I'll tell you," said Locker quickly. "I speak of them to you
because you are just as much concerned in them as I am. You are in love
with Miss Asher--anybody can see that--and, in fact, I should think you
were a pretty poor sort of a fellow if you were not, after having seen
and talked with her. Consequently that Austrian is just as dangerous to
you as he is to me. And as I have chosen you for my brother-in-arms, it
is right that I tell you everything I know."

"Brother-in-arms?" ejaculated Dick.

"That is what it is," said Locker, "and I will tell you how it came
about. The Austrian looked upon you with scorn and contempt because you
rode a horse wearing rolled-up trousers and low shoes. As you did not
see him and could not return the contempt, I did it for you. Having done
this, a fellow feeling for you immediately sprang up within me. That is
what always happens, you know. After that the feeling became a good deal
stronger, and I said to myself that if I found I could not get Miss
Asher; and it's seventy-six I don't, for that's generally the state of
my luck; I would help you to get her, partly because I like you, and
partly because that Austrian must be ousted, no matter what happens or
how it is done. So I became your brother-in-arms, and if I find I am out
of the race, I am going to back you up just as hard as I can, and here's
my hand upon it."

Dick stopped as he had stopped half an hour before, and gazed upon his
companion.

"Now don't thank me," continued Locker, "or say anything nice, because
if I find I can come in ahead of you I am going to do it. But if we work
together, I am sure we need not be afraid of that Austrian, or of that
fiery-faced model for a ready-made-clothes shop. It is to be either you
or me--first place for me, if possible."

Dick could not help laughing. "You are a jolly sort of a fellow," said
he, "and I will be your brother-in-arms. But it is to be first place for
me, if possible." And they shook hands upon the bargain.

That evening Mr. Hemphill found Olive alone. "I have been trying to get
a chance to speak to you, Miss Asher," said he. "I want to ask you to
help me, for I do not know what in the world to do."

Olive looked at him inquiringly.

"Since you spoke to me this afternoon," he went on, "I have been in a
state of most miserable embarrassment; I can not for the life of me
decide what I ought to say or what I ought to do, or what I ought not to
say or what I ought not to do. If I should pass over as something not
necessary to take into consideration the--the--most unusual statement
you made to me, it might be that you would consider me as a boor, a man
incapable of appreciating the--the--highest honors. Then again, if I do
say anything to show that I appreciate such honors, you may well
consider me presumptuous, conceited, and even insulting. I thought a
while ago that I would leave this house before it would be necessary for
me to decide how I should act when I met you, but I could not do that.
Explanations would be necessary, and I would not be able to make them,
and so, in sheer despair, I have come to you. Whatever you say I ought
to do I will do. Of myself, I am utterly helpless."

Olive looked at him with serious earnestness. "You are in a queer
position," she said, "and I don't wonder you do not know what to do. I
did not think of this peculiar consequence which would result from my
revelation. As to the revelation itself, there is no use talking about
it; it had to be made. It would have been unjust and wicked to allow a
man to live in ignorance of the fact that such a thing had happened to
him without his knowing it. But I think I can make it all right for
you. If you had known when you were very young, in fact, when you were
in another age of man, that a young girl in short dresses was in love
with you, would you have disdained her affection?"

"I should say not!" exclaimed Rupert Hemphill, his eyes fixed upon the
person who had once been that girl in short dresses.

"Well, then," said Olive, "there could have been nothing for her to
complain of, no matter what she knew or what she did not know, and there
is nothing he could complain of, no matter what he knew or did not know.
And as both these persons have passed entirely out of existence, I think
you and I need consider them no longer. And we can talk about tennis or
bass fishing, or anything we like. And if you are a fisherman you will
be glad to hear that there is first-rate bass fishing in the river now,
and that we are talking of getting up a regular fishing party. We shall
have to go two or three miles below here where the water is deeper and
there are not so many rocks."

That night Mr. Hemphill dreamed hard of a girl who had loved him when
she was little, and who continued to love him now that she had grown to
be wonderfully handsome. He was going out to sail with her in a boat far
and far away, where nobody could find them or bring them back.




_CHAPTER XIV_

_A Letter for Olive._


The next morning, about an hour after breakfast, Mr. Du Brant proposed
to Olive. He had received a letter the day before which made it probable
that he might be recalled to Washington before the time which had been
fixed for the end of his visit at Broadstone, and he consequently did
not wish to defer for a moment longer than was necessary this most
important business of his life. He told Miss Asher that he had never
truly loved before; which was probably correct; and that as she had
raised his mind from the common things of earth, upon which it had been
accustomed to grovel, she had made a new man of him in an astonishingly
short time; which, it is likely, was also true.

He assured her that without any regard to outside circumstances, he
could not live without her. If at any other time he had allowed his mind
to dwell for a moment upon matrimony, he had thought of family,
position, wealth, social station, and all that sort of thing, but now he
thought of nothing but her, and he came to offer her his heart. In fact,
the man was truly and honestly in love.

