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.




_CHAPTER XXXII_

_The Stock-Market is Safe._


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.




_CHAPTER XXXIII_

_Dick Lancaster does not Write._


On the third morning after their arrival at the toll-gate the captain
and Olive ventured upon a little walk over the farm. It was very hard
upon both of them to be shut up in the house so long. They saw no
reporters, nor were there any men with cameras, but the scenery was not
pleasant, nor was the air particularly exhilarating. They were not
happy; they felt alone, as if they were in a strange place. Some of the
captain's friends in the town came to the toll-gate, but there were not
many, and Olive saw none of them. The whole situation reminded the girl
of the death of her mother.

As soon as it was known that the Ashers were at home there came letters
from many quarters. One of these was from Mrs. Easterfield. She would be
at Broadstone as soon as she could get her children started from the
seashore. She longed to take Olive to her heart, but whether this was in
commiseration or commendation was not quite plain to Olive. The letter
concluded with this sentence: "There is something behind all this, and
when I come you must tell me."

Then there was one from her father in which he bemoaned what had
happened. "That such a thing should have come to my daughter!" he
wrote. "To my daughter!" There was a great deal more of it, but he said
nothing about coming with his young wife to the toll-gate, and Olive's
countenance was almost stern when she handed this letter to her uncle.

Claude Locker wrote:

     "How I long, how I rage to write to you, or to go to you! But if I
     should write, it would be sure to give you pain, and if I should go
     to you I should also go crazy. Therefore, I will merely state that
     I love you madly; more now than ever before; and that I shall
     continue to do so for the rest of my life, no matter what happens
     to you, or to me, or to anybody.

    "Ever turned toward you,

    "CLAUDE LOCKER.

    "How I wish I had been there with a sledgehammer!"

And then there were the newspapers. Many of these the captain had
ordered by the Glenford bookseller, and a number were sent by friends,
and some even by strangers. And so they learned what was thought of them
over a wide range of country, and this publicity Olive found very hard
to bear. It was even worse than the deed she was forced to do, and which
gave rise to all this disagreeable publicity. That deed was done in the
twinkling of an eye, and was the only thing that could be done; but all
this was prolonged torture. Of course, the newspapers were not
responsible for this. The transaction was a public one in as public a
place as could possibly be selected, and it was clearly their duty to
give the public full information in regard to it. They knew what had
happened, and how could they possibly know what had not happened? Nor
could they guess that this was of more importance than the happening.
And so they all viewed the action from the point of view that a young
woman had blown out a man's brains on the steps of the Treasury. It was
a most unusual, exciting, and tragic incident, and in a measure,
incomprehensible; and coming at a time when there was a dearth of news,
it was naturally much exploited. Many of the papers recognized the fact
that Miss Asher had done this deed to save her uncle's life, and
applauded it, and praised her quick-wittedness and courage; but all this
was spoiled for Olive by the tone of commiseration for her in which it
was all stated. She did not see why she should be pitied. Rather should
she be congratulated that she was, fortunately, on the spot. Other
journals did not so readily give in to the opinion that it was an act of
self-defense. It might be so; but they expressed strong disapproval of
the legal action in this strange affair. A young woman, accompanied by a
relative, had killed an unknown man. The action of the authorities in
this case had been rapid and unsatisfactory. The person who had fired
the fatal shot and her companion had been cleared of guilt upon their
own testimony, and the cause of the man who died had no one to defend
it. If two persons can kill a man, and then state to the coroner's jury
that it was all right, and thereupon repair to their homes without
further interference by the law, then had the cause of justice in the
capital of the nation reached a very strange pass.

Such were the views of the reputable journals. But there were some
which fell into the captain's hands that were well calculated to arouse
his ire. Such a sensational occurrence did not often come in their way,
and they made the most of it. They scented the idea that the girl had
killed an unknown man to save her uncle's life; blamed the authorities
severely for not finding out who he was; suggested there must be a
secret reason for this; and hinted darkly at a scandal connected with
the affair, which, if investigated, would be found to include some
well-known names.

