"Here we go,Lovers three,All steeped deepIn miseree."
"Here we go,Lovers three,All steeped deepIn miseree."
At this Mr. Hemphill turned and looked at him, while a deep grunt came from the front seat, but the singer kept on without much attention to meter, and none at all to tune.
"This is so,Here we go,Flabbergasted,Hopes all blasted,Flags half-masted.While it lasted,We poor—"
"This is so,Here we go,Flabbergasted,Hopes all blasted,Flags half-masted.While it lasted,We poor—"
"Look here," cried Du Brant, turning round suddenly, "I beg you desist that. You are insulting. And what you say is not true, as regards me at least. You can sing for yourself."
"Not true!" cried Locker. "Oh, ho, oh ho! Perhaps you have forgotten yourself, kind sir."
This little speech seemed to make Du Brant very angry, and he fairly shouted at Locker: "No, I haven't forgotten myself, and I have not forgotten you! You have insulted me before, and I should like to make you pay for it! I should like to have satisfaction from you, sir"
"That sounds well," cried Locker. "Do you mean to fight?"
"I want the satisfaction due to a gentleman," answered the young Austrian.
"Good," cried Locker, "that would suit me exactly. It would brighten me up. Let's do it now. I am not going to stop at Washington, and this is the only time I can give you. Driver, can we get to the station in time if we stop a little while?"
The person addressed was a young negro who had become intensely interested in the conversation.
"Oh, yes, sah," he answered. "We'll git dar twenty minutes before de train does, and if you takes half an hour I can whip up. That train's mostly late, anyway."
"All right," cried Locker. "And now, sir, how shall we fight? What have you got to fight with?"
"This is folly," growled Du Brant. "I have nothing to fight with. I do not fight with fists, like you Americans."
"Haven't you a penknife" coolly asked Locker. "If not, I daresay Mr. Hemphill will lend you one."
Du Brant now fairly trembled with anger. "When I fight," said he, "I fight like a gentleman; with a sword or a pistol."
"I am sorry," said Locker, "but if I remembered to bring my sword and pistol I must have put them in the bottom of my trunk, and that has gone on to the station. Have you two pistols or swords with you? Or do you think you could get sufficient satisfaction out of a couple of piles of stones that we could hurl at each other?"
Du Brant made no English answer to this, but uttered some savage remarks in French.
"Do you understand what all that means?" inquired Locker of Hemphill, who had been quietly listening to what had been going on.
"Yes," said the other, "he is cursing you up hill, and down dale."
"Oh," said Locker, "it sounds to me as if he were calculating his last week's expenses. But when he gets to French cursing, I drop him. I can't fight him that way."
The colored boy now showed that he was very much disappointed. He had expected the pleasure of a fight, and he was afraid he was going to lose it.
"I tell you, sah," he said to Locker, "why don't you try kick-shins? Do you know what kick-shins is? You don't know what kick-shins is? Well, kick-shins is this: one fellow stands in front of the other fellow, and one takes hold of the collar of the other fellow, and the other fellow takes hold of his collar, and then they kicks each other's shins, and the one what squeals fust, he's licked, and the other one gits the gal. You've got pretty thin shoes, sah," addressing Du Brant, "and your feet ain't half as big as his'n, but your toes is more p'inted."
"No kick-shins for me," said Locker. "I've got to be economical about my clothes."
Du Brant's rage now became ungovernable. "Do you apologize," he cried, "or I take you by the throat, and I strangle you."
Hemphill, who had been smiling mildly at the kick-shin proposition, now turned himself about. "You will not do that," he said, "and if you don't sit quiet and keep your mouth shut, I'll toss you out of this cart, and make you walk the rest of the way to the station."
As Hemphill looked quite big and strong enough to execute this threat, and as he was too quiet a man to be ignored, Du Brant turned his face to the horse, and said no more.
"I did not know you were such a trump" cried Locker. "Give me your hand. I should hate to be strangled by a foreigner!"
When they took the train Du Brant went by himself into the smoking-car, and Locker and Hemphill had a seat together.
"Do you know," said Locker, "I am beginning to like you, although I must admit that before this morning I can remember no feeling of the sort."
"That is not surprising," said Hemphill. "A man is not generally fond of his rival."
"We will let it go at that," said Locker, "we'll let it go at that! I should not wonder, if we had all stayed at Broadstone; and if the central object of interest had also remained; and, if I had failed, as I have failed, to make the proper impression; and if the professor, whom I promised to back up in case I should find myself out of the combat, should also have failed; I should not wonder if I had backed up you."
It was nearly two weeks after Mrs. Easterfield drove away from the captain's toll-gate before she went back there again. There were many reasons for thus depriving herself of Olive's society. Mr. Tom had stayed with her for an unusually long time; a house full of visitors, mostly relatives, had succeeded the departed lovers, and Foxes; and, besides, Olive was so very busy and so very happy—as she learned from many little notes—cleaning the house from garret to cellar, and loving her uncle better every day, that it really would have been a misdemeanor to interfere with her ardent pursuits.
