"Mr. Locker," said Olive, speaking very pleasantly, "if you had come to
me to-day and had asked me for a decision based upon what you had
already said to me, I think I might have settled the matter. But after
what you have just told me, I can not answer you now. You give me things
to think about, and I must wait."

"Heavens" exclaimed Mr. Locker, clasping his hands. "Am I not yet to
know whether I am to rise into paradise, or to sink into the infernal
regions?"

Olive smiled. "Don't do either, Mr. Locker," she said. "This earth is a
very pleasant place. Stay where you are."

He folded his arms and gazed at her. "It is a pleasant place," said he,
"and I am mighty glad I got in my few remarks before you made your
decision. I leave my love with you on approbation, and you may be sure I
shall come to-morrow before luncheon to hear what you say about it."

"I shall expect you," said Olive. And as she spoke her eyes were full of
kind consideration.

"Now, that's genuine," said Miss Raleigh, when Locker had departed. "If
he had not felt every word he said he could not have said it before me."

"No doubt you are right," said Olive. "He is very brave. And now you see
this new line, which begins an entirely different kind of stitch!"

In the middle distance Mr. Du Brant still strolled backward and forward,
pulverizing his teeth and swearing in French. He seldom removed his eyes
from Miss Asher, but still she sat on that bench and crocheted, and
talked, and talked, and crocheted, with that everlasting Miss Raleigh!
He had seen Locker with her, and he had seen him go; and now he hoped
that the woman would soon depart. Then it would be his chance.

The young Austrian had become most eager to make Olive his wife. He
earnestly loved her; and, beyond that, he had come to see that a
marriage with her would be most advantageous to his prospects. This
beautiful and brilliant American girl, familiar with foreign life and
foreign countries, would give him a position in diplomatic society which
would be most desirable. She might not bring him much money; although he
believed that all American girls had some money; but she would bring him
favor, distinction, and, most likely, advancement. With such a wife he
would be a welcome envoy at any court. And, besides, he loved her. But,
alas, Miss Raleigh would not go away.

About half an hour after Claude Locker left Olive he encountered Dick
Lancaster.

"Well," said he, "I charged. I was not routed, I can't say that I was
even repulsed. But I was obliged to withdraw my forces. I shall go into
camp, and renew the attack to-morrow. So, my friend, you will have to
wait. I wish I could say that there is no use of your waiting, but I am
a truthful person and can't do that."

Lancaster was not pleased. "It seems to me," he said, "that you trifle
with the most important affairs of life."

"Trifle!" exclaimed Locker. "Would you call it trifling if I fail, and
then to save her from a worse fate, were to back you up with all my
heart and soul?"

Dick could not help smiling. "By a worse fate," he said, "I suppose you
mean--"

"The Austrian," interrupted Locker. "Mrs. Easterfield has told me
something about him. He may have a title some day, and he is about as
dangerous as they make them. Instead of accusing me of trifling, you
ought to go down on your knees and thank me for still standing between
him and her."

"That is a duty I would like to perform myself," said Dick.

"Perhaps you may have a chance," sighed Locker, "but I most earnestly
hope not. Look over there at that he-nurse. Those children have made him
take them walking, and he is just coming back to the house."




_CHAPTER XXII_

_The Conflicting Serenades._


Mrs. Easterfield worked steadily at her letter, feeling confident all
the time that her secretary was attending conscientiously to the task
which had been assigned to her, and which could not fail to be a most
congenial one. One of the greatest joys of Miss Raleigh's life was to
interfere in other people's business; and to do it under approval and
with the feeling that it was her duty was a rare joy.

The letter was to her husband, and Mrs. Easterfield was writing it
because she was greatly troubled, and even frightened. In the indulgence
of a good-humored and romantic curiosity to know whether or not a
grown-up young woman would return to a sentimental attachment of her
girlhood, she had brought her husband's secretary to the house with
consequences which were appalling. If this navy girl she had on hand had
been a mere flirt, Mrs. Easterfield, an experienced woman of society,
might not have been very much troubled, but Olive seemed to her to be
much more than a flirt; she would trifle until she made up her mind, but
when she should come to a decision Mrs. Easterfield believed she would
act fairly and squarely. She wanted to marry; and, in her heart, Mrs.
Easterfield commended her; without a mother; now more than ever without
a father; her only near relative about to marry a woman who was
certainly a most undesirable connection; Olive was surely right in
wishing to settle in life. And, if piqued and affronted by her father's
intended marriage, she wished immediately to declare her independence,
the girl could not be blamed. And, from what she had said of Mr.
Hemphill, Mrs. Easterfield could not in her own mind dissent. He was a
good young man; he had an excellent position; he fervently loved Olive;
she had loved him, and might do it again. What was there to which she
could object? Only this: it angered and frightened her to think of Olive
Asher throwing herself away upon Rupert Hemphill. So she wrote a very
strong letter to her husband, representing to him that the danger was
very great and imminent, and that he was needed at Broadstone just as
soon as he could get there. Business could be set aside; his wife's
happiness was at stake; for if this unfortunate match should be made, it
would be her doing, and it would cloud her whole life. Of herself she
did not know what to do, and if she had known, she could not have done
it. But if he came he would not only know everything, but could do
anything. This indicated her general opinion of Mr. Tom Easterfield.

