THE CAPTAIN'S TOLL-GATE

By

FRANK R. STOCKTON

_With a Memorial Sketch by Mrs. Stockton_


1903



CONTENTS

      I. OLIVE
     II. MARIA PORT
    III. MRS. EASTERFIELD
     IV. THE SON OF AN OLD SHIPMATE
      V. OLIVE PAYS TOLL
     VI. MR. CLAUDE LOCKER
    VII. THE CAPTAIN AND HIS GUEST GO FISHING AND COME HOME HAPPY
   VIII. CAPTAIN ASHER IS NOT IN A GOOD HUMOR
     IX. MISS PORT TAKES A DRIVE WITH THE BUTCHER
      X. MRS. EASTERFIELD WRITES A LETTER
     XI. MR. LOCKER IS RELEASED ON BAIL
    XII. MR. RUPERT HEMPHILL
   XIII. MR. LANCASTER'S BACKERS
    XIV. A LETTER FOR OLIVE
     XV. OLIVE'S BICYCLE TRIP
    XVI. MR. LANCASTER ACCEPTS A MISSION
   XVII. DICK IS NOT A PROMPT BEARER OF NEWS
  XVIII. WHAT OLIVE DETERMINED TO DO
    XIX. THE CAPTAIN AND DICK LANCASTER DESERT THE TOLL-GATE
     XX. MR. LOCKER DETERMINES TO RUSH THE ENEMY'S POSITION
    XXI. MISS RALEIGH ENJOYS A RARE PRIVILEGE
   XXII. THE CONFLICTING SERENADES
  XXIII. THE CAPTAIN AND MARIA
   XXIV. MR. TOM ARRIVES AT BROADSTONE
    XXV. THE CAPTAIN AND MR. TOM
   XXVI. A STOP AT THE TOLL-GATE
  XXVII. BY PROXY
 XXVIII. HERE WE GO! LOVERS THREE!
   XXIX. TWO PIECES OF NEWS
    XXX. BY THE SEA
   XXXI. AS GOOD AS A MAN
  XXXII. THE STOCK-MARKET IS SAFE
 XXXIII. DICK LANCASTER DOES NOT WRITE
  XXXIV. MISS PORT PUTS IN AN APPEARANCE
   XXXV. THE DORCAS ON GUARD
  XXXVI. COLD TINDER
 XXXVII. IN WHICH SOME GREAT CHANGES ARE RECORDED
XXXVIII. "IT HAS JUST BEGUN!"



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


Portrait of Prank B. Stockton _Etching by Jacques Reich from a
photograph._

The Holt, Mr. Stockton's home near Convent, N.J.

Claymont, Mr. Stockton's home near Charles Town, West Virginia.

A corner in Mr. Stockton's study at Claymont.

The upper terraces of Mr. Stockton's garden at Claymont.




A MEMORIAL SKETCH

As this--The Captain's Toll-Gate--is the last of the works of Frank R.
Stockton that will be given to the public, it is fitting that it be
accompanied by some account of the man whose bright spirit illumined
them all. It is proper, also, that something be said of the stories
themselves; of the circumstances in which they were written, the
influences that determined their direction, and the history of their
evolution. It seems appropriate that this should be done by the one who
knew him best; the one who lived with him through a long and beautiful
life; the one who walked hand in hand with him along the whole of a
wonderful road of ever-changing scenes: now through forests peopled with
fairies and dryads, griffins and wizards; now skirting the edges of an
ocean with its strange monsters and remarkable shipwrecks; now on the
beaten track of European tourists, sharing their novel adventures and
amused by their mistakes; now resting in lovely gardens imbued with
human interest; now helping the young to make happy homes for
themselves; now sympathizing with the old as they look longingly toward
a heavenly home; and, oftenest, perhaps, watching girls and young men as
they were trying to work out the problems of their lives. All this, and
much more, crowded the busy years until the Angel of Death stood in the
path; and the journey was ended.