But now Olive had written that she wanted to tell her a lot of things which could not go into a letter, and so the Broadstone carriage stopped again at the toll-gate.
Two great things had Olive to tell, and she was really glad that her uncle was not at home so that she might get at once to the telling.
In the first place, old Mr. Port was dead, and Captain Asher was in great trouble about this. Of course, he could not keep away from the deathbed of his old friend, nor could he neglect to do all honor to his memory, but it was a terrible thing for him to have to go into the house where Maria Port lived. After what had happened it was almost too much for his courage, although he was a brave man. But he had conquered his feelings, and he was there now. The funeral would be to-morrow.
When Mrs. Easterfield heard all that Olive had to tell her about Maria Port, her heart went out to that brave man who kept the toll-gate.
The next thing that Olive had to tell was that she had heard from her father, who wrote that he would soon arrive in this country; that he would then go West, where he would marry Olive's former schoolmate; and that, on their wedding tour, he would make a little visit at the tollhouse so that Olive might see her new mother.
"Now, isn't this enough," cried Olive, "to make any girl spread her wings and fly to the ends of the earth? But I have no wings; they have all gone away in a dog-cart. But I don't feel about that as I used to feel," she continued, a little hardness coming into her face. "I am settled now just the same as if I were married, and father and Edith Malcolmsen may come just as soon as they please. They shall make no plans for me; I am going to stay here with Uncle John. This house is mine now, and I am seriously thinking of having it painted. I shall stay here just as if I were one of those trees, and my father and my new mother—"
Here tears came into Olive's eyes and Mrs. Easterfield stopped her.
"Olive," said she, "I will give you a piece of advice. When your father and his young wife come here, treat her exactly as if she were your old friend. If you do so I think you will get along very well. This is partly selfish advice, for I greatly desire the opportunity to treat your father hospitably. He was my friend when I was a girl, you remember, and I looked up to him with very great admiration."
And so these two friends sat and talked, and talked, and talked until it was positively shameful, considering that the Broadstone horses were accustomed to be fed and watered at noon, and that the coachman was very hungry.
When, at last, Mrs. Easterfield drove home, and it must have been three in the afternoon, she left Olive very much comforted, even in regard to the unfortunate obligations which had fallen upon her uncle. For now that her old father had gone, all intercourse with the Port woman would cease.
But in her own mind Mrs. Easterfield was not so very much comforted. It was all well enough to talk about Olive and her uncle and the happiness and safety of the home he had given her, but that sort of thing could not last very long. He was an elderly man and she was a girl. In the natural course of events, she would probably be left alone while she was very young. She would then be alone, for her father's wife could never be a mother to her when he was at sea, and their home would never be a home for her when he was on shore. What Olive wanted, in Mrs. Easterfield's opinion, was a husband. An uncle, such as Captain Asher, was very charming, but he was not enough.
During this pleasant afternoon, when Captain Asher was in town attending to some arrangements for the burial of Mr. Port, Miss Maria was sitting discreetly alone in her darkened chamber. She had a great many things to think about, and if she had allowed her conscience full freedom of action, there would have been much more upon her mind. She might have been troubled by the recollection that since her father's very determined treatment of her when she had endeavored to fix herself upon the affections of Captain Asher, she had so conducted herself toward her venerable parent that she had actually nagged the life out of him; and that had she been the dutiful daughter she ought to have been he might have been living yet. But thoughts of this nature were not common to Maria Port. She had made herself sure that the will was all right, and he was very old. There was a time for all things, and Maria was now about to begin life for herself. To her plans for this new life she now gave almost her sole attention.
She had one great object in view which overshadowed everything else, and this was to marry Captain Asher. This she could have done before, she firmly believed, had it not been for her old father and that horrid girl, the captain's niece. As for the elderly man who kept the toll-gate she did not mind him. If not interfered with, she was sure she could make him marry her, and then the great ambition of her life would be satisfied.
Unpretentious as was her establishment in town, she did not care to spend the money necessary to keep it up, and although she was often an unkind woman, she was not cruel enough to think of inflicting herself as a boarder upon any housewife in the town. No, the toll-gate was the home for her; and if Captain Asher chose to inflict himself upon her for a few years longer, she would try to endure it.
One obstacle to her plans was now gone, and she must devote herself to the work of getting rid of the other one. While Olive Asher remained at the tollhouse there was no chance for her in that quarter.
The funeral was over, and when the bereaved Miss Port took leave of Captain Asher she exhibited a quiet gratitude which was very becoming and suitable. During the short time when he had visited the house every day she had showed him no resentment on account of what had passed between them, and had treated him very much as if he had been one of her father's old friends with whom she was not very well acquainted and to whom she was indebted for various services connected with the sad occasion.