"Now," said she to herself, as she fixed an immediate-delivery stamp
upon the letter, "that ought to bring him here before lunch to-morrow."

When Olive saw fit to go to her room Miss Raleigh felt relieved from
guard, and went to Mrs. Easterfield to report. She told that lady
everything that had happened, even including her own emotions at
various points of the interview. The amazed Mrs. Easterfield listened
with the greatest interest.

"I knew Claude Locker was capable of almost any wild proceeding," she
said, "but I did not think he would do that!"

"There is one thing I forgot," said the secretary, "and that is that I
promised Mr. Locker not to mention a word of what happened."

"I am very glad," replied Mrs. Easterfield, "that you remembered that
promise after you told me everything, and not before. You have done
admirably so far."

"And if I have any other opportunities of interpolating myself, so to
speak," said Miss Raleigh, "shall I embrace them?"

Mrs. Easterfield laughed. "I don't want you to be too obviously
zealous," she answered. "I think for the present we may relax our
efforts to relieve Miss Asher of annoyance." Mrs. Easterfield believed
this. She had faith in Olive; and if that young woman had promised to
give Claude Locker another hearing the next day she did not believe that
the girl would give anybody else a positive answer before that time.

Miss Raleigh went away not altogether satisfied. She did not believe in
relaxed vigilance; for one thing, it was not interesting.

Olive was surprised when she found that Mr. Lancaster was to stay to
dinner, and afterward when she was informed that he had been invited to
spend a few days, she reflected. It looked like some sort of a plan, and
what did Mrs. Easterfield mean by it? She knew the lady of the house
had a very good opinion of the young professor, and that might explain
the invitation at this particular moment, but still it did look like a
plan, and as Olive had no sympathy with plans of this sort she
determined not to trouble her head about it. And to show her
non-concern, she was very gracious to Mr. Lancaster, and received her
reward in an extremely interesting conversation.

Still Olive reflected, and was not in her usual lively spirits. Mr. Fox
said to Mrs. Fox that it was an abominable shame to allow a crowd of
incongruous young men to swarm in upon a country house party, and
interfere seriously with the pleasures of intelligent and
self-respecting people.

That night, after Mrs. Easterfield had gone to bed, and before she
slept, she heard something which instantly excited her attention; it was
the sound of a guitar, and it came from the lawn in front of the house.
Jumping up, and throwing a dressing-gown about her, she cautiously
approached the open window. But the night was dark, and she could see
nothing. Pushing an armchair to one side of the window, she seated
herself, and listened. Words now began to mingle with the music, and
these words were French. Now she understood everything perfectly. Mr. Du
Brant was a musician, and had helped himself to the guitar in the
library.

From the position in which she sat Mrs. Easterfield could look upon a
second-story window in a projecting wing of the house, and upon this
window, which belonged to Olive's room, and which was barely perceptible
in the gloom, she now fixed her eyes. The song and the thrumming went
on, but no signs of life could be seen in the black square of that open
window.

Mrs. Easterfield was not a bad French scholar, and she caught enough of
the meaning of the words to understand that they belonged to a very
pretty love song in which the flowers looked up to the sky to see if it
were blue, because they knew if it were the fair one smiled, and then
their tender buds might ope; and, if she smiled, his heart implored that
she might smile on him. There was a second verse, much resembling the
first, except that the flowers feared that clouds might sweep the sky;
and they lamented accordingly.

Now, Mrs. Easterfield imagined that she saw something white in the
depths of the darkness of Olive's room, but it did not come to the
front, and she was very uncertain about it. Suddenly, however, something
happened about which she could not be in the least uncertain. Above
Olive's room was a chamber appropriated to the use of bachelor visitors,
and from the window of this room now burst upon the night a wild,
unearthly chant. It was a song with words but without music, and the
voice in which it was shot out into the darkness was harsh, was shrill,
was insolently blatant. And thus the clamorous singer sang:

    "My angel maid--ahoy!
    If aught should you annoy,
        By act or sound,
        From sky or ground,
        I then pray thee
        To call on me
    My angel maid--ahoy,
    My ange--my ange--l maid
    Ahoy! Ahoy! Ahoy!"

The music of the guitar now ceased, and no French words were heard. No
ditty of Latin origin, be it ever so melodious and fervid, could stand
against such a wild storm of Anglo-Saxon vociferation. Every ahoy rang
out as if sea captains were hailing each other in a gale!

"What lungs he has" thought Mrs. Easterfield, as she put her hand over
her mouth so that no one should hear her laugh. At the open window, at
which she still steadily gazed, she now felt sure she saw something
white which moved, but it did not come to the front.

A wave of half-smothered objurgation now rolled up from below; it was
not to be readily caught, but its tone indicated rage and
disappointment. But the guitar had ceased to sound, and the French love
song was heard no more. A little irrepressible laugh came from
somewhere, but who heard it beside herself Mrs. Easterfield could not
know. Then all was still, and the insects of the night, and the tree
frogs, had the stage to themselves.

Early in the morning Miss Raleigh presented herself before Mrs.
Easterfield to make a report. "There was a serenade last night," she
said, "not far from Miss Asher's window. In fact, there were two, but
one of them came from Mr. Locker's room, and was simply awful. Mr. Du
Brant was the gentleman who sang from the lawn, and I was very sorry
when he felt himself obliged to stop. I do not think very much of him,
but he certainly has a pleasant voice, and plays well on the guitar. I
think he must have been a good deal cut up by being interrupted in that
dreadful way, for he grumbled and growled, and did not go into the
house for some time. I am sure he would have been very glad to fight if
any one had come down."