In regard to the present story--The Captain's Toll-Gate--although it is
now after his death first published, it was all written and completed by
Mr. Stockton himself. No other hand has been allowed to add to, or to
take from it. Mr. Stockton had so strong a feeling upon the literary
ethics involved in such matters that he once refused to complete a book
which a popular and brilliant author, whose style was thought to
resemble his own, had left unfinished. Mr. Stockton regarded the
proposed act in the light of a sacrilege. The book, he said, should be
published as the author left it. Knowing this fact, readers of the
present volume may feel assured that no one has been permitted to tamper
with it. Although the last book by Mr. Stockton to be published, it is
not the last that he wrote. He had completed The Captain's Toll-Gate,
and was considering its publication, when he was asked to write another
novel dealing with the buccaneers. He had already produced a book
entitled Buccaneers and Pirates of our Coasts. The idea of writing a
novel while the incidents were fresh in his mind pleased him, and he put
aside The Captain's Toll-Gate, as the other book--Kate Bonnet--was
wanted soon, and he did not wish the two works to conflict in
publication. Steve Bonnet, the crazy-headed pirate, was a historical
character, and performed the acts attributed to him. But the charming
Kate, and her lover, and Ben Greenaway were inventions.

Francis Richard Stockton, born in Philadelphia in 1834, was, on his
father's side, of purely English ancestry; on his mother's side, there
was a mixture of English, French, and Irish. When he began to write
stories these three nationalities were combined in them: the peculiar
kind of inventiveness of the French; the point of view, and the humor
that we find in the old English humorists; and the capacity of the Irish
for comical situations.

Soon after arriving in this country the eldest son of the first American
Stockton settled in Princeton, N.J., and founded that branch of the
family; while the father, with the other sons, settled in Burlington
County, in the same State, and founded the Burlington branch of the
family, from which Frank R. Stockton was descended. On the female side
he was descended from the Gardiners, also of New Jersey. His was a
family with literary proclivities. His father was widely known for his
religious writings, mostly of a polemical character, which had a
powerful influence in the denomination to which he belonged. His
half-brother (much older than Frank) was a preacher of great eloquence,
famous a generation ago as a pulpit orator.

When Frank and his brother John, two years younger, came to the age to
begin life for themselves, they both showed such decided artistic genius
that it was thought best to start them in that direction, and to have
them taught engraving; an art then held in high esteem. Frank chose
wood, and John steel engraving. Both did good work, but their hearts
were not in it, and, as soon as opportunity offered, they abandoned
engraving. John went into journalism; became editorially connected with
prominent newspapers; and had won a foremost place in his chosen
profession; when he was cut off by death at a comparatively early age.

[Illustration: THE HOLT, MR STOCKTON'S HOME NEAR CONVENT. N.J.]

Frank chose literature. He had, while in the engraving business, written
a number of fairy tales, some of which had been published in juvenile
magazines; also a few short stories, and quite an ambitious long story,
which was published in a prominent magazine. He was then sufficiently
well known as a writer to obtain without difficulty a place on the
staff of Hearth and Home, a weekly New York paper, owned by Orange Judd,
and conducted by Edward Eggleston. Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge had charge of
the juvenile department, and Frank went on the paper as her assistant.
Not long after Scribner's Monthly was started by Charles Scribner (the
elder), in conjunction with Roswell Smith, and J.G. Holland. Later Mr.
Smith and his associates formed The Century Company; and with this
company Mr. Stockton was connected for many years: first on the Century
Magazine, which succeeded Scribner's Monthly, and afterward on St.
Nicholas, as assistant to Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge, and, still later, when
he decided to give up editorial work, as a constant contributor. After a
few years he resigned his position in the company with which he had been
so pleasantly associated in order to devote himself exclusively to his
own work. By this time he had written and published enough to feel
justified in taking, what seemed to his friends, a bold, and even rash,
step, because so few writers then lived solely by the pen. He was never
very strong physically; he felt himself unable to do his editorial work,
and at the same time write out the fancies and stories with which his
mind was full. This venture proved to be the wisest thing for him; and
from that time his life was, in great part, in his books; and he gave
to the world the novels and stories which bear his name.

I have mentioned his fairy stories. Having been a great lover of fairy
lore when a child, he naturally fell into this form of story writing as
soon as he was old enough to put a story together. He invented a goodly
number; and among them the Ting-a-Ling stories, which were read aloud in
a boys' literary circle, and meeting their hearty approval, were
subsequently published in The Riverside Magazine, a handsome and popular
juvenile of that period; and, much later, were issued by Hurd & Houghton
in a very pretty volume. In regard to these, he wrote long afterward as
follows:

"I was very young when I determined to write some fairy tales because my
mind was full of them. I set to work, and in course of time produced
several which were printed. These were constructed according to my own
ideas. I caused the fanciful creatures who inhabited the world of
fairy-land to act, as far as possible for them to do so, as if they were
inhabitants of the real world. I did not dispense with monsters and
enchanters, or talking beasts and birds, but I obliged these creatures
to infuse into their extraordinary actions a certain leaven of common
sense."