Inwardly Olive smiled. "I can not ask him," she said to herself, "to say
this again every day before dinner. He hasn't the wit of Claude Locker,
and would not be able to vary his remarks; but I can not blast his hopes
too suddenly, for, if I do that, he will instantly go away, and it would
not be treating Mrs. Easterfield properly if I were to break up her
party without her knowledge. But I will talk to her about it. And now
for him.--Mr. Du Brant," she said aloud, speaking in English, although
he had proposed to her in French, because she thought she could make her
own language more impressive, "it is a very serious thing you have said
to me, and I don't believe you have had time enough to think about it
properly. Now don't interrupt. I know exactly what you would say. You
have known me such a little while that even if your mind is made up it
can not be properly made up, and therefore, for your own sake, I am
going to give you a chance to think it all over. You must not say you
don't want to, because I want you to; and when you have thought, and
thought, and know yourself better--now don't say you can not know
yourself better if you have a thousand years in which to consider
it--for though you think that it is true it is not"

"And if I rack my brains and my heart," interrupted Mr. Du Brant, "and
find out that I can never change nor feel in any other way toward you
than I feel now, may I then----"

"Now, don't say anything about that," said Olive. "What I want to do now
is to treat you honorably and fairly, and to give you a chance to
withdraw if, after sober consideration, you think it best to do so. I
believe that every young man who thinks himself compelled to propose
marriage in such hot haste ought to have a chance to reflect quietly
and coolly, and to withdraw if he wants to. And that is all, Mr. Du
Brant. I must be off this minute, for Mrs. Easterfield is over there
waiting for me."

Mr. Du Brant walked thoughtfully away. "I do not understand," he said to
himself in French, "why she did not tell me I need not speak to her
again about it. The situation is worthy of diplomatic consideration, and
I will give it that."

From a distance Claude Locker beheld his Austrian enemy walking alone,
and without a book.

"Something has happened," he thought, "and the fellow has changed his
tactics. Before, under cover of a French novel, he was a snake in the
grass, now he is a snake hopping along on the tip of his tail. Perhaps
he thinks this is a better way to keep a lookout upon her. I believe he
is more dangerous than he was before, for I don't know whether a snake
on tip tail jumps or falls down upon his victims."

One thing Mr. Locker was firmly determined upon. He was going to try to
see Olive as soon as it was possible before luncheon, and impress upon
her the ardent nature of his feelings toward her; he did not believe he
had done this yet. He looked about him. The party, excepting himself and
Mr. Du Brant, were on the front lawn; he would join them and satirize
the gloomy Austrian. If Olive could be made to laugh at him it would be
like preparing a garden-bed with spade and rake before sowing his seeds.

The rural mail-carrier came earlier than usual that day, and he brought
Olive but one letter, but as it was from her father, she was entirely
satisfied, and retired to a bench to read it.

In about ten minutes after that she walked into Mrs. Easterfield's
little room, the open letter in her hand. As Mrs. Easterfield looked up
from her writing-table the girl seemed transformed; she was taller, she
was straighter, her face had lost its bloom, and her eyes blazed.

"Would you believe it!" she said, grating out the words as she spoke.
"My father is going to be married!"

Mrs. Easterfield dropped her pen, and her face lost color. She had
always been greatly interested in Lieutenant Asher. "What!" she
exclaimed. "He? And to whom?"

"A girl I used to go to school with," said Olive, standing as if she
were framed in one solid piece. "Edith Marshall, living in Geneva. She
is older than I am, but we were in the same classes. They are to be
married in October, and she is to sail for this country about the time
his ship comes home. He is to be stationed at Governor's Island, and
they are to have a house there. He writes, and writes, and writes, about
how lovely it will be for me to have this dear new mother. Me! To call
that thing mother! I shall have no mother, but I have lost my father."
With this she threw herself upon a lounge, and burst into passionate
tears. Mrs. Easterfield rose, and closed the door.

Claude Locker had no opportunity to press his suit before luncheon, for
Olive did not come to that meal; she had one of her headaches. Every one
seemed to appreciate the incompleteness of the party, and even Mrs.
Easterfield looked serious, which was not usual with her. Mr. Hemphill
was much cast down, for he had made up his mind to talk to Olive in such
a way that she should not fail to see that he had taken to heart her
advice, and might be depended upon to deport himself toward her as if he
had never heard the words she had addressed to him. He had prepared
several topics for conversation, but as he would not waste these upon
the general company, he indulged only in such remarks as were necessary
to good manners.

Mr. Du Brant talked a good deal in a perfunctory manner, but inwardly he
was somewhat elated. "Her emotions must have been excited more than I
supposed," he thought. "That is not a bad sign."

Mrs. Fox was a little bit--a very little bit--annoyed because Mr. Fox
did not make as many facetious remarks as was his custom. He seemed like
one who, in a degree, felt that he lacked an audience; Mrs. Fox could
see no good reason for this.