"This is outrageous!" cried the captain. "It is too abominable to be
borne! Olive, why should we not tell the exact facts of this thing? We
did agree--very willingly at the time--to keep the secret. But I am not
willing now, and you are being sacrificed to the stock-market. That is
the whole truth of it! If these editors knew the truth they would be
chanting your praises. If that scoundrel had killed me, he would have
killed you, and then he could have run away to go on with his President
shooting. I am going to Washington this very day to tell the whole
story. You shall not suffer that stocks may not fall and the political
situation made alarming at election time. That is what it all means, and
I won't stand it!"

"You will only make things worse, uncle," said Olive. "Then the whole
matter will be stirred up afresh. We will be summoned to investigations,
and all sorts of disagreeable things. Every item of our lives will be in
the papers, and some will be invented. It is very bad now, but in a
little while the public will forget that a countryman and a country girl
had a fracas in Washington. But the other thing will never be
forgotten. It is very much better to leave it as it is."

The captain, notwithstanding the presence of a lady, cursed the
officials, the newspapers, the Government, and the whole country. "I am
going to do it!" he cried vehemently. "I don't care what happens!"

But Olive put her arms around him and coaxed him for her sake to let the
matter rest. And, finally, the captain, grumblingly, assented.

If Olive had been a girl brought up in a gentle-minded household,
knowing nothing of the varied life she had lived when a navy girl;
sometimes at this school and sometimes at that; sometimes in her native
land, and sometimes in the midst of frontier life; sometimes with
parents, and sometimes without them; and, had she been less aware from
her own experiences and those of others, that this is a world in which
you must stand up very stiffly if you do not want to be pushed down; she
might have sunk, at least for a time, under all this publicity and
blame. Even the praise had its sting.

But she did not sink. The liveliness and the fun went out of her, and
her face grew hard and her manner quiet. But she was not quiet within.
She rebelled against the unfairness with which she was treated. No
matter what the newspapers knew or did not know, they should have known,
and should have remembered, that she had saved her uncle's life. If they
had known more they would have been just and kind enough no doubt, but
they ought to have been just and kind without knowing more.

Captain Asher would now read no more papers. But Olive read them all.

Letters still came; one of them from Mr. Easterfield. But every time a
mail arrived there was a disappointment in the toll-gate household. The
captain could scarcely refrain from speaking of his disappointment, for
it was a true grief to him that Dick Lancaster had not written a word.
Of course, Olive did not say anything upon the subject, for she had no
right to expect such a letter, and she was not sure that she wanted one,
but it was very strange that a person who surely was, or had been,
somewhat interested in her uncle and herself should have been the only
one among her recent associates who showed no interest whatever in what
had befallen her. Even Mr. and Mrs. Fox had written. She wished they had
not written, but, after all, stupidity is sometimes better than total
neglect.

"Olive," said the captain one pleasant afternoon, "suppose we take a
drive to Broadstone? The family is not there, but it may interest you to
see the place where I hope your friends will soon be living again. I can
not bear to see you going about so dolefully. I want to brighten you up
in some way."

"I'd like it," said Olive promptly. "Let us go to Broadstone."

At that moment they heard talking in the tollhouse; then there were some
quick steps in the garden; and, almost immediately, Dick Lancaster was
in the house and in the room where the captain and his niece were
sitting. He stepped quickly toward them as they rose, and gave Olive
his left hand because the captain had seized his right and would not let
it go.

"I have been very slow getting here," he said, looking from one to the
other. "But I would not write, and I have been unconscionably delayed. I
am so proud of you," he said, looking Olive full in the face, but still
holding the captain by the hand.

Olive's hand had been withdrawn, but it was very cheering to her to know
that some one was proud of her.

The captain poured out his delight at seeing the young professor--the
first near friend he had seen since his adventure, and, in his opinion,
the best. Olive said but little, but her countenance brightened
wonderfully. She had always liked Mr. Lancaster, and now he showed his
good sense and good feeling; for, while it was evidently on his mind, he
made no allusion to anything they had done, or that had happened to
them. He talked chiefly of himself.

