Just when matters were at their worst with the little household—when petty domestic trials beat like billows over poor Tom’s head—when Eunice began to look like an image of hope deferred—a visitor arrived. Tom heartily welcomed Arden Farnsworth, a man much older than himself, who in years past had been often at their home. A dim idea that Farnsworth had come after Chatty penetrated the brother’s head. It occurred to him that among his mother’s abundant lamentations for lost joys she had mentioned the fact that last winter she had been almost sure Farnsworth would propose for Chatty, but that he had gone abroad and made no sign. And Farnsworth, as everybody knew, would be a husband in a hundred—well born, well placed, of such character, means, and position as would anchor the whole Oliver family away from the quick-sands of their present uncertainties.
Then it came out it was Eunice, not Charlotte, whom Farnsworth wanted for a wife—whom he had loved for a year past, and left because he feared she would laugh at the disparity between their ages—nineteen and thirty-five—whom he had now come back to America resolved to secure, if earnest pleading would avail.
But Eunice, urged to the front by her mother, who philosophically made up her mind that one, if not the one she had counted upon of her daughters, should recoup their lost fortune and position, disappointed all the family hopes. She told Arden Farnsworth that it was impossible for her to marry him, and sent him away pierced with sorrow at his failure. His generous nature longed for an opportunity to place the dainty little beauty back in the niche where she belonged. For her sake he was prepared to make any provision for Mrs. Oliver and Chatty, short of offering them the hospitality of his houses and yacht and other such covetable spots where the Farnsworth Penates were enshrined.
In the tempest that broke over Eunice after Farnsworth’s departure, Tom learned his sister’s secret. She came to him, trembling and tearful, nestled in his breast, and told him that for a year she had considered herself engaged to Ashton Carmichael.
“What!” shouted Tom, loosening his hold of her, his eyes darting angry lightning. “That ——! Why, Eunice, it is impossible! You cannot have met him since I broke with him last autumn a year ago.”
“Oh, Tom! How dreadful you look! Of course I knew you were no longer friends. It was just after poor papa’s troubles began when Ashton wrote to me that you had separated, and that pride would not allow him to correspond with me after what had taken place between you. Then once, during the Christmas holidays, I met him in the street, and we took a walk together, and he begged me to be true to him and all would come out right. But still we did not write, until—”
“Don’t tell me he dared approach you after February!” exclaimed Tom, white to the lips with anger.
“Yes. He said there had been such a bad quarrel between you he feared it could not be made up; but he asked me to meet him in town—in a picture-gallery—and I did. Don’t be angry, Tom. He wanted to let me off from our engagement; indeed he did; but I saw he was in great trouble, and so told him I would never give him up so long as my love was worth anything to him; that he needn’t write—I should understand. After this he began coming down to town to walk with me, which took place several times—I couldn’t refuse him that comfort, Tom.”
“Comfort! He was laughing in his sleeve, the infernal scoundrel, that he was so outwitting me! And I at that very time was holding him up like a rock, to save him from utter ruin before the world! But go on; for Heaven’s sake, tell me all!”
“That is all, Tom. He sent me a clipping about his essay, and I was proud. Then he came once again, in June, to tell me he was going to sail with Billy Innis around the world—and from that day to this I have never heard from him.” Her head dropped forward forlornly upon her breast. Large tears flooded her blue eyes and streamed down her childish face. Tom’s tender heart smote him for having so increased her grief.