When Mrs. Easterfield went up to Olive's room she found her bathing her
eyes in cold water.

"Will you lend me a bicycle" said Olive. "I am sure you have one."

Mrs. Easterfield looked at her in amazement.

"I want to go to my uncle," said Olive. "He is now all I have left in
this world. I have been thinking, and thinking about everything, and I
want to go to him. Whatever has come between us will vanish as soon as
he sees me, I am sure of that. I do not know why he did not want me to
come back to him, but he will want me now, and I should like to start
immediately without anybody seeing me."

"But a bicycle!" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield. "You can't go that way. I
will send you in the carriage."

"No, no, no," cried Olive; "I want to go quietly. I want to go so that I
can leave my wheel at the door and go right in. I have a short
walking-skirt, and I can wear that. Please let me have the bicycle."

Mrs. Easterfield made Olive sit down and she talked to her, but there
was no changing the girl's determination to go to her uncle, to go
alone, and to go immediately.




_CHAPTER XV_

_Olive's Bicycle Trip._


Despite Olive's desire to set forth immediately on her bicycle trip, it
was past the middle of the afternoon when she left Broadstone. She went
out quietly, not by the usual driveway, and was soon upon the turnpike
road. As she sped along the cool air upon her face refreshed her; and
the knowledge that she was so rapidly approaching the dear old
toll-gate, where, even if she did not find her uncle at the house, she
could sit with old Jane until he came back, gave her strength and
courage.

Up a long hill she went, and down again to the level country. Then there
was a slighter rise in the road, and when she reached its summit she
saw, less than a mile away, the toll-gate surrounded by its trees, the
thick foliage of the fruit-trees in the garden, the little tollhouse and
the long bar, standing up high at its customary incline upon the
opposite side of the road. Down the little hill she went; and then,
steadily and swiftly, onward. Presently she saw that some one was on the
piazza by the side of the tollhouse; his back was toward her, he was
sitting in his accustomed armchair; she could not be mistaken; it was
her uncle.

Now and then, while upon the road, she had thought of what she should
say when she first met him, but she had soon dismissed all ideas of
preconceived salutations, or explanations. She would be there, and that
would be enough. Her father's letter was in her pocket, and that was too
much. All she meant to do was to glide up to that piazza, spring up the
steps, and present herself to her uncle's astonished gaze before he had
any idea that any one was approaching.

She was within twenty feet of the piazza when she saw that her uncle was
not alone; there was some one sitting in front of him who had been
concealed by his broad shoulders. This person was a woman. She had
caught sight of Olive, and stuck her head out on one side to look at
her. Upon her dough-like face there was a grin, and in her eye a light
of triumph. With one quick glance she seemed to say: "Ah, ha, you find
me here, do you? What have you to say to that?"

Olive's heart stood still. That woman, that Maria Port, sitting in close
converse with her uncle in that public place where she had never seen
any one but men! That horrid woman at such a moment as this! She could
not speak to her; she could not speak to her uncle in her presence. She
could not stop. With what she had on her mind, and with what she had in
her pocket, it would be impossible to say a word before that Maria Port!
Without a swerve she sped on, and passed the toll-gate. She only knew
one thing; she could not stop.

The wildest suspicions now rushed into her mind. Why should her uncle
be thus exposing himself to the public gaze with Maria Port? Why did it
give the woman such diabolical pleasure to be seen there with him? With
a mind already prepared for such sickening revelations, Olive was
convinced that it could mean nothing but that her uncle intended to
marry Maria Port. What else could it mean? But no matter what it meant,
she could not stop. She could not go back.

On went her bicycle, and presently she gained sufficient command over
herself to know that she should not ride into the town. But what else
could she do? She could not go back while those two were sitting on the
piazza. Suddenly she remembered the shunpike. She had never been on it,
but she knew where it left the road, and where it reentered it. So she
kept on her course, and in a few minutes had reached the narrow country
road. There were ruts here and there, and sometimes there were stony
places; there were small hills, mostly rough; and there were few
stretches of smooth road; but on went Olive; sometimes trying with much
effort to make good time, and always with tears in her eyes, dimming the
roadway, the prospect, and everything in the world.

"There now!" exclaimed Maria Port, springing to her feet. "What have you
got to say to that? If that isn't brazen I never saw brass!"

"What do you mean?" said the captain, rising in his chair.

"Mean?" said Maria Port, leaning over the railing. "Look there! Do you
see that girl getting away as fast as she can work herself? That's your
precious niece, Olive Asher, scooting past us with her nose in the air
as if we was sticks and stones by the side of the road. What have you
got to say to that, Captain John, I'd like to know?"

The captain ran down the path. "You don't mean to say that is Olive!" he
cried.

"That's who it is," answered Miss Port. "She looked me square in the
face as she dashed by. Not a word for you, not a word for me. Impudence!
That doesn't express it!"