But the captain was not to be repressed, and his tone warmed up a little
as he asked if Dick had been reading the newspapers.

At this Olive left the room to make some arrangements for Mr.
Lancaster's accommodation.

Seizing this opportunity, Dick Lancaster stopped the captain, who he saw
was preparing to go lengthily into the recent affair. "Yes, yes," he
said, speaking quickly, "and my blood has run hot as I read those
beastly papers. But let me say something to you while I can. I am deeply
interested in something else just now. I came here, captain, to propose
marriage to your niece. Have I your consent?"

"Consent!" cried the captain. "Why, it is the clearest wish of my heart
that you should marry Olive!" And seizing the young man by both arms, he
shook him from head to foot. "Consent!" he exclaimed. "I should think
so, I should think so! Will she take you, Dick? Is that--"

"I don't know," said Lancaster, "I don't know. I am here to find out.
But I hear her coming."

The happy captain thought it full time to go away somewhere. He felt
that he could not control his glowing countenance, and that he might say
or do something which might be wrong. So he departed with great
alacrity, and left the two young people to themselves.




_CHAPTER XXXIV_

_Miss Port puts in an Appearance._


The captain clapped on his hat, and walked up the road toward Glenford.
He was very much excited and he wanted to sing, but his singing days
were over, and he quieted himself somewhat by walking rapidly. There was
a buggy coming from town, but it stopped before it reached him and some
one in it got out, while the vehicle proceeded slowly onward. The some
one waited until the captain came up to her. It was Miss Maria Port.

"How do you do?" she said, holding out her hand. "I was on my way to see
you."

The captain put both his hands in his pockets, and his face grew
somewhat dark. "Why do you want to see me?" he asked.

She looked at him steadily for a moment, and then answered, speaking
very quietly. "I found that Mr. Lancaster had arrived in town, and had
gone to your house, and that he was in such a hurry that he walked. So I
immediately hired a buggy to come out here. I am very glad I met you."

"But what in the name of common sense," exclaimed the captain, "did you
come to see me for? What difference does it make to you whether Mr.
Lancaster is here or not? What have you got to do with me and my
affairs, anyway?"

She smiled a smile which was very quiet and flat. "Now, don't get
angry," she said. "We can talk over things in a friendly way just as
well as not, and it will be a great deal better to do it. And I'd rather
talk here in the public road than anywhere else; it's more private."

"I don't want a word to say to you," said the captain, preparing to move
on. "I have nothing at all to do with you."

"Ah," said Miss Port, with another smile, "but I think you have. You've
got to marry me, you know."

Then the captain stopped suddenly. He opened his mouth, but he could
find no immediate words.

"Yes, indeed," said Miss Port, now speaking quietly; "and when I saw Mr.
Lancaster had come to town, I knew that I must see you at once. Of
course, he has come to take away your niece, and that's the best thing
to be done, for she wouldn't want to keep on livin' here where so many
people have known her. At first I thought that would be a very good
thing, for you would be separated from her, and that's what you need and
deserve. Young men are young men, and they are often a good deal kinder
than they would be if they stopped to think. But a person of mature age
is different. He would know what is due to himself and his standing in
society. At least, that is what I did think. But it suddenly flashed on
me that they might want to get away as quick as they could--which would
be proper, dear knows--and it would be just like you to go with them.
And so I came right out."

The captain had listened to all this because he very much wanted to know
what she had to say, but now he exclaimed: "Do you suppose I shall pay
any attention to all the gossip about my affairs?"

"Now, don't go on like that," said Miss Port; "it doesn't do any good,
and if you'll only keep quiet, and think pleasantly about it, there will
be no trouble at all. You know you've got to marry me; that's settled.
Everybody knows about it, and has known about it for years. I didn't
press the matter while father was alive because I knew it would worry
him. But now I'm going to do it. Not in any anger or bad feelin', but
gently, and as firmly as if I was that tree. I don't want to go to any
law, but if I have to do it, I'll do it. I've got my proofs and my
witnesses, and I'm all right. The people of your own house are
witnesses. And there are ever so many more."