When he took final leave of her he shook her hand, and as he did so he gave her a peculiar grasp which, in his own mind, indicated that he and she had now nothing more to do with each other, and that the acquaintance was adjourned without day. She bade him a simple farewell, and as he left the house she grinned at his broad back. This grin expressed, to herself at least, that the old and rather faulty acquaintance was at an end, and that the new connection which she intended to establish between herself and him would be upon an entirely different basis.
He did not ask her if there was anything more that he could do for her, for he did not desire to mix himself up with her affairs, which he knew she was eminently able to manage for herself, and it was with a deep breath of relief that he got into his buggy and drove home to his toll-gate.
When Lieutenant Asher and his bride arrived at his brother's toll-gate they were surprised as well as delighted by the cordiality of their greeting. Each of them had expected a little stiffness during the first interview, but there was nothing of the kind, although young Mrs. Asher was bound to admit, when she took time to think upon the subject, that Olive treated her exactly as if she had been a dear old schoolmate, and not at all as her father's wife. This made things very pleasant and easy at that time, she thought, although it might have to be corrected a little after a while.
Things were all very pleasant, and there never had been so much talk at the tollhouse since the first stone of its foundation had been laid. The day after the arrival of the newly married couple Mrs. Easterfield called upon them, and invited the whole family to dinner.
"I have never realized how much she must have thought of my parents!" said Olive to herself, as she gazed upon her father and Mrs. Easterfield. "They are so very glad to see each other!"
She did not know that Lieutenant Asher had been to the present Mrs. Easterfield almost as much of a divinity as Mr. Hemphill had been to her girlish fancy; the difference being that the young cadet was well aware of the adoration of this child, not yet in long dresses, and greatly enjoyed and encouraged it. When, a few years later, the child heard of his marriage, she had outgrown the love with the lengthening of the skirts. But she had a tender recollection of it which she cherished.
The dinner the next day was a great success, and after it the lieutenant and Mrs. Easterfield earnestly discussed Olive when they had the opportunity for atête-à-tête. She was so much to each of them, and he was grateful that his daughter had fallen under the influence of this old friend, now a charming woman.
"She is so beautiful," said the lady, "that she ought to be married as soon as possible to the most suitable bachelor in the United States."
"Not so fast! Not so fast" said the lieutenant. "Edith and I are going to housekeeping very soon, and then we shall want Olive."
Mrs. Easterfield smiled, but made no reply.
When the lieutenant and his wife, with Olive, came a few days afterward to make their proper dinner call, he found an occasion to speak to their hostess.
"Do you know," said he, "that this is a strange girl of mine?" She positively refuses to come and live with us. We had counted upon having her, and had made all our arrangements for it. She is as good and nice as she can be, but we can not move her."
"You ought not to try," said Mrs. Easterfield; "it would be a shame for her to go away and leave her uncle. You have one young lady, and you should not ask for both. Olive must marry, and the captain must go and live with her."
"Have you arranged all that?" said he. "I remember you were a great schemer when quite a little girl."
"I am as great as ever," said she. "And I have selected the gentleman."
"Oh, ho!" cried the lieutenant. "And is that all settled? Olive should have told me that."
"She could not do it," said Mrs. Easterfield; "for it is not all settled. There are some obstacles in the way; and the greatest of them is that she does not love him."
The lieutenant laughed. "Then that is settled. I know Olive."
Mrs. Easterfield flushed, and then laughed. "I doubt that knowledge. It is certain you do not know me! The young man loves her with all his heart; there is no objection to him; and I am most earnestly in favor of the match."
"Ah" said the lieutenant, with a bow; "if that is the case, I must get a pencil and paper and calculate what I can give her for her trousseau. I hope the wedding will not come off very soon, for I am decidedly short at present, on account of recent matrimonial expenses. Would you mind telling me his name? Is he naval?"
"Oh, no," said she; "he is pedagogy."
"What!" he cried, his eyes wide open.
Then she laughed and told him all about Dick Lancaster.
"Of course," concluded Mrs. Easterfield, "I can not ask you not to speak toanybodyabout what I have told you, but I do hope you will prevent its getting to Olive's ears. I am afraid it would make a breach between us if she knew that I was trying to make a match for her. And, you see, that is exactly what I am doing."
"And you are right," said the lieutenant; "and what is more, I am with you! You don't know," he added in a softer tone, "how grateful I am to you for your care of Olive now that my dear wife is gone!"
For the moment he totally forgot that his dear wife had merely gone to the edge of the bluff with the captain and Olive to look at the river.
That evening, as they sat together, Lieutenant Asher told his brother all that Mrs. Easterfield had confided to him about Dick Lancaster. The captain was delighted.
"That is what I have wanted," he said, "almost from the beginning, and I want it more than ever now. I am getting to be an old fellow, and I want to see her settled before I sail."
"You know, John," said the lieutenant, "that I find Olive is a little more of a girl of her own mind than she used to be. I don't believe she would rest quietly under the housekeeping of a girl so nearly her own age."
The captain gave some vigorous puffs. "I should think not!" he said to himself. "Olive would have that young woman swabbing the decks before they had been out three days! You are right," said he aloud, "but we must all look out that Olive does not hear anything about this."