The captain paid no attention to her, but ran into the garden. Old Jane
was standing near the house door. "Was that Miss Olive?" he cried. "Did
you see her?"

"Yes," said old Jane, "it was her. I saw her comin', and I came out to
meet her. But she just shot through the toll-gate as if she didn't know
there was a toll on bicycles."

The captain stood still in the garden-path. He could not believe that
Olive had done this to treat him with contempt. She must have heard some
news. There must be something the matter. She was going into town at the
top of her speed to send a telegram, intending to stop as she came back.
She might have stopped anyway if it had not been for that
good-for-nothing Maria Port. She hated Maria, and he hated her himself,
at this moment, as she stood by his side, asking him what was the matter
with him.

"It's no more than you have to expect," said she. "She's a fine lady, a
navy lady, a foreign lady, that's been with the aristocrats! She's got
good clothes on that she never wore here, and where I guess she had a
pretty stupid time, judgin' from how they carry on at that Easterfield
place. Why in the world should she want to stop and speak to such
persons as you and me?"

The captain paid no attention to these remarks. "If she doesn't want to
send a telegram, I don't see what she is going to town for in such a
hurry. I suppose she thought she could get there sooner than a man could
go on a horse," he said.

"Telegram!" sneered Miss Port. "It's a great deal easier to send
telegrams from the gap."

"Then it is something worse," he thought. Perhaps she might be running
away, though what in the world she was running from he could not
imagine. Anyway, he must see her; he must find out. When she came back
she must not pass again, and if she did not come back he must go after
her. He ran to the road and put down the bar, calling to old Jane to
come there and keep a sharp lookout. Then he quickly returned to the
house.

"What are you going to do" asked Miss Port. "I never saw a man in such a
fluster."

"If she does not come back very soon," said he, "I shall go to town
after her."

"Then I suppose I might as well be going myself," said she. "And by the
way, captain, if you are going to town, why don't you take a seat in my
carriage? Dear knows me and the boy don't fill it."

But the captain would consider no such invitation. When he met Olive he
did not want Maria Port to be along. He did not answer, and went into
the house to make some change in his attire. Old Jane would not let
Olive pass, and if he met her on the road or in the town he wanted to be
well dressed.

Miss Port still stood in the path by the house door. "That's not what I
call polite," said she, "but he's awful flustered, and I don't mind."

Far from minding, Maria was pleased; it pleased her to know that his
niece's conduct had flustered him. The more that girl flustered him the
better it would be, and she smiled with considerable satisfaction. If
she could get that girl out of the way she believed she would find but
little difficulty in carrying out her scheme to embitter the remainder
of the good captain's life. She did not put it in that way to herself;
but that was the real character of the scheme.

Suddenly an idea struck her. It was of no use for her to stand and wait,
for she knew she would not be able to induce the captain to go with her.
It would be a great thing if she could, for to drive into town with him
by her side would go far to make the people of Glenford understand what
was going to happen. But, if she could not do this, she could do
something else. If she started away immediately she might meet that
Asher girl coming back, and it would be a very fine thing if she could
have an interview with her before she saw her uncle.

She made a quick step toward the house and looked in. The captain was
not visible, but old Jane was standing near the back door of the
tollhouse. The opportunity was not to be lost.

"Good-by, John," said she in a soft tone, but quite loud enough for the
old woman to hear. "I'll go home first, for I've got to see to gettin'
supper ready for you. So good-by, John, for a little while." And she
kissed her hand to the inside of the house.

Then she hurried out of the gate; got into the little phaeton which was
waiting for her under a tree; and drove away. She had come there that
afternoon on the pretense of consulting the captain about her father's
health, which she said disturbed her, and she had requested the
privilege of sitting on the toll-gate piazza because she had always
wanted to sit there, and had never been invited. The captain had not
invited her then, but as she had boldly marched to the piazza and taken
a seat, he had been obliged to follow.

Captain Asher, wearing a good coat and hat, relieved old Jane at her
post, and waited and waited for Olive to come back. He did not for a
moment think she might return by the shunpike, for that was a rough
road, not fit for a bicycle. And if she passed this way once, why should
she object to doing it again?

When more than time enough had elapsed for her return from the town, he
started forth with a heavy heart to follow her. He told old Jane that if
for any reason he should be detained in town until late, he would take
supper with Mr. Port, and if, although he did not expect this, he should
not come back that night, the Ports would know of his whereabouts. He
did not take his horse and buggy because he thought it would be in his
way. If he met Olive in the road he could more easily stop and talk to
her if he were walking than if he had a horse to take care of.

"I hope you're not runnin' after Miss Olive," said old Jane.

The captain did not wish his old servant to imagine that it was
necessary for him to run after his niece, and so he answered rather
quickly: "Of course not." Then he set off toward the town. He did not
walk very fast, for if he met Olive he would rather have a talk with her
on the road than in Glenford.

He walked on and on, not with his eyes on the smooth surface of the
pike, but looking out afar, hoping that he might soon see the figure of
a girl on a bicycle; and thus it was that he passed the entrance to the
shunpike without noticing that a bicycle track turned into it.