"You mean," said Mrs. Easterfield, "if Mr. Locker had come."

"Well," said the secretary, "if Mr. Hemphill had appeared I have no
doubt he would have answered. Mr. Du Brant seemed to me ready to fight
anybody."

"How do you know so much about him?" asked Mrs. Easterfield. "And why
did you think of Mr. Hemphill?"

"Oh, he was looking out of his window," said Miss Raleigh. "He could not
see, but he could hear."

"I ask you again," said Mrs. Easterfield, "how do you know all this?"

"Oh, I had not gone to bed, and, at the first sound of the guitar, I
slipped on a waterproof with a hood, and went out. Of course, I wanted
to know everything that was happening."

"I had not the least idea you were such an energetic person," remarked
Mrs. Easterfield, "and I think you were entirely too rash. But how about
Mr. Lancaster? Do you know if he was listening?"

Miss Raleigh stood silent for a moment, then she exclaimed: "There now,
it is too bad! I entirely forgot him! I have not the slightest idea
whether he was asleep or awake, and it would have been just as easy--"

"Well, you need not regret it," said Mrs. Easterfield. "I think you did
quite enough, and if anything of the kind occurs again I positively
forbid you to go out of the house."

"There is one thing we've got to look after," said Miss Raleigh,
without heeding the last remark, "this may result in bloodshed."

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Easterfield; "nothing of that kind is to be feared
from the gentlemen who visit Broadstone."

"Still," said Miss Raleigh, "don't you think it would be well for me to
keep an eye on them?"

"Oh, you may keep both eyes on them if you want to," said Mrs.
Easterfield. Then she began to talk about something else, but, although
she dismissed the matter so lightly, she was very glad at heart that she
had sent for her husband. Things were getting themselves into unpleasant
complications, and she needed Tom.

There was a certain constraint at the breakfast table. Mr. Fox had heard
the serenades, although his consort had slept soundly through the
turmoil; and, while carefully avoiding any reference to the incidents of
the night, he was anxiously hoping that somebody would say something
about them. Mrs. Easterfield saw that Mr. Du Brant was in a bad humor,
and she hoped he was angry enough to announce his early departure. But
he contented himself with being angry, and said nothing about going
away.

Mr. Hemphill was serious, and looked often in the direction of Olive. As
for Dick Lancaster, Miss Raleigh, whose eye was fixed upon him whenever
it could be spared from the exigencies of her meal, decided that if
there should be a fight he would be one of the fighters; his brow was
dark and his glance was sharp; in fact, she was of the opinion that he
glared. Claude Locker did not come to breakfast until nearly everybody
had finished. His dreams had been so pleasant that he had overslept
himself.

In the eyes of Mrs. Easterfield Olive's conduct was positively charming.
No one could have supposed that during the night she had heard anything
louder than the ripple of the river. She talked more to Mr. Du Brant
than to any one else, although she managed to draw most of the others
into the conversation; and, with the assistance of the hostess, who gave
her most good-humored help, the talk never flagged, although it did not
become of the slightest interest to any one who engaged in it. They were
all thinking about the conflict of serenades, and what might happen
next.

Shortly after breakfast Miss Raleigh came to Mrs. Easterfield. "Mr. Du
Brant is with her," she said quickly, "and they are walking away. Shall
I interpolate?"

"No," said the other with a smile, "you can let them alone. Nothing will
happen this morning, unless, indeed, he should come to ask for a
carriage to take him to the station."

Mrs. Easterfield was busy in her garden when Dick Lancaster came to her.
"What a wonderfully determined expression you have!" said she. "You look
as if you were going to jump on a street-car without stopping it!"

"You are right," said he, "I am determined, and I came to tell you so. I
can't stand this sort of thing any longer. I feel like a child who is
told he must eat at the second table, and who can not get his meals
until every one else is finished."

"And I suppose," she said, "you feel there will be nothing left for
you."

"That is it," he answered, "and I don't want to wait. My soul rebels! I
can't stand it!"

"Therefore," she said, "you wish to appear before the meal is ready, and
in that case you will get nothing." He looked at her inquiringly. "I
mean," said she, "that if you propose to Miss Asher now you will be
before your time, and she will decline your proposition without the
slightest hesitation."

"I do not quite understand that," said Dick. "Would she decline all
others?"

"I am afraid not."

"But why do you except me?" asked Dick. "Surely she is not engaged. I
know you would tell me at once if that were so."

"It is not so," said Mrs. Easterfield.

"Then I shall take my chances. With all this serenading and love-making
going on around me and around the woman I love with all my heart. I can
not stand and wait until I am told my time has come. The intensity and
the ardor of my feelings for her give me the right to speak to her.
Unless I know that some one else has stepped in before me and taken the
place I crave, I have decided to speak to her just as soon as I can. But
I thought it was due to you to come first and tell you."

"Mr. Lancaster," said Mrs. Easterfield, speaking very quietly, "if you
decide to go to Miss Asher and ask her to marry you, I know you will do
it, for I believe you are a man who keeps his word to himself, but I
assure you that if you do it you will never marry her. So you really
need not bother yourself about going to her; you can simply decide to do
it, and that will be quite sufficient; and you can stay here and hold
these long-stemmed dahlias for me as I cut them."