It was not until they were continuing their bridal trip that Lieutenant Asher considered the subject of mentioning Dick Lancaster to his wife. Then, after considering it, he concluded not to do it. In the first place, he knew that he was getting to be a little bit elderly, and he did not care about discussing the perfections of the young man who had been selected as a suitable partner for his wife's school friend. This was all very foolish, of course, but people often are very foolish.
Thus it was that Olive Asher never heard of the tripartite alliance between her father, her uncle, and her good friend at Broadstone.
When Captain Asher learned, a few days after his brother had left, that the Broadstone family had gone to the seashore, he sat reflectively and asked himself if he were doing the right thing by Olive. The season was well advanced; it was getting very hot at the toll-gate, and at many other gates in that region; and this navy girl ought to have a breath of fresh air. It is wonderful that he had not thought of it before!
At breakfast the next morning Olive stopped pouring coffee when he told her his plans to go to the sea.
"With you, Uncle John!" she cried. "That would be better than anything in the world! You sail a boat?" she asked inquiringly.
"Sail a boat!" roared the captain. "I have a great mind to kick over this table! My dear, I can sail a boat, keel uppermost, if the water's deep enough! Sail a boat!" he repeated. "I sailed a catboat from Boston to Egg Harbor before your mother was born. By the way, you seem very anxious about boat sailing. Are you afraid of the water?"
She laughed gaily. "I deserve that," she said, "and I accept it. But perhaps I have done something that you never did. I have sailed a felucca."
"Very good," said the captain; "if there's a felucca where we're going you can sail me in one."
They went to a Virginia seaside resort, these two, and left old Jane in charge of the toll-gate.
Early in the day after they arrived they went out to engage a boat. When they found one which suited the captain's critical eye, he said to the owner thereof: "I will take her for the morning, but I don't want anybody to sail me. I will do that myself."
"I don't know about that," said the man; "when my boat goes out—"
He stopped speaking suddenly and looked the captain over and over, up and down. "All right, sir," said he. "And you don't want nobody to manage the sheet?"
"No," interpolated Olive, "I'll manage the sheet."
So they went out on the bounding sea. And as the wind whistled the hat off her head so that she had to fling it into the bottom of the boat, Olive wished that her uncle kept a toll-gate on the sea. Then she could go out with him and stop the little boats and the great steamers, and make them drop seven cents or thirteen cents into her hands as she stood braced in the stern; and she was just beginning to wonder how she could toss up the change to them if they dropped her a quarter, when the captain began to sing Tom Bowline. He was just as gay-hearted as she was.
It was about noon when they returned, for the captain was a very particular man and he had hired the boat only for the morning. Olive had scarcely taken ten steps up the beach before she found herself shaking hands with a young man.
"How on earth!" she exclaimed.
"It was not on earth at all," he said; "I came by water. I wanted to find out if what I had heard of the horrors of a coastwise voyage were true; and I found that it was absolutely correct."
"But here!" she exclaimed. "Why here? You could not have known!"
"Of course not," he answered; "if I had known I am sure I would have felt that I ought not to come. But I didn't know, and so you see I am as innocent as a butterfly. More innocent, in fact, for that little wagwings knows where he ought not to go, and he goes there all the same."
Captain Asher was still at the boat, making some practical suggestions to her owner; who, being not yet forty, had many things to learn about the sails and rigging of a catboat.
"Mr. Locker," said Olive, looking at him very intently, "did you come here to renew any of your previous performances?"
"As a serenader?" said he. "Oh, no! But perhaps you mean as a love-maker?"
"That is it," said Olive.
Mr. Locker took off his hat, and rubbed his head. "No," said he, "I didn't; but I wish I could say I did. But that's impossible. I presume I am right in assuming this impossibility?"
"Entirely," said Olive.
"And, furthermore, I truly didn't know you were here. I think you may rest satisfied that that flame is out, although—By the way, I believe I could make some verses on that subject containing these lines:
"'I do not want the flame,I better like the coal—'
"'I do not want the flame,I better like the coal—'
meaning, of course, that I hope our friendship may continue."
She smiled. "There are no objections to that," she said.
"Perhaps not, perhaps not," he said, clutching his chin with his hand; "but some other lines come into my head. Of course, he didn't want the coal to go out.
"'He blew too hard,The flame revived.'"
"'He blew too hard,The flame revived.'"
"That will do! That will do!" cried Olive. "I don't want any more of that poem."
"And the result of it all," said he, "is only a burnt match."
"Nothing but a bit of charcoal," added Olive.
At this moment up came the captain. Olive had told him all about Mr. Locker, and he was not glad to see him. Olive noticed this, and she spoke quickly. "Here's Mr. Locker, uncle; he has dropped down quite accidentally at this place."
"Oh" said the captain incredulously.
"You know he used to like me too much. But he knows me better now."
"Charming frankness of friendship!" said Locker.
"And as I like him very much, I am glad he is here," continued Olive.