It was about this time, while very young, that he and his brother
became ambitious to write stories, poems, and essays for the world at
large. They sent their effusions to various periodicals, with the result
common to ambitious youths: all were returned. They decided at last that
editors did not know a good thing when they saw it, and hit upon a
brilliant scheme to prove their own judgment. One of them selected an
extract from Paradise Regained (as being not so well known as Paradise
Lost), and sent it to an editor, with the boy's own name appended,
expecting to have it returned with some of the usual disparaging
remarks, which they would greatly enjoy. But they were disappointed. The
editor printed it in his paper, thereby proving that he did know a good
thing if he did not know his Milton. Mr. Stockton was fond of telling
this story, and it may have given rise to a report, extensively
circulated, that he tried to gain admittance to periodicals for many
years before he succeeded. This is not true. Some rebuffs he had, of
course--some with things which afterward proved great successes--but not
as great a number as falls to the lot of most beginners.

The Ting-a-Ling tales proved so popular that Mr. Stockton followed them
at intervals with long and short stories for the young which appeared in
various juvenile publications, and were afterward published in book
form--Roundabout Rambles. Tales out of School, A Jolly Fellowship,
Personally Conducted, The Story of Viteau, The Floating Prince, and
others. Some years later, after he had begun to write for older readers,
he wrote a series of stories for St. Nicholas, ostensibly for children,
but really intended for adults. Children liked the stories, but the
deeper meaning underlying them all was beyond the grasp of a child's
mind. These stories Mr. Stockton took very great pleasure in writing,
and always regarded them as some of his best work, and was gratified
when his critics wrote of them in that way. They have become famous, and
have been translated into several languages, notably Old Pipes and the
Dryad, The Bee Man of Orne, and The Griffin and the Minor Canon. This
last story was suggested by Chester Cathedral, and he wrote it in that
venerable city. The several tales were finally collected into a volume
under the title: The Bee Man of Orne and Other Stories, which is
included in the complete edition of his novels and stories. During the
whole of his literary career Mr. Stockton was an occasional contributor
of short stories and essays to The Youth's Companion.

Mr. Stockton considered his career as an editor of great advantage to
him as an author. In an autobiographical paper he writes:
"Long-continued reading of manuscripts submitted for publication which
are almost good enough to use, and yet not quite up to the standard of
the magazine, can not but be of great service to any one who proposes a
literary career. Bad work shows us what we ought to avoid, but most of
us know, or think we know, what that is. Fine literary work we get
outside the editorial room. But the great mass of literary material
which is almost good enough to print is seen only by the editorial
reader, and its lesson is lost upon him in a great degree unless he is,
or intends to be, a literary worker."

The first house in which we set up our own household goods stood in
Nutley, N.J. We had with us an elderly _attachГ©_ of the Stockton family
as maid-of-all-work; and to relieve her of some of her duties I went
into New York, and procured from an orphans' home a girl whom Mr.
Stockton described as "a middle-sized orphan." She was about fourteen
years old, and proved to be a very peculiar individual, with strong
characteristics which so appealed to Mr. Stockton's sense of humor that
he liked to talk with her and draw out her opinions of things in
general, and especially of the books she had read. Her spare time was
devoted to reading books, mostly of the blood-curdling variety; and she
read them to herself aloud in the kitchen in a very disjointed fashion,
which was at first amusing, and then irritating. We never knew her real
name, nor did the people at the orphanage. She had three or four very
romantic ones she had borrowed from novels while she was with us, for
she was very sentimental.