A troubled wistfulness showed itself upon the young man's face. "You
speak so confidently," he said, "that I almost feel I ought to believe
you. Why do you tell me that I am the only one of her suitors who would
certainly be rejected if he offered himself?"

Mrs. Easterfield dropped the long-stemmed dahlias she had been holding;
and, turning her eyes full upon Lancaster, she said, "Because you are
the only one of them toward whom she has no predilections whatever. More
than that, you are the only one toward whom she has a positive
objection. You are the only one who is an intimate friend of her uncle,
and who would be likely, by means of that intimate friendship, to bring
her into connection with the woman she hates, as well as with a relative
she despises on account of his intended marriage with that woman."

"All that should not count at all," cried Dick. "In such a matter as
this I have nothing to do with Captain Asher! I stand for myself and
speak for myself. What is his intended wife to me? Or what should she be
to her?"

"Of course," said Mrs. Easterfield, "all that would not count at all if
Olive Asher loved you. But you see she doesn't. I have had it from her
own lips that her uncle's intended marriage is, and must always be, an
effectual barrier between you and her."

"What" cried Dick. "Have you spoken to her of me? And in that way?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Easterfield, "I have. I did not intend to tell you, but
you have forced me to do it. You see, she is a young woman of
extraordinary good sense. She believes she ought to marry, and she is
going to try to make the very best marriage that she possibly can. She
has suitors who have very strong claims upon her consideration--I am not
going to tell you those claims, but I know them. Now, you have no
claim--special claim, I mean--but for all this, I believe, as I have
told you before, that you are the man she ought to marry, and I have
been doing everything I can to make her cease considering them, and to
consider you. And this is the way she came to give me her reasons for
not considering you at all. Now the state of the case is plain before
you."

Dick bowed his head and fixed his eyes upon the dahlias on the ground.

"Don't tread on the poor things," she said, "and don't despair. All you
have to do is to let me put a curbed bit on you, and for you to consent
to wear it for a little while. See," said she, moving her hands in the
air, as if they were engaged upon the bridle of a horse, "I fasten this
chain rather closely, and buckle the ends of the reins in the lowest
curb. Now, you must have a steady hand and a resolute will until the
time comes when the curb is no longer needed."

"And do you believe that time will come?" he asked.

"It will come," she said, "when two things happen; when she has reason
to love you, and has no reason to object to you; and, in my opinion,
that happy combination may arrive if you act sensibly."

"But--" said Dick.

At this moment a quick step was heard on the garden-path and they both
turned. It was Olive.

"Mr. Lancaster," she cried, "I want you; that is, if Mrs. Easterfield
can spare you. We are making up a game of tennis. Mr. Du Brant and Mr.
Hemphill are there, but I can not find Mr. Locker."

Mrs. Easterfield could spare him, and Dick Lancaster, with the curbed
chain pressing him very hard, walked away with Olive Asher.




_CHAPTER XXIII_

_The Captain and Maria._


When the captain drove into Glenford on the day when his mind had been
so much disturbed by Dick Lancaster's questions regarding a marriage
between him and Maria Port, he stopped at no place of business, he
turned not to the right nor to the left, but went directly to the house
of his old friend with whom he had spent the night before.

Mr. Simeon Port was sitting on his front porch, reading his newspaper.
He looked up, surprised to see the captain again so soon.

"Simeon," said the captain, "I want to see Maria. I have something to
say to her."

The old man laid down his newspaper. "Serious?" said he.

"Yes, serious," was the answer, "and I want to see her now."

Mr. Port reflected for a moment. "Captain," said he, "do you believe you
have thought about this as much as you ought to?"

"Yes, I have," replied the captain; "I've thought just as much as I
ought to. Is she in the house?"

Mr. Port did not answer. "Captain John," said he presently, "Maria isn't
young, that's plain enough, considerin' my age; but she never does seem
to me as if she'd growed up. When she was a girl she had ways of her
own, and she could make water bile quick, and now she can make it bile
just as quick as ever she did, and perhaps quicker. She's not much on
mindin' the helm, Captain John, and there're other things about her that
wouldn't be attractive to husbands when they come to find them out. And
if I was you I'd take my time."

"That's just what I intend to do," said the captain. "This is my time,
and I am going to take it."

Miss Port, who was busy in the back part of the house, heard voices, and
now came forward. She was wiping her hands upon her apron, and one of
them she extended to the captain.

"I am glad to see you--John," she said, speaking in a very gentle voice,
and hesitating a little at the last word.

The captain looked at her steadfastly, and then, without taking her
hand, he said: "I want to speak to you by yourself. I'll go into the
parlor."

She politely stepped back to let him pass her, and then her father
turned quickly to her.

"Did you expect to see him back so soon?" he asked.

She smiled and looked down. "Oh, yes," said she, "I was sure he'd come
back very soon."

The old man heaved a sigh, and returned to his paper.

Maria followed the captain. "John," said she, speaking in a low voice,
"wouldn't you rather come into the dinin'-room? He's a little bit hard
of hearin', but if you don't want him to hear anything he'll take in
every word of it."

"Maria Port," said the captain, speaking in a strong, upper-deck voice,
"what I have to say I'll say here. I don't want the people in the street
to hear me, but if your father chooses to listen I would rather he did
it than not."