"Woman!" cried the captain, "don't you say another word! And don't you
ever dare to speak to me again! I'm not going away, and my niece is not
going away; and I assure you that I hate and despise you so much that
all the law in the world couldn't make me marry you. Although you know
as well as I do that all you've been saying has no sense or truth in
it."

Miss Port did not get angry. With wonderful self-repression she
controlled her feelings. She knew that if she lost that control there
would be an end to everything. She grew pale, but she spoke more gently
than before. "You know"--she was about to say "John," but she thought
she would better not--"that what I say about determination and all
that, I simply say because you do not come to meet me half-way, as I
would have you do. All I want is to get you to acknowledge my rights, to
defend me from ridicule. You know that I am now alone in the world, and
have no one to look to but you--to whom I always expected to look when
father died--and if you should carry out your cruel words, and should
turn from me as if I was a stranger and a nobody, after all these years
of visitin' and attention from you, which everybody knows about, and has
talked about, I could never expect anybody else--you bein' gone--to step
forward--"

At this the face of the captain cleared, and as he gazed upon the
unpleasant face and figure of this weather-worn spinster, the idea that
any one with matrimonial intentions should "step forward," as she put
it, struck him as being so extremely ludicrous that he burst out
laughing.

Then leaped into fire every nervelet of Miss Maria Port. "Laugh at me,
do you?" cried she. "I'll give you something to laugh at! And if you 're
going to stand up for that thing you have in your house, that
murderess--"

She said no more. The captain stepped up to her with a smothered curse
so that she moved back, frightened. But he did nothing. He was too
enraged to speak. She was a woman, and he could not strike her to the
ground. Before her sallow venom he was helpless. He was a man and she
was a woman, and he could do nothing at all. He was too angry to stay
there another second, and, without a word, he left her, walking with
great strides toward the town.

Miss Maria Port stood looking after him, panting a little, for her
excitement had been great. Then, with a yellow light in her eyes, she
hurried toward her vehicle, which had stopped.

As Captain Asher strode into town he asked himself over and over again
what should he do? How should he punish this wildcat--this ruthless
creature, who spat venom at the one he loved best in the world, and who
threatened him with her wicked claws? In his mind he looked from side to
side for help; some one must fight his battle for him; he could not
fight a woman. He had not reached town when he thought of Mrs. Faulkner,
the wife of the Methodist minister. He knew her; she and her husband had
been among the friends who had come out to see him; and she was a woman.
He would go directly to her, and ask her advice.

The captain was not shown into the parlor of the parsonage, but into the
minister's study, that gentleman being away. He heard a great sound of
talking as he passed the parlor door, and it was not long before Mrs.
Faulkner came in. He hesitated as she greeted him.

"You have company," he said, "but can I see you for a very few minutes?
It is important."

"Of course you can," said she, closing the study door. "Our Dorcas
Society meets here to-day, but we have not yet come to order. I shall be
glad to hear what you have to say."

So they sat down, and he told her what he had to say, and as she
listened she grew very angry. When she heard the epithet which had been
applied to Olive she sprang to her feet. "The wretch!" she cried.

"Now, you see, Mrs. Faulkner," said the captain, "I can do nothing at
all myself, and there is no way to make use of the law; that would be
horrible for Olive, and it could not be done; and so I have come to ask
help of you. I don't see that any other man could do more than I could
do."

Mrs. Faulkner sat silent for a few minutes. "I am so glad you came to
me," she said presently. "I have always known Miss Port as a
scandal-monger and a mischief-maker, but I never thought of her as a
wicked woman. This persecution of you is shameful, but when I think of
your niece it is past belief! You are right, Captain Asher; it must be a
woman who must take up your cause. In fact," said she after a moment's
thought, "it must be women. Yes, sir." And as she spoke her face flushed
with enthusiasm. "I am going to take up your cause, and my friends in
there, the ladies of the Dorcas Society, will stand by me, I know. I
don't know what we shall do, but we are going to stand by you and your
niece."