Mr. Stockton bestowed upon her the name of Pomona, which is now a
household word in myriads of homes. This extraordinary girl, and some
household experiences, induced Mr. Stockton to write a paper for
Scribner's Monthly which he called Rudder Grange. This one paper was all
he intended to write, but it attracted immediate attention, was
extensively noticed, and much talked about. The editor of the magazine
received so many letters asking for another paper that Mr. Stockton
wrote the second one; and as there was still a clamor for more, he,
after a little time, wrote others of the series. Some time later they
were collected in a book. For those interested in Pomona I will add,
that while the girl was an actual personage, with all the
characteristics given to her by her chronicler, the woman Pomona was a
development in Mr. Stockton's mind of the girl as he imagined she would
become, for the original passed out of our lives while still a girl.

Rudder Grange was Mr. Stockton's first book for adult readers, and a
good deal of comment has been made upon the fact that he had reached
middle life when it was published. His biographers and critics assume
that he was utterly unknown at that time, and that he suddenly jumped
into favor, and they naturally draw the inference that he had until then
vainly attempted to get before the public. This is all a misapprehension
of the facts. It will be seen from what I have previously stated, that
at this time he was already well known as a juvenile writer, and not
only had no difficulty in getting his articles printed, but editors and
publishers were asking him for stories. He had made but few slight
attempts to obtain a larger audience. That he confined himself for so
long a time to juvenile literature can be easily accounted for. For one
thing, it grew out of his regular work of constantly catering for the
young, and thinking of them. Then, again, editorial work makes urgent
demands upon time and strength, and until freed from it he had not the
leisure or inclination to fashion stories for more exacting and critical
readers. Perhaps, too, he was slow in recognizing his possibilities.
Certain it is that the public were not slow to recognize him. He did,
however, experience difficulties in getting the collected papers of
Rudder Grange published in book form. I will quote his own account,
which is interesting as showing how slow he was to appreciate the fact
that the public would gladly accept the writings of a humorist:

"The discovery that humorous compositions could be used in journals
other than those termed comic marked a new era in my work. Periodicals
especially devoted to wit and humor were very scarce in those days, and
as this sort of writing came naturally to me, it was difficult, until
the advent of Puck, to find a medium of publication for writings of this
nature. I contributed a good deal to this paper, but it was only partly
satisfactory, for articles which make up a comic paper must be terse and
short, and I wanted to write humorous tales which should be as long as
ordinary magazine stories. I had good reason for my opinion of the
gravity of the situation, for the editor of a prominent magazine
declined a humorous story (afterward very popular) which I had sent him,
on the ground that the traditions of magazines forbade the publication
of stories strictly humorous. Therefore, when I found an editor at last
who actually _wished_ me to write humorous stories, I was truly
rejoiced. My first venture in this line was Rudder Grange. And, after
all, I had difficulty in getting the series published in book form. Two
publishers would have nothing to do with them, assuring me that although
the papers were well enough for a magazine, a thing of ephemeral nature,
the book-reading public would not care for them. The third publisher to
whom I applied issued the work, and found the venture satisfactory."

The book-reading public cared so much for this book that it would not
remain satisfied with it alone. Again and again it demanded of the
author more about Pomona, Euphemia, and Jonas. Hence The Rudder Grangers
Abroad and Pomona's Travels.

The most famous of Mr. Stockton's stories, The Lady or the Tiger?, was
written to be read before a literary society of which he was a member.
It caused such an interesting discussion in the society that he
published it in the Century Magazine. It had no especial announcement
there, nor was it heralded in any way, but it took the public by storm,
and surprised both the editor and the author. All the world must love a
puzzle, for in an amazingly short time the little story had made the
circuit of the world. Debating societies everywhere seized upon it as a
topic; it was translated into nearly all languages; society people
discussed it at their dinners; plainer people argued it at their
firesides; numerous letters were sent to nearly every periodical in the
country; and public readers were expounding it to their audiences. It
interested heathen and Christian alike; for an English friend told Mr.
Stockton that in India he had heard a group of Hindoo men gravely
debating the problem. Of course, a mass of letters came pouring in upon
the author.

A singular thing about this story has been the revival of interest in it
that has occurred from time to time. Although written many years ago, it
seems still to excite the interest of a younger generation; for, after
an interval of silence on the subject of greater or less duration,
suddenly, without apparent cause, numerous letters in relation to it
will appear on the author's table, and "solutions" will be printed in
the newspapers. This ebb and flow has continued up to the present time.
Mr. Stockton made no attempt to answer the question he had raised.