She looked at him inquiringly. "Well," she answered, "I suppose he will
have to hear it some time or other, and he might as well hear it now as
not. He's all I've got in the world, and you know as well as I do that I
run to tell him everything that happens to me as soon as it happens.
Will you sit down?"

"No," said the captain, "I can speak better standing. Maria Port, I have
found out that you have been trying to make people believe that I am
engaged to marry you."

The smile did not leave Maria's face. "Well, ain't you?" said she.

A look of blank amazement appeared on the face of the captain, but it
was quickly succeeded by the blackness of rage. He was about to swear,
but restrained himself.

"Engaged to you?" he shouted, forgetting entirely the people in the
street; "I'd rather be engaged to a fin-back shark!"

The smile now left her face. "Oh, thank you very much," she said. "And
this is what you meant by your years of devotion! I held out for a long
time, knowing the difference in our ages and the habits of sailors, and
now--just when I make up my mind to give in, to think of my father and
not of myself, and to sacrifice my feelin's so that he might always
have one of his old friends near him, now that he's got too feeble to go
out by himself, and at his age you know as well as I do he ought to have
somebody near him besides me, for who can tell what may happen, or how
sudden--you come and tell me you'd rather marry a fish. I suppose you've
got somebody else in your mind, but that don't make no difference to me.
I've got no fish to offer you, but I have myself that you've wanted so
long, and which now you've got."

The angry captain opened his mouth to speak; he was about to ejaculate
Woman! but his sense of propriety prevented this. He would not apply
such an epithet to any one in the house of a friend. Wretch rose to his
lips, but he would not use even that word; and he contented himself
with: "You! You know just as well as you know you are standing there
that I never had the least idea of marrying you. You know, too, that you
have tried to make people think I had, people here in town and people
out at my house, where you came over and over again pretending to want
to talk about your father's health, when it did not need any more
talking about than yours does. You know you have made trouble in my
family; that you so disgusted my niece that she would not stop at my
house, which had been the same thing as her home; you sickened my
friends; and made my very servants ashamed of me; and all this because
you want to marry a man who now despises you. I would have despised you
long ago if I had seen through your tricks, but I didn't."

There was a smile on Miss Port's face now, but it was not such a smile
as that with which she had greeted the captain; it was a diabolical
grin, brightened by malice. "You are perfectly right," she said;
"everybody knows we are engaged to be married, and what they think about
it doesn't matter to me the snap of my finger. The people in town all
know it and talk about it, and what's more, they've talked to me about
it. That niece of your'n knows it, and that's the reason she won't come
near you, and I'm sure I'm not sorry for that. As for that old thing
that helps you at the toll-gate, and as for the young man that's
spongin' on you, I've no doubt they've got a mighty poor opinion of you.
And I've no doubt they're right. But all that matters nothin' to me.
You're engaged to be married to me; you know it yourself; and everybody
knows it; and what you've got to do is to marry, or pay. You hear what I
say, and you know what I'm goin' to stick to."

It may be well for Captain Asher's reputation that he had no opportunity
to answer Miss Port's remarks. At that instant Mr. Simeon Port appeared
at the door which opened from the parlor on the piazza. He stepped
quickly, his actions showing nothing of that decrepitude which his
dutiful daughter had feared would prevent him from seeking the society
of his friends. He fixed his eyes on his daughter and spoke in a loud,
strong voice.

"Maria," said he, "go to bed! I've heard what you've been saying, and
I'm ashamed of you. I've been ashamed of you before, but now it's worse
than ever. Go to bed, I tell you! And this time, go!"

There was nothing in the world that Maria Port was afraid of except her
father, and of him personally she had not the slightest dread. But of
his dying without leaving her the whole of his fortune she had an
abiding terror, which often kept her awake at night, and which sent a
sickening thrill through her whenever a difficulty arose between her and
her parent. She was quite sure what he would do if she should offend him
sufficiently; he would leave her a small annuity, enough to support her;
and the rest of his money would go to several institutions which she had
heard him mention in this connection. If she could have married Captain
Asher she would have felt a good deal safer; it would have taken much
provocation to make her father leave his money out of the family if his
old friend had been one of that family.

Now, when she heard her father's voice, and saw his dark eyes glittering
at her, she knew she was in great danger, and the well-known chill ran
through her. She made no answer; she cared not who was present; she
thought of nothing but that those eyes must cease to glitter, and that
angry voice must not be heard again. She turned and walked to her room,
which was on the same floor, across the hall.

"And mind you go to bed!" shouted her father. "And do it regular. You're
not to make believe to go to bed, and then get up and walk about as soon
as my back is turned. I'm comin' in presently to see if you've obeyed
me."

She answered not, but entered her room, and closed the door after her.

Mr. Port now turned to the captain. "I never could find out," he said,
"where Maria got that mind of her'n. It isn't from my side, for my
father and mother was as good people as ever lived, and it wasn't from
her mother, for you knew her, and there wasn't anything of the kind
about her."

"No," said Captain Asher, "not the least bit of it."

"It must have been from her grandmother Ellis," said the old man. "I
never knew her, for she died before I was acquainted with the family,
but I expect she died of deviltry. That's the only insight I can get
into the reasons for Maria's havin' the mind she's got. But I tell you,
Captain John, you've had a blessed escape! I didn't know she was in the
habit of goin' out to your house so often. She didn't tell me that."