Olive struggled on, and the road did not improve. She worked hard with
her body, but still harder with her mind. It seemed to her as though
everything were endeavoring to crush her, and that it was almost
succeeding. If she had been in her own room, seated, or walking the
floor, indignation against her uncle would have given her the same
unnatural vigor and energy which had possessed her when she read her
father's letter; but it is impossible to be angry when one is physically
tired and depressed, and this was Olive's condition now. Once she
dismounted, sat down on a piece of rock, and cried. The rest was of
service to her, but she could not stay there long; the road was too
lonely. She must push on. So on she pressed, sometimes walking, and
sometimes on her wheel, the pedals apparently growing stiffer at every
turn. Slight mishaps she did not mind, but a fear began to grow upon her
that she would never be able to reach Broadstone at all. But after a
time--a very long time it seemed--the road grew more level and smooth;
and then ahead she saw the white surface of the turnpike shining as it
passed the end of her road. When she should emerge on that smooth, hard
road it could not be long, even if she went slowly, before she reached
home. She was still some fifty yards from the pike when she saw a man
upon it, walking southward.

As Dick Lancaster passed the end of the road he lifted his head, and
looked along it. It was strange that he should do so, for since he had
started on his homeward walk he had not raised his eyes from the ground.
He had reached Broadstone soon after luncheon, before Olive had left on
her wheel, and had passed rather a stupid time, playing tennis with
Claude Locker, he had seen but little of Mrs. Easterfield, whose mind
was evidently occupied. Once she had seemed about to take him into her
confidence, but had suddenly excused herself, and had gone into the
house. When the game was finished Locker advised him to go home.

"She is not likely to be down until dinner time," he had said, "and this
evening I'll defend our cause against those other fellows. I have
several good things in my mind that I am sure will interest her, and I
don't believe there's any use courting a girl unless you interest her."

Lancaster had taken the advice, and had left much earlier than was
usual.




_CHAPTER XVI_

_Mr. Lancaster accepts a Mission._


When Dick Lancaster saw Olive he stopped with a start, and then ran
toward her.

"Miss Asher!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here? What is the
matter? You look pale."

When she saw him coming Olive had dismounted, not with the active spring
usual with her, but heavily and clumsily. She did not even smile as she
spoke to him.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Lancaster," she said. "I am on my way back to
Broadstone, and I would like to send a message to my uncle by you."

"Back from where? And why on this road?" he was about to ask, but he
checked himself. He saw that she trembled as she stood.

"Miss Asher," said he, "you must stop and rest. Let me take your wheel
and come over to this bank and sit down."

She sat down in the shade and took off her hat; and for a moment she
quietly enjoyed the cool breeze upon her head. He did not want to annoy
her with questions, but he could not help saying:

"You look very tired."

"I ought to be tired," she answered, "for I have gone over a perfectly
dreadful road. Of course, you wonder why I came this way, and the best
thing for me to do is to begin at the beginning and to tell you all
about it, so that you will know what I have been doing, and then
understand what I would like you to do for me."

So she told him all her tale, and, telling it, seemed to relieve her
mind while her tired body rested. Dick listened with earnest avidity. He
lost not the slightest change in her expression as she spoke. He was
shocked when he heard of her father; he was grieved when he imagined how
she must have felt when the news came to her; he was angry when he heard
of the impertinent glare of Maria Port; and his heart was torn when he
knew of this poor girl's disappointment, of her soul-harrowing
conjectures, of her wearisome and painful progress along that rough
road; of which progress she said but little, although its consequences
he could plainly see. All these things showed themselves upon his
countenance as he gazed upon her and listened, not only with his ears,
but his heart.

"I shall be more than glad," he said, when she had finished, "to carry
any message, or to do anything you want me to do. But I must first
relieve you of one of your troubles. Your uncle has not the slightest
idea of marrying Miss Port. I don't believe he would marry anybody; but,
of all women, not that vulgar creature. Let me assure you, Miss Asher,
that I have heard him talk about her, and I know he has the most
contemptuous opinion of her. I have heard him make fun of her, and I
don't believe he would have anything to do with her if it were not for
her father, who is one of his oldest friends."

She looked at him incredulously. "And yet they were sitting close
together," she said; "so close that at first I did not see her;
apparently talking in the most private manner in a very public place.
They surely looked very much like an engaged couple as I have noticed
them. And old Jane has told me that everybody knows she is trying to
trap him; and surely there is good reason to believe that she has
succeeded."

Dick shook his head. "Impossible, Miss Asher," he said. "He never would
have such a woman. I know him well enough to be absolutely sure of that.
Of course, he treats her kindly, and perhaps he is sociable with her. It
is his nature to be friendly, and he has known her for a long time. But
marry her! Never! I am certain, Miss Asher, he would never do that."

"I wish I could believe it," said she.