The young man bowed in gratitude, but Olive's words embarrassed him somewhat, and he did not know exactly what would be suitable for him to say. So he took refuge in a change of subject. "Captain," said he, "can you fish?"
A look of scornful amazement showed itself upon the old mariner's face. "I have tried it," said he.
"And so have I," cried Locker, "but I never had any luck in fishing and—some other things. I am vilely unlucky. I expect that's because I don't know how to fish."
"It is very likely," said Olive, "that your bad luck comes from not knowing where to fish."
The young man took off his hat and held it for a little while, although the sun was very hot.
During the course of that afternoon and evening Captain Asher grew to like Claude Locker. The young man told such gravely comical stories, especially about his experiences in boats and on the water, that the captain was very glad he had happened to drop down upon that especial watering-place. He wanted Olive to have some society besides his own, and a discarded lover was better than any other young man they might meet. He knew that Olive was a girl who would not go back on her word.
The next day our three friends went fishing in a catboat belonging to the young seaman of forty, and they took their dinner with them, although Mr. Locker declared that he did not believe that he would want any.
They had a good time on the water, for the captain had made careful inquiries about the best fishing grounds, and the mishaps of Locker were so numerous and so provocative of queer remarks from himself, that the captain and Olive sometimes forgot to pull up their fish, so preengaged were they in laughing. The sky was bright, the water smooth, and even Mr. Locker caught fish, although it might have been thought that he did everything possible to prevent himself doing so.
When their boat ran up the beach late in the afternoon the captain and Olive were still laughing, and Mr. Locker was as sober as a soda-water fountain from which spouts such intermittent sparkle. Dear as was the toll-gate, this was a fine change from that quiet home.
The next morning, upon the sand, Claude Locker approached Olive. "Would you like to decline my addresses for the second time?" he abruptly asked.
"Of course not" she exclaimed.
"Well, then," said he, extending his hand, "good-by!"
"What are you talking about?" said Olive. "What does this mean?"
"It means," said he, "that I have fallen in love with you again. I think I am rather worse than I was before. If I stay here I shall surely propose. Nothing can stop me—not even the presence of your uncle if it is impossible for me to see you alone—and, if you don't want any of that, it is necessary that I go, and go quickly."
"Of course I don't want it," she said. "But why need you be so foolish? We were getting along so nicely as friends. I expected to have lots of fun here with you and uncle."
"Fun!" groaned Locker. "It might have been fun for you and the captain, but what of the poor torn heart? I know I must go, and now. If I stay here five minutes longer I shall be at your feet, and it will be far better if I take to my own. Good-by!" And, with a warm grasp of her hand, he departed.
Olive looked after him as he walked to the hotel. If he had known how much she regretted to see him go he would have come back, and all his troubles would have begun again.
"Hello!" cried the captain when Locker had entered the house, "I was looking for you. We can run out, and have some fishing this morning. The tide will suit. You did so well yesterday that I think to-day. I can even teach you to take out a hook."
"Take out a hook?" said Locker. "I have a hook within me which no man in this world, and but one woman, can take out. And as this she must not even be asked to do, I go. Farewell!"
"What's the matter with the young man" asked the captain of Olive a little later.
"Oh, he has fallen in love with me again," said Olive, with a sigh, "and, of course, that spoils everything. I wish people could be more sensible."
The captain looked down upon her admiringly. "I don't see any hope for people," he said. And this was the first personal compliment he had ever paid his niece.
When Claude Locker had gone, Olive missed him more than she thought she could miss anybody. Much of the life seemed to have gone out of the place, and the captain's high spirits waned as if he was suffering from the depression which follows a stimulant.
"If that young fellow had been better-looking," said the captain, "if he had more solid sense, and a good business, with both his eyes alike, I might have been more willing to let him go."
"If he had been all that," asked Olive with a smile, "why shouldn't you have been willing to let him stay?"
The captain did not answer. No matter what young Locker might have been, he could never have been Dick Lancaster.
"Uncle," said Olive that afternoon, "where shall we go next?"
"I don't know," said he, "but let's go to-morrow. I don't believe I like so many strangers except when they pay toll."
They traveled about a good deal; and in a general way enjoyed themselves; but they were both old travelers, and mere novelty was not enough for them. Each loved the company of the other, but each would have liked to have Locker along. It grieved Olive to think that she wanted him, or anybody, but she would not even try to deceive herself. The weather grew cooler, and she said to her uncle: "Let us go back to the toll-gate; it must be perfectly beautiful there now, with the mountains putting on their gold and red."
So they started for home, planning for a stop in Washington on their way.
Brightness and people were coming back to Washington. The air was cooler, and city life was stirring. Olive and her uncle stayed several days longer than they had intended; as most people do who visit Washington. On one of these days as they were returning to their hotel from the Smithsonian grounds, where they had been looking at autumn leaves from all quarters of this wide land; many of them unknown to them; they looked with interest from the shaded grounds on one side of the street to the great public building on the other side, which they were then passing, and at the broad steps ascending from the sidewalk to the basement floor.