Here was a friend worth having. The captain was very much affected, and
was moved with unusual gratitude. He had been used to fighting his own
battles in this world, and here was some one coming forward to fight for
him.

There came upon him a feeling that it would be a shame to let this true
lady take up a combat which she did not wholly understand. He made up
his mind in an instant that he would not care what danger might be
threatened to other people, or to trade, or to society, he would be
true to this lady, to Olive, and to himself. He would tell her the whole
story. She should know what Olive had done, and how little his poor girl
deserved the shameful treatment she had received.

Mrs. Faulkner listened with pale amazement; she trembled from head to
foot as she sat.

"And you must tell no one but your husband," said the captain. "This is
a state secret, and he must promise to keep it before you tell."

She promised everything. She would be so proud to tell her husband.

When the captain had gone, Mrs. Faulkner, in a very unusual state of
mind, went into the parlor, took the chair, and putting aside all other
business, told to the eagerly receptive members the story of Miss Port
and Captain Asher. How she had persecuted him, and maligned him, and of
the shameful way in which she had spoken of his niece. But not one word
did she tell of the story of the two gentlemen in the barouche, and of
the air-gun. She was wild to tell everything, but she was a good woman.

"Now, ladies," said Mrs. Faulkner, "in my opinion, the thing for us to
do is to go to see Maria Port; tell her what we think of her; and have
all this wickedness stopped."

Without debate it was unanimously agreed that the president's plan
should be carried out. And within ten minutes the whole Dorcas Society
of eleven members started out in double file to visit the house of Maria
Port.




_CHAPTER XXXV_

_The Dorcas on Guard._


Miss Port had not been home very long and was up in her bedroom, which
looked out on the street, when she heard the sound of many feet, and,
hurrying to the window, and glancing through the partly open shutters,
she saw that a company of women were entering the gate into her front
yard. She did not recognize them, because she was not familiar with the
tops of their hats; and besides, she was afraid she might be seen if she
stopped at the window; so she hurried to the stairway and listened.
There were two great knocks at the door--entirely too loud--and when the
servant-maid appeared she heard a voice which she recognized as that of
Mrs. Faulkner inquiring for her. Instantly she withdrew into her chamber
and waited, her countenance all alertness.

When the maid came up to inform her that Mrs. Faulkner and a lot of
ladies were down-stairs, and wanted to see her, Miss Port knit her
brows, and shut her lips tightly. She could not connect this visit of so
many Glenford ladies with anything definite; and yet her conscience told
her that their business in some way concerned Captain Asher. He had had
time to see them, and now they had come to see her; probably to induce
her to relinquish her claims upon him. As this thought came into her
mind she grew angry at their impudence, and, seating herself in a
rocking-chair, she told the servant to inform the ladies that she had
just reached home, and that it was not convenient for her to receive
them at present.

Mrs. Faulkner sent hack a message that, in that case, they would wait;
and all the ladies seated themselves in the Port parlor.

"The impudence!" said Miss Port to herself; "but if they like waitin,'
they can wait, I guess they'll get enough of it!"

So Maria Port sat in her room and the ladies sat in the parlor below;
and they sat, and they sat, and they sat, and at last it began to grow
dark.

"I guess they'll be wantin' their suppers," said Maria, "but they'll go
and get them without seein' me. It's no more convenient for me to go
down now than when they first came."

There had been, and there was, a great deal of conversation down in the
parlor, but it was carried on in such a low tone that, to her great
regret, Miss Port could not catch a word of it.

"Now," said Mrs. Pilsbury, "I must go home, for my husband will want his
supper and the children must be attended to."

"And so must I," said Mrs. Barney and Mrs. Sloan. They would really like
very much to stay and see what would happen next, but they had families.

"Ladies," said Mrs. Faulkner, "of course, we can't all stay here and
wait for that woman; but I propose that three of us shall stay and that
the rest shall go home. I'll be one to stay. And then, in an hour three
of you come back, and let us go and get our suppers. In this way we can
keep a committee here all the time. All night, if necessary. When I come
back I will bring a candlestick and some candles, for, of course, we
don't want to light her lamps. If she should come down while I am away,
I'd like some one to run over and tell me. It's such a little way."