We both spent much time in the South at different periods. The dramatic
and unconsciously humorous side of the negroes pleased his fancy. He
walked and talked with them, saw them in their homes, at their
"meetin's," and in the fields. He has drawn with an affectionate hand
the genial, companionable Southern negro as he is--or rather as he
was--for this type is rapidly passing away. Soon there will be no more
of these "old-time darkies." They would be by the world forgot had they
not been embalmed in literature by Mr. Stockton, and the best Southern
writers.

There is one other notable characteristic that should be referred to in
writing of Mr. Stockton's stories--the machines and appliances he
invented as parts of them. They are very numerous and ingenious. No
matter how extraordinary might be the work in hand, the machine to
accomplish the end was made on strictly scientific principles, to
accomplish that exact piece of work. It would seem that if he had not
been an inventor of plots he might have been an inventor of instruments.
This idea is sustained by the fact that he had been a wood-engraver only
a short time when he invented and patented a double graver which cuts
two parallel lines at the same time. It is somewhat strange that more
than one of these extraordinary machines has since been exploited by
scientists and explorers, without the least suspicion on their part that
the enterprising romancer had thought of them first. Notable among these
may be named the idea of going to the north pole under the ice, the one
that the center of the earth is an immense crystal (Great Stone of
Sardis), and the attempt to manufacture a gun similar to the Peace
Compeller in The Great War Syndicate.

In all of Mr. Stockton's novels there were characters taken from real
persons who perhaps would not recognize themselves in the peculiar
circumstances in which he placed them. In the crowd of purely
imaginative beings one could easily recognize certain types modified and
altered. In The Casting away of Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshine he
introduced two delightful old ladies whom he knew, and who were never
surprised at anything that might happen. Whatever emergency arose, they
took it as a matter of course, and prepared to meet it. Mr. Stockton
amused himself at their expense by writing this story. He was not at
first interested in the Dusantes, and had no intention of ever saying
anything further about them. When there was a demand for knowledge of
the Dusantes Mr. Stockton did not heed it. He was opposed to writing
sequels. But when an author of distinction, whose work and friendship he
highly valued, wrote to him that if he did not write something about the
Dusantes, and what they said when they found the board money in the
ginger jar, he would do it himself, Mr. Stockton set himself to writing
The Dusantes.

I have been asked to give some account of the places in which Mr.
Stockton's stories and novels were written, and their environments. Some
of the Southern stories were written in Virginia, and, now and then, a
short story elsewhere, as suggested by the locality, but the most of his
work was done under his own roof-tree. He loved his home; it had to be a
country home, and always had to have a garden. In the care of a garden
and in driving, he found his two greatest sources of recreation.

[Illustration: CLAYMONT, MR. STOCKTON'S HOME NEAR CHARLES TOWN, WEST
VIRGINIA.]

I have mentioned Nutley, which lies in New Jersey, near New York. His
dwelling there was a pretty little cottage, where he had a garden, some
chickens, and a cow. This was his home in his editorial days, and here
Rudder Grange was written. It was a rented place. The next home we
owned. It stood at a greater distance from New York, at the place called
Convent, half-way between Madison and Morristown, in New Jersey. Here we
lived a number of years after Mr. Stockton gave up editorial work; and
here the greater number of his tales were written. It was a much larger
place than we had at Nutley, with more chickens, two cows, and a much
larger garden.

Mr. Stockton dictated his stories to a stenographer. His favorite spot
for this in summer was a grove of large fir-trees near the house. Here,
in the warm weather, he would lie in a hammock. His secretary would be
near, with her writing materials, and a book of her choosing. The book
was for her own reading while Mr. Stockton was "thinking." It annoyed
him to know he was being "waited for." He would think out pages of
incidents, and scenes, and even whole conversations, before he began to
dictate. After all had been arranged in his mind he dictated rapidly;
but there often were long pauses, when the secretary could do a good
deal of reading. In cold weather he had the secretary and an easy chair
in the study--a room he had built according to his own fancy. A fire of
blazing logs added a glow to his fancies.