As they moved on thus slowly they noticed a man standing upon the upper steps of one of these stairs. His back was toward them; and, as their eyes fell upon him he stepped upon the upper sidewalk. He was walking with a cane which seemed to be rather short for him. He stood still for a moment, and appeared to be waiting for some one. Then, suddenly his whole frame thrilled with nervous action; he slightly lowered his head, and, in an instant, he brought his cane to his shoulder, as if it had been a gun. The captain had seen that sort of thing before. It was an air-gun. Without a word he made a dash at the man. He was elderly, but in a case like this he was swift. As he ran he glanced out in the direction in which the gun was aimed. Along the broad, sunlighted avenue a barouche was passing. On the back seat sat two gentlemen, well-dressed, erect. Even in a flash one would notice an air of dignity in their demeanor.
There was not time to strike down the weapon, but before the man had heard steps behind him the captain gave him a tremendous blow between the shoulders which staggered him, and spoiled his aim. Then the captain seized the air-gun. There was a whiz, and a click on the pavement. Then the man turned.
His black eyes flashed out of a swarthy face nearly covered with beard; his soft hat had fallen off when the captain struck him, and his black hair stood up like bristles on a shoe-brush. He was not a large man; he wore a loose woolen jacket; his sleeves were short, and his hands were hairy.
All this Olive saw, for she had been quick to follow her uncle; but the captain, who firmly held the air-gun, saw nothing but the glaring face of a devil.
The man jerked furiously at the gun, but the captain's grasp was too strong. Then the fellow released his hold upon the gun, and, with a savage fury, threw himself upon the older man. The two stood near the top of the steps, and the shock of the attack was so great that both fell, slipping down several of the stone steps.
Olive tried to scream, but in her fright her voice utterly left her. She could not make a sound. As they lay upon the steps, the captain beneath, the man seized his victim by the neck with both hands, pressing his great thumbs deeply into his throat. Apparently he did not notice Olive. All the efforts of his devilish soul were bent upon stifling the voice and the life out of the witness of his attempted crime. Olive sprang down, and stood over the struggling men. Her uncle's eyes stared at her, and seemed bursting from his head. His face was growing dark. Again Olive tried to scream; and, in a frenzy, she seized the man to pull him from the captain. As she did so her hand fell upon something protruding under his woolen jacket. With a quick flash of instinct her sense of feeling recognized this thing. She jerked up the jacket, and there was the stock of a pistol protruding from his hip pocket. In an instant Olive drew it.
A horrid sound issued from the mouth of Captain Asher; he was choking to death. In the same second that she heard it Olive thrust the muzzle of the pistol against the side of the man's head and pulled the trigger.
The man's head fell forward and his hairy hands released their grip, but they still remained at the captain's throat. The latter gave a great gasp, and for an instant he turned his eyes full upon the face of his niece. Then his lids closed.
Now there were footsteps, and, looking up, Olive saw a negro cabman in faded livery and an old silk hat, who stood staring. Before she could speak to him there came another man, a policeman, who, equally amazed, stared at the group below him. Only these two had heard the pistol shots. There were no other people passing on the avenue, and as it was past office hours there was no one in the great public building.
Until they reached the top of the steps the policeman and cabman could see nothing. Now they stood astounded as they stared down upon an elderly man lying on his back on the steps; another man, apparently lifeless, lying on top of him with his hands upon his throat; and a girl standing a little below them with a smoking pistol in her hand.
Before they had time to speak or move Olive called out, "Take that man off my uncle."
In a moment the policeman, followed by the negro, ran down the steps and pulled the black-headed man off the captain, and the limp body slipped down several steps.
The policeman now turned toward Olive. "Take this," she said, handing him the pistol. "I shot him. He was trying to kill my uncle."
The two men raised the captain to a sitting position. He was now breathing, though in gasps, with his eyes opened.
The policeman took the pistol, looked at it, then at Olive, then at the captain, and then down at the body on the steps. He was trying to get an idea of what had happened without asking. If the negro had not been present he might have asked questions, but this was an unusual situation, and he felt his responsibility, and his importance. Olive now stepped toward him, and in obedience to her quick gesture he bent his head, and she whispered something to him. Instantly he was quivering with excitement. He thrust the pistol into his pocket, and turned to the negro. "Run," said he, "and get your cab! Don't say a word to a soul and I will give you five dollars."
The moment the negro had departed Olive said: "Pick up that air-gun. There, on the upper step." Then she went to her uncle and sat down by him.
"Are you hurt?" she said. "Can you speak?"
The captain put his arm around her shoulder, fixing a loving look upon her, and murmured, "You are as good as a man!"
The policeman picked up the air-gun, and gazed upon it as if it had been a telegram in cipher from a detective. Then he tried to conceal it under his coat, but it was too long.
"Let me have it," said Olive; "I will put it behind me."
She had barely concealed it when the cab drove up.