At this the ladies arose, and there was a great rustling and chattering,
and the face of Miss Maria, in the room above, gleamed with triumph.

"I knew I'd sit 'em out," said she; "they haven't got the pluck I've
got." But when the servant came up and told her that "three of them
ladies was a-sittin' in the parlor yet and said they was a-goin' to wait
for her," she lost her temper. She sent down word that she didn't intend
to see any of them, and she wanted them to go home.

To this Mrs. Faulkner replied that they wished to see her, and that they
would stay. And the committee continued to sit.

Now Miss Port began to be seriously concerned. What in the world could
these women want? They were very much in earnest; that was certain.
Could it be possible that she had said more than she intended to Captain
Asher, and that she had given him to understand that she would use any
of these women as witnesses if she went to law? However, whatever they
meant, she intended to sit them out. So she told her maid to make her
some tea and to bring it up with some bread and butter and preserves,
and a light. She also ordered her to be careful that the people in the
parlor should see her as she went up-stairs. "I guess they'll know I'm
in earnest when they see the tea," she said. "I've set out a mess of
'em, and it won't take long to finish up them three!"

She partook of her refreshments, and she reclined in her rocking-chair,
and waited for the hungry ones below to depart. "I'll give 'em half an
hour," said she to herself.

Before that time had elapsed she heard another stir below, and she
exclaimed: "I knew it" and there were steps in the hallway, and some
people went out. She sprang to her feet; she was about to run
down-stairs and lock and bolt every door; but a sound arrested her. It
was the talking of women in the parlor. She stopped, with her mouth wide
open, and her eyes staring, and then the servant came up and told her
that "them three had gone, and that another three had come back, and
they had told her to say that they were goin' to stay in squads all
night till she came down to see them."

Miss Port sat down, her elbows on the table, and her chin in her hands.
"It must be something serious," she thought. "The ladies of this town
are not in the habit of staying out late unless it is to nurse bad
cases, or to sit up with corpses." And then the idea struck her that
probably there might be something the matter that she had not thought
of. She had caused lots of mischief in her day, and it might easily be
that she had forgotten some of it. But the more she thought about the
matter, the more firmly she resolved not to go down and speak to the
women. She would like to send for a constable and have them cleared out
of the house, but she knew that none of the three constables in town
would dare to use force with such ladies as Mrs. Faulkner and the
members of the Dorcas Society.

So she sat and waited, and listened, and grew very nervous, but was more
obstinate now than ever, for she was beginning to be very fearful of
what those women might have to say to her. She could "talk down one
woman, but not a pack of 'em." Thus time passed on, with occasional
reports from the servant until the latter fell asleep, and came
up-stairs no more. There were sounds of footsteps in the street, and
Miss Port put out her light, and went to the front shutters. Three women
were coming in. They entered the house, and in a few minutes afterward
three women went out. Miss Port stood up in the middle of the floor, and
was almost inclined to tear her hair.

"They're goin' to stay all night!" she exclaimed. "I really believe they
're goin' to stay all night!" For a moment she thought of rushing
down-stairs and confronting the impertinent visitors, but she stopped;
she was afraid. She did not know what they might say to her, and she
went to the banisters and listened. They were talking; always in a low
voice. It seemed to her that these people could talk forever. Then she
began to think of her front door, which was open; but, of course, nobody
could come while those creatures were in the parlor. But if she missed
anything she'd have them brought up in court if it took every cent she
had in the world and constables from some other town. She slipped to the
back stairs, and softly called the servant, but there was no answer. She
was afraid to go down, for the back door of the parlor commanded all
the other rooms on that floor. Now she felt more terribly lonely and
more nervous. If she had had a pistol she would have fired it through
the floor. Then those women would run away, and she would fasten up the
house. But there they sat, chatter, chatter, chatter, till it nearly
drove her mad. She wished now she had gone down at first.