"Simeon," said the captain, "I think I will go now. I have had enough of
Maria. I don't suppose I'll hear from her very soon again."

The old man smiled. "No," said he, "I don't think she'll want to trouble
you any more."

Miss Port, whose ear was at the keyhole of her door not twelve feet
away, grinned malignantly.

Soon after Captain Asher had gone Mr. Port walked to the door of his
daughter's room, gave a little knock, and then opened the door a little.

"You are in bed, are you?" said he. "Well, that's good for you. Turn
down that coverlid and let me see if you've got your nightclothes on."
She obeyed. "Very well," he continued; "now you stay there until I tell
you to get up."

Captain Asher went home, still in a very bad humor. He had ceased to be
angry with Maria Port, he was done with her; and he let her pass out of
his mind. But he was angry with other people, especially with Olive.
She had allowed herself to have a most contemptuous opinion of him; she
had treated him shamefully; and as he thought of her his indignation
increased instead of diminishing. And young Lancaster had believed it!
And old Jane! It was enough to make a stone slab angry, and the captain
was not a stone slab.




_CHAPTER XXIV_

_Mr. Tom arrives at Broadstone._


After the conclusion of the game of tennis in which Olive and three of
her lovers participated, Claude Locker, returning from a long walk,
entered the grounds of Broadstone. He had absented himself from that
hospitable domain for purposes of reflection, and also to avoid the
company of Mr. Du Brant. Not that he was afraid of the diplomat, but
because of the important interview appointed for the latter part of the
morning. He very much wished that no unpleasantness of any kind should
occur before the time for that interview.

Having found that he had given himself more time than was necessary for
his reflections and his walk, he had rested in the shade of a tree and
had written two poems. One of these was the serenade which he would have
roared out on the night air on a very recent occasion if he had had time
to prepare it. It was, in his opinion, far superior to the impromptu
verses of which he had been obliged to make use, and it pleased him to
think that if things should go well with him after the interview to
which he was looking forward, he would read that serenade to its object,
and ask her to substitute it in her memory for the inharmonic lines
which he had used in order to smother the degenerate melody of a
foreign lay. The other poem was intended for use in case his interview
should not be successful. But on the way home Mr. Locker experienced an
entire change of mind. He came to believe that it would be unwise for
him to arrange to use either of those poems on that day. For all he
knew, Miss Asher might like foreign degenerate lays, and she might be
annoyed that he had interfered with one. He remembered that she had told
him that if he had insisted on an immediate answer to his proposition it
would have been very easy to give it to him. He realized what that
meant; and, for all he knew, she might be quite as ready this morning to
act with similar promptness. That Du Brant business might have settled
her mind, and it would therefore be very well for him to be careful
about what he did, and what he asked for.

About half an hour before luncheon, when he neared the house and
perceived Miss Asher on the lawn, it seemed to him very much as if she
were looking for him. This he did not like, and he hurried toward her.

"Miss Asher," said he, "I wish to propose an amendment."

"To what?" asked Olive. "But first tell me where you have been and what
you have been doing? You are covered with dust, and look as hot as if
you had been pulling the boat against the rapids. I have not seen you
the whole morning."

"I have been walking," said he, "and thinking. It is dreadful hot work
to think. That should be done only in winter weather."

"It would be a woeful thing to take a cold on the mind," said Olive.

"That is so!" he replied. "That is exactly what I am afraid of this
morning, and that is the reason I want to propose my amendment. I beg
most earnestly that you will not make this interview definitive. I am
afraid if you do I may get chills in my mind, soul, and heart from which
I shall never recover. I have an idea that the weather may not be as
favorable as it was yesterday for the unveiling of tender emotions."

"Why so?" asked Olive.

"There are several reasons," returned Mr. Locker. "For one thing, that
musical uproar last night. I have not heard anything about that, and I
don't know where I stand."

Olive laughed. "It was splendid," said she. "I liked you a great deal
better after that than I did before."

"Now tell me," he exclaimed hurriedly, "and please lose no time, for
here comes a surrey from the station with a gentleman in it--do you like
me enough better to give me a favorable answer, now, right here?"

"No," said Olive. "I do not feel warranted in being so precipitate as
that."

"Then please say nothing on the subject," said Locker. "Please let us
drop the whole matter for to-day. And may I assume that I am at liberty
to take it up again to-morrow at this hour?"

"You may," said Olive. "What gentleman is that, do you suppose?"

"I know him," said Locker, "and, fortunately, he is married. He is Mr.
Easterfield."

"Here's papa! Here's papa!" shouted the two little girls as they ran out
of the front door.

"And papa," said the oldest one, "we want you to tell us a story just as
soon as you have brushed your hair! Mr. Rupert has been telling us
stories, but yours are a great deal better."

"Yes," said the other little girl, "he makes all the children too good.
They can't be good, you know, and there's no use trying. We told him so,
but he doesn't mind."

There was story-telling after luncheon, but the papa did not tell them,
and the children were sent away. It was Mrs. Easterfield who told the
stories, and Mr. Tom was a most interested listener.

"Well," said he, when she had finished, "this seems to be a somewhat
tangled state of affairs."

"It certainly is," she replied, "and I tangled them."

"And you expect me to straighten them?" he asked.