"Now," said the policeman, "you two must go with me. Can you walk, sir?"
"Oh, yes," said the captain in a voice clear, but weak.
Olive rose, holding the air-gun behind her, and the policeman and the cabman helped the captain to the carriage. Olive followed, and the policeman, actuated by some strong instinct, did not look around to see if she were doing so. He had no more idea that she would run away than that the stone steps would move. When he saw that she had taken the air-gun into the carriage with her, he closed the door.
"Did your fall hurt you, uncle?" said Olive, looking anxiously into his face.
"My throat hurts dreadfully," he said, "and I'm stiff. But I'll be stiffer to-morrow."
The policeman picked up the hat of the black-haired man, and going down the steps, he placed it on his head. "Now help me up with this gentleman," he said to the cabman; "we must put him on the box-seat between us. Take him under the arms, and we'll carry him naturally. He must be awfully drunk!"
So they lifted him up the steps, and, after much trouble, got him on the box-seat. Fortunately they were both big men. Then they drove away to police headquarters. The officer was the happiest policeman in Washington. This was the greatest piece of work he had known of during his service; and he was doing it all himself. With the exception of the driver, nobody else was mixed up in it in the least degree. What he was doing was not exactly right; it was not according to custom and regulation. He should have called for assistance, for an ambulance; but he had not, and his guardian angel had kept all foot-passengers from the steps of the public building. He did not know what it all meant, but he was doing it himself, and if that black driver should slip from his seat (of which he occupied a very small portion) and he should break his neck, the policeman would clutch the reins, and be happier than any man in Washington.
There were very many people who looked at the drunken man who was being carried off by the policeman, but the cabman drove swiftly, and gave such people very little opportunity for close observation.
There was a great stir at the police station, but Olive and her uncle saw little of it. They were quickly taken to private rooms, where the captain was attended by a police surgeon. He had been bruised and badly treated, but his injuries were not serious.
Olive was put in charge of a matron, who wondered greatly what brought her there. Very soon they were examined separately, and the tale of each of them was almost identical with that of the other; only Olive was able to tell more about the two gentlemen in the barouche, for she had been at her uncle's side, and there was nothing to obstruct her vision.
When the examination was ended the police captain enjoined each of them to say no word to any living soul about what they had testified to him. This was a most important matter, and it was necessary that it be hedged around with the greatest secrecy.
When Olive retired to her plain but comfortable cot she was tired and weak from the reaction of her restrained emotions, but she did not immediately go to sleep for thinking that she had killed a man. And yet for this killing there was not in this girl's mind one atom of regret. She was so grateful that she had been there, and had been enabled to do it. She had seen her uncle almost at his last gasp, and she had saved him from making that last gasp. Moreover, she had saved the life of the man who had saved the most important life in the land. She knew the face of the gentleman in the barouche who sat on the side nearest her; she knew what her uncle had done, and she was proud of him; she knew what she had done for him; and she regarded the black-haired man with the hairy hands no more than she would have regarded a wild beast who had suddenly sprung upon them. She thought of him, of course, with horror, but her feelings of thankfulness for her uncle's safety were far too strong. At last her grateful heart closed her eyes, and let her rest.
There were no letters found on the body of the black-haired man which gave any clue to his name; but there were papers which showed that he was from southern France; that he was an anarchist; that he was in this country upon a mission; and that he had been for two weeks in Washington, waiting for an opportunity to fulfil that mission. Which opportunity had at last shown itself in front of him just as Captain John Asher rushed up behind him.
This information was so important that extraordinary methods were pursued. Communications were immediately made with the State Department, and with the higher police authorities; and it was quickly determined that, whatever else might be done, the strictest secrecy must be enforced. The coroner's jury was carefully selected and earnestly admonished; and, early the next morning, when the captain and Olive were required to testify before it, they were made to understand how absolutely necessary it was they should say nothing except to answer the questions which were asked them. The coroner was eminently discreet in regard to his questions; and the verdict was that Olive was acting in her own defense as well as that of her uncle when she shot his assailant.
Among the officials whose positions enabled them to know all these astonishing occurrences it was unanimously agreed that, so far as possible, everybody should be kept in ignorance of the crime which had been attempted, and of the deliverance which had taken place.
Very early the next afternoon the air was filled with the cries of newsboys, and each paper that these boys sold contained a full and detailed account of a remarkable attempt by an unknown foreigner upon the life of Captain John Asher, a visitor in Washington, and the heroic conduct of his niece, Miss Olive Asher, who shot the murderous assailant with his own pistol. There were columns and columns of this story, but strange to say, in not one of the papers was there any allusion to the two gentlemen in the barouche, or to the air-gun.
How this most important feature of the occurrence came to be omitted in all the accounts of it can only be explained by those who thoroughly understand the exigencies of the stock-market, and the probable effect of certain classes of news upon approaching political situations, and who have made themselves familiar with the methods by which the pervasive power of the press is sometimes curtailed.
