Chapter V: Part 5

He began to think that perhaps he was engaged in a foolish piece of business, and was in danger of making himself disagreeably conspicuous. The other young men were guests at Broadstone, but if he came there every day as he had been doing, and as he wanted to do, it might be thought that he was taking advantage of Mrs. Easterfield's kindness. At that moment he heard the rustle of skirts, and, glancing up, saw Mrs. Easterfield, who was looking for him.

Mrs. Easterfield's regard for Lancaster was growing, partly on account of the confidence she had already reposed in him. In her present state of mind she would have been glad to give him still more, for she did not know what to do about Olive and Mr. Hemphill, and there was no one with whom she could talk upon the subject; even if she had known Dick better her loyalty to Olive would have prevented that.

"Have you found out anything about the captain and Olive?" she asked. "Has he spoken of her return?"

"No," replied Dick; "he has not said a word on the subject, but I am very sure he would be overjoyed to have her come back. Every day when the postman arrives I believe he looks for a letter from her, and he shows that he feels it when he finds none. He is good-natured, and pleasant, but he is not as cheerful as when I first came."

"Every day," said Mrs. Easterfield, as they walked together, "I love Olive more and more."

"So do I," thought Dick.

"But every day I understand her less and less," she continued. "She is truly a navy girl, and repose does not seem to be one of her characteristics. From what she has told me, I believe she has never lived in domestic peace and quiet until she came to stay with her uncle. It would delight me to see her properly married. I wish you would marry her."

Dick stopped, and so did she, and they stood looking at each other. He did not redden, for he was not of the flushing kind; his face even grew a little hard.

"Do you believe," said he, in a very different tone from his ordinary voice, "that I have the slightest chance?"

"Of course I do," she answered. "I believe you have a very good chance, or I should not have spoken to you. I flatter myself that I have excellent judgment concerning young men, and I am very fond of Olive."

"Mrs. Easterfield," exclaimed Dick, "you know I am in love with her. I suppose that has been easy enough to see, but it has all been very quick work with me; in fact, I have had very little to say to her, and have never said anything that could in the slightest degree indicate how I felt toward her. But I believe I loved her the second day I met her, and I am not sure it did not begin the day before."

"I think that sort of thing is always quick work where Olive is concerned," said Mrs. Easterfield. "I think it likely that many young men have fallen in love with her, and that they have to be very lively if they want a chance to tell her so. But don't be jealous. I know positively that none of them ever had the slightest chance. But now all that is passed. I know she is tired of an unsettled life, and it is likely she may soon be thinking of marrying, and there will be no lack of suitors. She has them now. But I want her to marry you."

"Mrs. Easterfield," exclaimed Dick, "you have known me but a very little while----"

"Don't mention that," she interrupted. "I do quick work as well as other people. I never before engaged in any matchmaking business, but if this succeeds, I shall be proud of it to the end of my days. You are in love with Olive, and she is worthy of you. I want you to try to win her, and I will do everything I can to help you. Here is my hand upon it."

As Dick held that hand and looked into that face a courage and a belief in himself came into his heart that had never been there before. By day and by night his soul had been filled with the image of Olive, but up to this moment he had not thought of marrying her. That was something that belonged to the future, not even considered in his state of inchoate adoration. But now that he had been told he had reason to hope, he hoped; and the fact that one beautiful woman told him he might hope to win another beautiful woman was a powerful encouragement. Henceforth he would not be content with simply loving Olive; if it were within his power he would win, he would have her.

"You look like a soldier going forth to conquest," said Mrs. Easterfield with a smile.

"And you," said he impulsively, "you not only look like, but you are an angel."

This was pretty strong for the young professor, but the lady understood him. She was very glad, indeed, that he could express himself impulsively, for without that power he could not win Olive.

As Dick started away from Broadstone on his walk to the toll-gate he heard quick steps behind him and was soon overtaken by Claude Locker.

"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.