"I can easily prove it to you," he said. "I will take your message to
your uncle, I will tell him all you want me to tell him, and then I will
ask him, frankly and plainly, about Miss Port. I do not in the least
object to doing it. I am well enough acquainted with him to know that he
is a frank, plain man. I am sure he will be much amused at your
supposition, and angry, too, when I tell him of the way that woman
looked at you and so prevented you from stopping when you had come
expressly to see him. Then I will immediately come to Broadstone to
relieve your mind in regard to the Maria Port business, and to bring
you whatever message your uncle has to send you."

"No, no," said Olive, "you must not do that. It would be too much to
come back to-day. You have relieved my mind somewhat about that woman,
and I am perfectly willing to wait until to-morrow, when you can tell me
exactly how everything is, and let me know when my uncle would like me
to come and see him. I think it will be better next time not to take him
by surprise. But I would be very, very grateful to you, Mr, Lancaster,
if you would come as early in the morning as you can. I can wait very
well until then, now that my mind is easier, but I am afraid that when
to-morrow begins I shall be very impatient. My troubles are always worse
in the morning. But you must not walk. My uncle has a horse and buggy.
But perhaps it would be better to let Mrs. Easterfield send for you. I
know she will be glad to do it."

Dick assured her that he did not wish to be sent for; that he would
borrow the captain's horse, and would be at Broadstone as early as was
proper to make a visit.

"Proper!" exclaimed Olive. "In a case like this any time is proper. In
Mrs. Easterfield's name I invite you to breakfast. I know she will be
glad to have me do it. And now I must go on. You are very, very good,
and I am very grateful."

Dick could not say that he was more grateful for being allowed to help
her than she could possibly be for being helped, but his face showed it,
and if she had looked at him she would have known it.

"Miss Asher," he exclaimed as she rose, "your skirt is covered with
dust. You must have fallen."

"I did have one fall," she said, "but I was so worried I did not mind."

"But you can not go back in that plight," he said; "let me dust your
skirt." And breaking a little branch from a bush, he proceeded to make
her look presentable. "And now," said he, when she had complimented him
upon his skill, "I will walk with you to the entrance of the grounds.
Perhaps as you are so tired," he said hesitatingly, "I can help you
along, so that you will not have to work so hard yourself."

"Oh, no," she answered; "that is not at all necessary. When I am on the
turnpike I can go beautifully. I feel ever so much rested and stronger,
and it is all due to you. So you see, although you will not go with me,
you will help me very much." And she smiled as she spoke. He truly had
helped her very much.

Dick was unwilling that she should go on alone, although it was still
broad daylight and there was no possible danger, and he was also
unwilling because he wanted to go with her, but there was no use saying
anything or thinking anything, and so he stood and watched her rolling
along until she had passed the top of a little hill, and had departed
from his view. Then he ran to the top of the little hill, and watched
her until she was entirely out of sight.

The rest of the way to the toll-gate seemed very short to Dick, but he
had time enough to make up his mind that he would see the captain at the
earliest possible moment; that he would deliver his message and the
letter of Lieutenant Asher; that he would immediately bring up the
matter of Maria Port and let the captain know the mischief that woman
had done. Then, armed with the assurances the captain would give him, he
would start for Broadstone after supper, and carry the good news to
Olive. It would be a shame to let that dear girl remain in suspense for
the whole night, when he, by riding, or even walking an inconsiderable
number of miles, could relieve her. He found old Jane in the tollhouse.

"Where is the captain" he asked.

"The captain?" she repeated. "He's in town takin' supper with his
sweetheart."

Dick stared at her.

"Perhaps you haven't heard that he's engaged to Maria Port," said the
woman; "and I don't wonder you're taken back! But I suppose everybody
will soon know it now, and the sooner the better, I say."

"What are you talking about" exclaimed Dick. "You don't mean to tell me
that the captain is going to marry Miss Port?"

"Whether he wants to or not, he's gone so far he'll have to. I've knowed
for a long time she's been after him, but I didn't think she'd catch him
just yet."

"I don't believe it." cried Dick. "It must be a mistake! How do you know
it?"

"Know!" said old Jane, who, ordinarily a taciturn woman, was now excited
and inclined to volubility. "Don't you suppose I've got eyes and ears?
Didn't I see them for ever and ever so long sittin' out on this piazza,
where everybody could see 'em, a-spoonin' like a couple of young people?
And didn't I see 'em tearin' themselves asunder as if they couldn't
bear to be apart for an hour? And didn't I hear her tell him she was
goin' home to get an extry good supper for him? And didn't I hear her
call him 'dear John,' and kiss her hand to him. And if you don't believe
me you can go into the kitchen and ask Mary; she heard the 'dear John'
and saw the hand-kissin'. And then didn't he tell me he was goin' to the
Ports' to supper, and if he stayed late and anybody asked for
him--meaning you, most probable, and I think he might have left
somethin' more of a message for you--that he was to be found with the
Ports--with Maria most likely, for the old man goes to bed early?"