After a time, and not a very long time, there were some steps in the
street and in the yard, and more women came into the house, but, worse
than that, the others stayed. Family duties were over now, and those
impudent creatures could be content to stay the rest of the evening.

For a moment the worried woman felt as if she would like to go to bed
and cover up her head and so escape these persistent persecutors. But
she shook her head. That would never do. She knew that when she awoke in
the morning some of those women would still be in the parlor, and, to
save her soul, she could not now imagine what it was that kept them
there like hounds upon her track.

It was now eleven o'clock. When had the Port house been open so late as
that? The people in the town must be talking about it, and there would
be more talking the next day. Perhaps it might be in the town paper. The
morning would be worse than the night. She could not bear it any longer.
There was now nothing to be heard in front but that maddening chatter in
the parlor, and up the back stairs came the snores of the servant. She
got a traveling-bag from a closet and proceeded to pack it; then she put
on her bonnet and shawl and put into her bag all the money she had with
her, trembling all the time as if she had been a thief: robbing her own
house. She could not go down the back stairs, because, as has been said,
she could have been seen from the parlor; but a carpenter had been
mending the railing of a little piazza at the back of the house, and she
remembered he had left his ladder. Down this ladder, with her bag in her
hand, Miss Port silently moved. She looked into the kitchen; she could
not see the servant, but she could hear her snoring on a bench. Clapping
her hand over the girl's mouth, she whispered into her ear, and without
a word the frightened creature sat up and followed Miss Port into the
yard.

"Now, then," said Miss Port, whispering as if she were sticking needles
into the frightened girl, "I'm goin' away, and don't you ask no
questions, for you won't get no answers. You just go to bed, and let
them people stay in the parlor all night. They'll be able to take care
of the house, I guess, and if they don't I'll make 'em suffer. In the
morning you can see Mrs. Faulkner--for she's the ringleader--and tell
her that you're goin' home to your mother, and that Miss Port expects
her to pull down all the blinds in this house, and shut and bolt the
doors. She is to see that the eatables is put away proper or else give
to the poor--which will be you, I guess--and then she is to lock all the
doors and take the front-door key to Squire Allen, and tell him I'll
write to him. And what's more, you can say to the nasty thing that if I
find anything wrong in my house, or anything missin', I 'll hold her and
her husband responsible for it, and that I'm mighty glad I don't belong
to their church."

Then she slipped out of the back gate of the yard, and made her way
swiftly to the railroad-station. There was a train for the north which
passed Glenford at half-past twelve, and which could be flagged. There
was one man at the station, and he was very much surprised to see Miss
Port.

"Is anything the matter?" he said.

"Yes," she snapped, "there's some people sick, and I guess there'll be
more of 'em a good deal sicker in the morning. I've got to go."

"A case of pizenin'?" asked the man very earnestly.

"Yes," said she, wrapping her shawl around her; "the worse kind of
pizenin'!" Then she talked no more.

The servant-girl slept late, and there were a good many ladies in the
parlor when she came down. She did not give them a chance to ask her
anything, but told her message promptly. It was a message pretty fairly
remembered, although it had grown somewhat sharper in the night. When it
was finished the girl added: "And I'm to have all the eatables in the
house to take home to my mother, and Squire Allen is to pay me four
dollars and seventy-five cents, which has been owin' to me for wages for
ever so long."




_CHAPTER XXXVI_

_Cold Tinder._


Olive and Dick Lancaster sat together in the captain's parlor. She was
very quiet--she had been very quiet of late--but he was nervous.

"It is very kind, Mr. Lancaster," said Olive, breaking the silence, "for
you to come to see us instead of writing. It is so much pleasanter for
friends--"

"Oh, it was not kind," he said, interrupting her. "In fact, it was
selfishness. And now I want to tell you quickly, Miss Asher, while I
have the chance, the reason of my coming here to-day. It was not to
offer you my congratulations or my sympathy, although you must know that
I feel for you and your uncle as much in every way as any living being
can feel. I came to offer my love. I have loved you almost ever since I
knew you as much as any man can love a woman, and whenever I have been
with you I could hardly hold myself back from telling you. But I was
strong, and I did not speak, for I knew you did not love me."