"Of course I do," she replied, "and I expect you to begin by sending Mr.
Hemphill away. You know I could not do it, but I should think it would
be easy for you."

"Would you object if I lighted a cigar?" he asked.

"Of course not," she said. "Did you ever hear me object to anything of
the kind?"

"No," said he, "but I never have smoked in this room, and I thought
perhaps Miss Raleigh might object when she came in to do your writing."

"My writing!" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield. "Now don't trifle! This is no
time to make fun of me. Olive may be accepting him this minute."

"It seems to me," said Mr. Easterfield, slowly puffing his cigar, "that
it would not be such a very bad thing if she did. So far as I have been
able to judge, he is my favorite of the claimants. Du Brant and I have
met frequently, and if I were a girl I would not want to marry him.
Locker is too little for Miss Asher, and, besides, he is too flighty.
Your young professor may be good enough, but from my limited
conversation with him at the table I could not form much of an opinion
as to him one way or another. I have an opinion of Hemphill, and a very
good one. He is a first-class young man, a rising one with prospects,
and, more than that, I think he is the best-looking of the lot."

"Tom," said Mrs. Easterfield, "do you suppose I sent for you to talk
such nonsense as that? Can you imagine that my sense of honor toward
Olive's parents would allow me even to consider a marriage between a
high-class girl, such as she is--high-class in every way--to a mere
commonplace private secretary? I don't care what his attributes and
merits are; he is commonplace to the backbone; and he is impossible. If
what ought to be a brilliant career ends suddenly in Rupert Hemphill I
shall have Olive on my conscience for the rest of my life."

"That settles it," said Mr. Tom Easterfield; "your conscience, my dear,
has not been trained to carry loads, and I shall not help to put one on
it. Hemphill is a good man, but we must rule him out."

"Yes," said she, "Olive is a great deal more than good. He must be
ruled out."

"But I can't send him away this afternoon," Tom continued. "That would
put them both on their mettle, and, ten to one, he would considerately
announce his engagement before he left."

"No," said she. "Olive is very sharp, and would resent that. But now
that you are here I feel safe from any immediate rashness on their
part."

"You are right," said Mr. Tom. "My very coming will give them pause. And
now I want to see the girl."

"What for?" asked Mrs. Easterfield.

"I want to get acquainted with her. I don't know her yet, and I can't
talk to her if I don't know her."

"Are you going to talk to her about Hemphill?"

"Yes, for one thing," he answered.

"Well," said she, "you will have to be very circumspect. She is both
alert, and sensitive."

"Oh, I'll be circumspect enough," he replied. "You may trust me for
that."

It was not long after this that Mrs. Easterfield, being engaged in some
hospitable duties, sent Olive to show Mr. Tom the garden, and it was
rather a slight to that abode of beauty that the tour of the rose-lined
paths occupied but a very few minutes, when Mr. Easterfield became
tired, and desired to sit down. Having seated themselves on Mrs.
Easterfield's favorite bench, Olive looked up at her companion, and
asked:

"Well, sir, what is it you brought me here to say to me?"

Mr. Tom laughed, and so did she.

"If it is anything about the gentlemen who are paying their addresses
to me, you may as well begin at once, for that will save time, and
really an introduction is not necessary."

Mr. Easterfield's admiration for this young lady, which had been
steadily growing, was not decreased by this remark. "This girl," said he
to himself, "deserves a nimble-witted husband. Hemphill would never do
for her. It seems to me," he said aloud, "that we are already well
enough acquainted for me to proceed with the remarks which you have
correctly assumed I came here to make."

"Yes," said she, "I have always thought that some people are born to
become acquainted, and when they meet they instantly perceive the fact,
and the thing is accomplished. They can then proceed."

"Very well," said he, "we will proceed."

"I suppose," said Olive, "that Mrs. Easterfield has explained
everything, and that you agree with her and with me that it is a
sensible thing for a girl in my position to marry, and, having no one to
attend wisely to such a matter for me, that I should endeavor to attend
to it myself as wisely as I can. Also, that a little bit of pique,
caused by the fact that I am to have an old schoolfellow for a
stepmother, is excusable."

"And it is this pique which puts you in such a hurry? I did not exactly
understand that."

"Yes, it does," said she. "I very much wish to announce my own
engagement, if not my marriage, before any arrangements shall be made
which may include me. Do you think me wrong in this?"

"No, I don't," said Mr. Easterfield. "If I were a girl in your place I
think I would do the same thing myself."

Olive's face expressed her gratitude. "And now," said she, "what do you
think of the young men? I feel so well acquainted with you through Mrs.
Easterfield that I shall give a great deal of weight to your opinion.
But first let me ask you one thing: After what you have heard of me do
you think I am a flirt?"

Mr. Tom knitted his brows a little, then he smiled, and then he looked
out over the flower-beds without saying anything.

"Don't be afraid to say so if you think so," said she. "You must be
perfectly plain and frank with me, or our acquaintanceship will wither
away."

Under the influence of this threat he spoke. "Well," said he, "I should
not feel warranted in calling you a flirt, but it does seem to me that
you have been flirting."