Dick made no answer; he was standing motionless looking out upon the
flowers in the garden.

"And perhaps you haven't heard of Miss Olive comin' past on a bicycle,"
old Jane remarked. "I saw her comin', and I knew by the look on her face
that it made her sick to see that woman sittin' here, and I don't blame
her a bit. When he started so early for town I thought he might be
intendin' to look for her, and yet be in time for the Ports' supper, but
she didn't come back this way at all, and I expect she went home by the
shunpike."

"Which she did," said Dick, showing by this remark that he was listening
to what the old woman was saying.

"But he cut me mighty short when I asked him," continued old Jane. "I
tried to ease his mind, but as I found his mind didn't need no easin', I
minded my own business, just as he was mindin' his. And now, sir, you'll
have to eat your supper alone this time."

If Dick's supper had consisted of nectar and the brains of nightingales
he would not have noticed it; and, until late in the evening, he sat in
the arbor, anxiously waiting for the captain's return. About ten o'clock
old Jane, sleepy from having sat up so long, called to him from the door
that he might as well come in and let her lock up the house. The captain
was not coming home that night. He had stayed with the Ports once
before, when the old man was sick.

"I guess he's got a better reason for stayin' tonight," she said. "It'll
be a great card for that Maria when the Glenford people knows it, and
they'll know it you may be sure, if she has to go and walk the soles of
her feet off tellin' them. One thing's mighty sure," she continued. "I'm
not goin' to stay here with her in the house. He'll have to get somebody
else to help him take toll. But I guess she'll want to do that herself.
Nothin' would suit her better than to be sittin' all day in the
tollhouse talkin' scandal to everybody that goes by."




_CHAPTER XVII_

_Dick is not a Prompt Bearer of News._


When the captain reached Glenford, and before he went to the Ports' he
went to the telegraph-office, and made inquiries at various other
places, but his niece had not been seen in town. He wandered about so
long and asked so many questions that it was getting dark when he
suddenly thought of the shunpike. He had not thought of it before, for
it was an unfit road for bicycles, but now he saw that he had been a
fool. That was the only way she could have gone back.

Hurrying to a livery-stable, he hired a horse and buggy and a lantern,
and drove to the shunpike. There he plainly saw the track of the bicycle
as it had turned into that rough road. Then he drove on, examining every
foot of the way, fearful that he might see, lying senseless by the side
of the road, the figure of a girl, perhaps unconscious from fatigue,
perhaps dead from an accident.

When at last he emerged upon the turnpike he lost the track of the
bicycle, but still he went on, all the way to Broadstone; a girl might
be lying senseless by the side of the road, even on the pike, which at
this time was not much frequented. Thus assuring himself that Olive had
reached Broadstone in safety, or at least had not fallen by the way, he
turned and drove back to town upon the pike, passing his own toll-gate,
where the bar was always up after dark. He had promised to return the
horse that night, and, as he had promised, he intended to do it. It was
after nine o'clock when, returning from the livery-stable, he reached
the Port house, and saw Maria sitting in the open doorway.

She instantly ran out to meet him, asking him somewhat sharply why he
had disappointed them. She had kept the supper waiting ever so long. He
went in to see her father, who was sitting up for him, and she busied
herself in getting him a fresh supper. Nice and hot the supper was, and
although his answers to her questions had not been satisfactory, she
concealed her resentment, if she had any. When the meal was over both
father and daughter assured him that it was too late for him to go home
that night, and that he must stay with them. Tired and troubled, Captain
Asher accepted the invitation.

As soon as he could get away from the Port residence the next morning
Captain Asher went home. He had hoped he would have been able to leave
before breakfast, but the solicitous Maria would not listen to this. She
prepared him a most tempting breakfast, cooking some of the things with
her own hands, and she was so attentive, so anxious to please, so kind
in her suggestions, and in every way so desirous to make him happy
through the medium of savory food and tender-hearted concern, that she
almost made him angry. Never before, he thought, had he seen a woman
make such a coddling fool of herself. He knew very well what it meant,
and that provoked him still more.

When at last he got away he walked home in a bad humor; he was even
annoyed with Olive. Granting that what she had done was natural enough
under the circumstances, and that she had not wished to stop when she
saw him in company with a woman she did not like, he thought she might
have considered him as well as herself. She should have known that it
would give him great trouble for her to dash by in that way and neither
stop nor come back to explain matters. She must have known that Maria
Port was not going to stay always, and she might have waited somewhere
until the woman had gone. If she had had the least idea of how much he
wanted to see her she would have contrived some way to come back to him.
But no, she went back to Broadstone to please herself, and left him to
wander up and down the roads looking for her in the dark.

When the captain met old Jane at the door of the tollhouse her
salutation did not smooth his ruffled spirits, for she told him that she
and Mr. Lancaster had sat up until nearly the middle of the night
waiting for him, and that the poor young man must have felt it, for he
had not eaten half a breakfast.