Olive was listening, looking steadily at him.

"No," she said, "I did not love you."

He paid no attention to this remark, as if it related to something which
he knew all about, but went on, "I resolved to speak to you some time,
but not until I had some little bit of a reason for supposing you would
listen to me; but when I read the account of what you did in Washington,
I knew you to be so far above even the girl I had supposed you to be;
then my love came down upon me and carried me away. And all that has
since appeared in the papers has made me so long to stand by your side
that I could not resist this longing, and I felt that no matter what
happened, I must come and tell you all."

"And now?" asked Olive.

"There is nothing more," said Dick. "I have told you all there is. I
love you so truly that it seems to me as if I had been born, as if I had
lived, as if I had grown and had worked, simply that I might be able to
come to you and say, I love you. And now that I have told you this, I
hope that I have not pained you."

"You have not pained me," said Olive, "but it is right that I should say
to you that I do not love you." She said this very quietly and gently,
but there was sadness in her tones.

Dick Lancaster sprang up, and stood before her. "Then let me love you"
he cried. "Do not deny me that! Do not take the life out of me! the soul
out of me! Do not turn me away into utter blackness! Do not say I shall
not love you!"

Olive's clear, thoughtful eyes were looking into his. "I believe you
love me," she answered slowly. "I believe every word you say. But what I
say is also true. I will admit that I have asked myself if I could love
you. There was a time when I was in great trouble, when I believed that
it might be possible for me to marry some one without loving him, but I
never thought that about _you_. You were different. I could not have
married you without loving you. I believe you knew that, and so you did
not ask me."

His voice was husky when he spoke again.

"But you do not answer me," he said. "You have seen into my very soul.
May I love you?"

She still looked into his glowing eyes, but she did not speak. It was
with herself she was communing, not with him.

But there was something in the eyes which looked into his which made his
heart leap, and he leaned forward.

"Olive," he whispered, "can you not love me?"

Her lips appeared as if they were about to move, but they did not, and
in the next moment they could not. He had her in his arms.

Poor foolish, lovely Olive! She thought she was so strong. She imagined
that she knew herself so well. She had seen so much; she had been so
far; she had known so many things and people that she had come to look
upon herself as the decider of her own destiny. She had come to believe
so much in herself and in her cold heart that she was not afraid to
listen to the words of a burning heart! _Her_ heart could keep so cool!

And now, in a flash, the fire had spread! The coolest hearts are often
made of tinder.

Poor foolish, lovely, happy Olive! She scarcely understood what had
happened to her. She only knew that she had been born and had lived, and
had grown, that he might come to her and say he loved her. What had she
been thinking of all this time?

"You are so quick," she said, as she put back some of her disheveled
hair.

"Dearest," he whispered, "it seems to me as if I had been so slow, so
slow, so very slow!"

It was a long time before Captain Asher returned, and when he entered
the parlor he found these two still there. They had been sitting by the
window, and when they came forward to meet him Dick's arm was around the
waist of Olive. The captain looked at them for a moment, and then he
gave a shout, and encircled them both in his great arms.

When they were cool enough to sit down and Olive and Dick had ceased
trying to persuade the captain that he was not the happiest of the
three, Olive said to him: "I have told Dick everything--about the
air-gun and all. Of course, he must know it."

"And I have been looking at you," said Dick, putting his hand upon the
captain's shoulder, "as the only hero I have ever met. Not only for what
you have done, but for what you have refrained from doing."

"Nonsense!" said the captain. "Olive now--"

"Oh! Olive is Olive!" said Dick. And he did not mind in the least that
the captain was present.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was on the next afternoon that the Broadstone carriage stopped at the
toll-gate. Mrs. Easterfield sprang out of it, asking for nobody, for she
had spied Olive in the arbor.

"It seems to me," she said, as she burst into tears and took the girl
into her arms, "it does seem to me as if I were your own mother!"