"I think you are wrong, Mr. Easterfield," said Olive, speaking very
gravely. "I never saw any one of these young men before I came here
except Mr. Hemphill, and he was an entirely different person when I knew
him before, and I have given no one of them any special encouragement.
If Mr. Locker were not such an impetuous young man, I think the others
would have been more deliberate, but as it was easy to see the state of
his mind, and as we are all making but a temporary stay here, these
other young men saw that they must act quickly, or not at all. This,
while it was very amusing, was also a little annoying, and I should
greatly have preferred slower and more deliberate movements on the part
of these young men. But all my feelings changed when my father's letter
came to me. I was glad then that they had proposed already."

"That is certainly honest," said Mr. Tom.

"Of course it is honest," replied Olive. "I am here to speak honestly if
I speak at all. Now, don't you see that if under these peculiar
circumstances one eligible young man had proposed to me I ought to have
considered myself fortunate? Now here are three to choose from. Do you
not agree with me that it is my duty to try to choose the best one of
them, and not to discourage any until I feel very certain about my
choice?"

"That is business-like," said Mr. Easterfield; "but do you love any one
of them?"

"No, I don't," answered Olive, "except that there is a feeling in that
direction in the case of Mr. Hemphill. I suppose Mrs. Easterfield has
told you that when I was a schoolgirl I was deeply in love with him; and
now, when I think of those old times, I believe it would not be
impossible for those old sentiments to return. So there really is a tie
between him and me; even though it be a slight one; which does not exist
at all between me and any one of the others."

For a moment neither of them spoke. "That is very bad, young woman,"
thought Mr. Tom. "A slight tie like that is apt to grow thick and strong
suddenly." But he could not discourse about Mr. Hemphill; he knew that
would be very dangerous. He would have to be considered, however, and
much more seriously than he had supposed.

"Well," said he, "I will tell you this: if I were a young man,
unmarried, and on a visit to Broadstone at this time, I should not like
to be treated as you are treating the young men who are here. It is all
very well for a young woman to look after herself and her own interests,
but I should be very sorry to have my fate depend upon the merits of
other people. I may not be correct, but I am afraid I should feel I was
being flirted with."

"Well, then," said Olive, giving a quick, forward motion on the bench,
"you think I ought to settle this matter immediately, and relieve myself
at once from the imputation of trifling with earnest affection?"

"Oh, no, no, no!" cried Mrs. Easterfield. "Not at all! Don't do anything
rash!"

Olive leaned back on the bench, and laughed heartily. "There is so much
excellent advice in this world," she said, "which is not intended to be
used. However, it is valuable all the same. And now, sir, what is it you
would like me to do? Something plain; intended for every-day use."

Mr. Tom leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "It does not appear to
me," he said, "that you have told me very much I did not know before,
for Mrs. Easterfield put the matter very plainly before me."

"And it does not seem to me," said Olive, "that you have given me any
definite counsel, and I know that is what you came here to do."

"You are mistaken there," he said. "I came here to find out what sort of
a girl you are; my counsels must depend on my discoveries. But there is
one thing I want to ask you; you are all the time talking about three
young men. Now, there are four of them here."

"Yes," she answered quickly. "But only three of them have proposed;
and, besides, if the other were to do so, he would have to be set aside
for what I may call family reasons. I don't want to go into particulars
because the subject is very painful to me."

For a moment Mr. Tom did not speak. Then, determined to go through with
what he had come to do, which was to make himself acquainted with this
girl, he said: "I do not wish to discuss anything that is painful to
you, but Mrs. Easterfield and I are very much disturbed for fear that in
some way your visit to Broadstone created some misunderstanding or
disagreeable feeling between you and your uncle. Now, would you mind
telling me whether this is so, or not?"

She looked at him steadily. "There is an unpleasant feeling between me
and my uncle, but this visit has nothing to do with it. And I am going
to tell you all about it. I hate to feel so much alone in the world that
I can't talk to anybody about what makes me unhappy. I might have spoken
to Mrs. Easterfield, but she didn't ask me. But you have asked me, and
that makes me feel that I am really better acquainted with you than with
her."

This remark pleased Mr. Tom, but he did not think it would be necessary
to put it into his report to his wife. He had promised to be very
circumspect; and circumspection should act in every direction.

"It is very hard for a girl such as I am," she continued, "to be alone
in the world, and that is a very good reason for getting married as soon
as I can."

"And for being very careful whom you marry," interrupted Mr.
Easterfield.

"Of course," said she, "and I am trying very hard to be that. A little
while ago I had a father with whom I expected to live and be happy, but
that dream is over now. And then I thought I had an uncle who was going
to be more of a father to me than my own father had ever been. But that
dream is over, too."

"And why?" asked Mr. Easterfield.

"He is going to marry a woman," said Olive, "that is perfectly horrible,
and with whom I could not live. And the worst of it all is that he never
told me a word about it."

As she said this Olive looked very solemn; and Mr. Tom, not knowing on
the instant what would be proper to say, looked solemn also.

"You may think it strange," said she, "that I talk in this way to you,
but you came here to find out what sort of girl I am, and I am perfectly
willing to help you do it. Besides, in a case like this, I would rather
talk to a man than to a woman."

Mr. Tom believed her, but he did not know at this stage of the
proceedings what it would be wise to say. He was also fully aware that
if he said the wrong thing it would be very bad, indeed.

"Now, you see," said she, "there is another reason why I should marry as
soon as possible. In my case most girls would take up some pursuit which
would make them independent, but I don't like business. I want to be at
the head of a household; and, what is more, I want to have something to
do--I mean a great deal to do--with the selection of a husband."