In the later afternoon editions there were portraits of Olive, and her uncle. Olive was broad-shouldered, with black hair and a determined frown, while the captain was a little man with a long beard. There were no portraits of the anarchist. He passed away from the knowledge of man, and no one knew even his name: his crime had blotted him out; his ambition was blotted out; even the evil of his example was blotted out. There was nothing left of him.
When they were released from detention the captain and Olive quickly left the station—which they did without observation—and entered a carriage which was waiting for them a short distance away. The fact that another carriage with close-drawn curtains had stopped at the station about ten minutes before, and that a thickly veiled lady (the matron) and an elderly man with his collar turned up and his hat drawn down (one of the police officers in plain clothes) had entered the carriage and had been driven rapidly away had drawn off the reporters and the curiosity mongers on the sidewalk and had contributed very much to the undisturbed exit of Captain and Miss Asher.
These two proceeded leisurely to the railroad-station, where they took a train which would carry them to the little town of Glenford. Their affairs at the hotel could be arranged by telegram. There were calls at that hotel during the rest of the day from people who knew Olive or her uncle; calls from people who wanted to know them; calls from people who would be contented even to look at them; calls from autograph hunters who would be content simply to send up their cards; quiet calls from people connected with the Government; and calls from eager persons who could not have told anybody what they wanted. To none of these could the head clerk give any satisfaction. He had not seen his guests since the day before, and he knew naught about them.
When Miss Maria Port heard that that horrid girl, Olive Asher, had shot an anarchist, she stiffened herself to her greatest length, and let her head fall on the back of her chair. She was scarcely able to call to the small girl who endured her service to bring her some water. "Now all is over," she groaned, "for I can never marry a man whose niece's hands are dripping with blood. She will live with him, of course, for he is just the old fool to allow that, and anyway there is no other place for her to go except the almshouse—that is, if they'll take her in." And at the terrified girl, who tremblingly asked if she wanted any more water, she threw her scissors.
The captain and his niece arrived early in the day at Glenford station. The captain engaged a little one-horse vehicle which had frequently brought people to the toll-gate, and informed the driver that there was no baggage. The man, gazing at Olive, but scarcely daring to raise his eyes to her face, proceeded with solemn tread toward his vehicle as if he had been leading the line in a funeral.
As they drove through the town they were obliged to pass the house of Miss Maria Port. The door was shut, and the shutters were closed. She had had a terrible night, and had slept but little, but hearing the sound of wheels upon the street, she had bounced out of bed and had peered through the blinds. When she saw who it was she cursed them both.
"That was the only thing," she snapped, "that could have kept me from gettin' him! So far as I know, that was the only thing!"
When old Jane received the travelers at the toll-gate she warmly welcomed the captain, but she trembled before Olive. If the girl noticed the demeanor of the old woman, she pretended not to do so, and, speaking to her pleasantly, she passed within.
"Will they hang her?" she said to the captain later.
"What do you mean?" he shouted. "Have you gone crazy?"
"The people in the town said they would," replied old Jane, beginning to cry a little.
The captain looked at her steadily. "Did any particular person in the town say that?"
"Yes, sir," she answered; "Miss Maria Port was the first to say it, so I've been told."
"She is the one who ought to be hanged!" said the captain, speaking very warmly. "As for Miss Olive, she ought to have a monument set up for her. I'd do it myself if I had the money."
Old Jane answered not, but in her heart she said: "But she killed a man! It is truly dreadful!"
By nightfall of that day the two hotels of Glenford were crowded, the visitors being generally connected with newspapers. On the next day there was a great deal of travel on the turnpike, and old Jane was kept very busy, the captain having resigned the entire business of toll-taking to her. Everybody stopped, asked questions, and requested to see the captain; and many drove through and came back again, hoping to have better luck next time. But their luck was always bad; old Jane would say nothing; and the captain and Olive were not to be seen. The gate to the little front garden was locked, and there was no passing through the tollhouse. To keep people from getting over the fence a bulldog, which the captain kept at the barn, was turned loose in the yard.
There were men with cameras who got into the field opposite the toll-gate, and who took views from up and down the road, but their work could not be prevented, and Olive and her uncle kept strictly indoors.
It was on the afternoon of the second day of siege that the captain, from an upper window, discovered a camera on three legs standing outside of his grounds at a short distance from the house. A man was taking sight at something at the back of the house. Softly the captain slipped down into the back yard, and looking up he saw Olive sitting at a window, reading.
With five steps the captain went into the house and then reappeared at the back door with a musket in his hand. The man had stepped to his pack at a little distance to get a plate. The captain raised his musket to his shoulder; Olive sprang to her feet at the sound of the report; old Jane in the tollhouse screamed; and the camera flew into splinters.
After this there were no further attempts to take pictures of the inmates of the house at the toll-gate.
After two days of siege the newspaper reporters and the photographers left Glenford. They could not afford to waste any more time. But they carried away with them a great many stories about the captain and his erratic niece, mostly gleaned from a very respectable elderly lady of the town by the name of Port.