The captain paid but little attention to these remarks and passed in,
but before he crossed the garden he met Dick, who informed him that he
had something very important to communicate. Important communications
that must be delivered without a moment's loss of time are generally
unpleasant, and knowing this, the captain knit his brows a little, but
told Dick he would be ready for him as soon as he lighted his pipe. He
felt he must have something to soothe his ruffled spirits while he
listened to the tale of the woes of some one else.

But at the moment he scratched his match to light his pipe his soul was
illuminated by a flash of joy; perhaps Dick was going to tell him he was
engaged to Olive; perhaps that was what she had come to tell him the day
before. He had not expected to hear anything of this kind, at least not
so soon, but it had been the wish of his heart--he now knew that without
appreciating the fact--it had been the earnest wish of his heart for
some time, and he stepped toward the little arbor with the alacrity of
happy anticipation.

As soon as they were seated Dick began to speak of Olive, but not in the
way the captain had hoped for. He mentioned the great trouble into which
she had been plunged, and gave the captain his brother's letter to read.
When he had finished it the captain's face darkened, and his frown was
heavy.

"An outrageous piece of business," he said, "to treat a daughter in this
way; to put a schoolmate over her head in the family! It is shameful!
And this is what she was coming to tell me?"

"Yes," said Dick, "that is it."

Now there was another flash of joy in the captain's heart, which cleared
up his countenance and made his frown disappear. "She was coming to me,"
he thought. "I was the one to whom she turned in her trouble." And it
seemed to this good captain as if he had suddenly become the father of a
grown-up daughter.

"But what message did she send me?" he asked quickly. "Did she say when
she was coming again?"

Dick hesitated; Olive had said that she wanted her uncle to say when he
wanted to see her, so that there should be no more surprising, but this
request had been conditional. Dick knew that she did not want to come if
her uncle were going to marry Miss Port; therefore it was that he
hesitated.

"Before we go any further," he said, "I think I would better mention a
little thing which will make you laugh, but still it did worry Miss
Asher, and was one reason why she went back to Broadstone without
stopping."

"What is it" asked the captain, putting down his pipe.

Dick did not come out plainly and frankly, as he had told Olive he would
do when he mentioned the Maria Port matter. In his own heart he could
not help believing now that Olive's suspicions had had good foundations,
and old Jane's announcements, combined with the captain's own actions in
regard to the Port family, had almost convinced him that this miserable
engagement was a fact. But, of course, he would not in any way intimate
to the captain that he believed in such nonsense, and therefore, in an
offhand manner, he mentioned Olive's absurd anxiety in regard to Miss
Port.

When the captain heard Dick's statement he answered it in the most frank
and plain manner; he brought his big hand down on his knee and swore as
if one of his crew had boldly contradicted him. He did not swear at
anybody in particular; there was the roar and the crash of the thunder
and the flash of the lightning, but no direct stroke descended upon any
one. He was angry that such a repulsive and offensive thing as his
marriage to Maria Port should be mentioned, or even thought of, but he
was enraged when he heard that his niece had believed him capable of
such disgusting insanity. With a jerk he rose to his feet.

"I will not talk about such a thing as this," he said. "If I did I am
sure I should say something hard about my niece, and I don't want to do
that." With this he strode away, and proceeded to look after the
concerns of his little farm.

Old Jane came cautiously to Dick. "Did he tell you when it was going to
be, or anything about it?" she asked.

"No," said Dick, "he would not even speak of it."

"I suppose he expects us to mind our own business," said she, "and of
course we'll have to do it, but I can tell him one thing--I'm goin' to
make it my business to leave this place the day before that woman comes
here."

Dejected and thoughtful, Dick sat in the arbor. Here was a state of
affairs very different from what he had anticipated. He had not been
able to hurry to her the evening before; he had not gone to breakfast as
she had invited him; he had not started off early in the forenoon; and
now he asked himself when should he go, or, indeed, why should he go at
all? She had no anxieties he could relieve. Anything he could tell her
would only heap more unhappiness upon her, and the longer he could keep
his news from her the better it would be for her.

Olive had not joined the Broadstone party at dinner the night before.
She had been too tired, and had gone directly to her room, where, after
a time, Mrs. Easterfield joined her; and the two talked late. One who
had overheard their conversation might well have supposed that the elder
lady was as much interested in Lieutenant Asher's approaching nuptials
as was the younger one. When she was leaving Mrs. Easterfield said:

"You have enough on your mind to give it all the trouble it ought to
bear, and so I beg of you not to think for a moment of that absurd idea
about your uncle's engagement. I never saw the woman, but I have heard
of her; she is a professional scandal-monger; and Captain Asher would
not think for a moment of marrying her. When Mr. Lancaster comes
to-morrow you will hear that she was merely consulting him on business,
and that you are to go to the toll-gate to-morrow as soon as you can.
But remember, this time I am going to send you in the carriage. No more
bicycles."