I may state here that we always spent a part of every winter in New
York. A certain amount of city life was greatly enjoyed. Mr. Stockton
thus secured much intellectual pleasure. He liked his clubs, and was
fond of society, where he met men noted in various walks of life.[1]

[Footnote 1: Edward Gary, the secretary of the Century Club, in the
obituary notice of Mr. Stockton written by him for the club's annual
report, says of Mr. Stockton as a member: "It was but a dozen years ago
that Frank R. Stockton entered the fellowship of the Century, in which
he soon became exceedingly at home, winning friends here, as he won them
all over the land and in other lands, by the charm of his keen and
kindly mind shining in all that he wrote and said. He had an
extraordinary capacity for work and a rare talent for diversion, and the
Century was honored by his well-earned fame, and fortunate in its share
in his ever fresh and varying companionship."]

I am now nearing the close of a life which had had its trials and
disappointments, its struggles with weak health and with unsatisfying
labor. But these mostly came in the earlier years, and were met with
courage, an ever fresh-springing hope, and a buoyant spirit that would
not be intimidated. On the whole, as one looks back through the long
vista, much more of good than of evil fell to his lot. His life had been
full of interesting experiences, and one of, perhaps, unusual happiness.
At the last there came to pass the fulfilment of a dream in which he had
long indulged. He became the possessor of a beautiful estate containing
what he most desired, and with surroundings and associations dear to his
heart.

He had enjoyed The Holt, his New Jersey home, and was much interested in
improving it. His neighbors and friends there were valued companions.
But in his heart there had always been a longing for a home, not
suburban--a place in the _real_ country, and with more land. Finally,
the time came when he felt that he could gratify this longing. He liked
the Virginia climate, and decided to look for a place somewhere in that
State, not far from the city of Washington. After a rather prolonged
search, we one day lighted upon Claymont, in the Shenandoah Valley. It
won our hearts, and ended our search. It had absolutely everything that
Mr. Stockton coveted. He bought it at once, and we moved into it as
speedily as possible.

Claymont is a handsome colonial residence, "with all modern
improvements"--an unusual combination. It lies near the historic old
town of Charles Town, in West Virginia, near Harpers Ferry. Claymont is
itself an historic place. The land was first owned by "the Father of his
Country." This great personage designed the house, with its main
building, two cottages (or lodges), and courtyards, for his nephew
Bushrod, to whom he had given the land. Through the wooded park runs the
old road, now grass grown, over which Braddock marched to his celebrated
"defeat," guided by the youthful George Washington, who had surveyed the
whole region for Lord Fairfax. During the civil war the place twice
escaped destruction because it had once been the property of Washington.

But it was not for its historical associations, but for the place
itself, that Mr. Stockton purchased it. From the main road to the house
there is a drive of three-quarters of a mile through a park of great
forest-trees and picturesque groups of rocks. On the opposite side of
the house extends a wide, open lawn; and here, and from the piazzas, a
noble view of the valley and the Blue Ridge Mountains is obtained.
Besides the park and other grounds, there is a farm at Claymont of
considerable size. Mr. Stockton, however, never cared for farming,
except in so far as it enabled him to have horses and stock. But his
soul delighted in the big, old terraced garden of his West Virginia
home. Compared with other gardens he had had, the new one was like
paradise to the common world. At Claymont several short stories were
written. John Gayther's Garden was prepared for publication here by
connecting stories previously published into a series, told in a garden,
and suggested by the one at Claymont. John Gayther, however, was an
invention. Kate Bonnet and The Captain's Toll-Gate were both written at
Claymont.

[Illustration: A CORNER IN MR. STOCKTON'S STUDY AT CLAYMONT. Showing the
desk at which all his later books were written.]

Mr. Stockton was permitted to enjoy this beautiful place only three
years. They were years of such rare pleasure, however, that we can
rejoice that he had so much joy crowded into so short a space of his
life, and that he had it at its close. Truly life was never sweeter to
him than at its end, and the world was never brighter to him than when
he shut his eyes upon it. He was returning from a winter in New York to
his beloved Claymont, in good health, and full of plans for the summer
and for his garden, when he was taken suddenly ill in Washington, and
died three days later, on April 20, 1902, a few weeks after Kate Bonnet
was published in book form.

Mr. Stockton passed away at a ripe age--sixty-eight years. And yet his
death was a surprise to us all. He had never been in better health,
apparently; his brain was as active as ever; life was dear to him; he
seemed much younger than he was. He had no wish to give up his work; no
thought of old age; no mental decay. His last novels, his last short
stories, showed no falling-off. They were the equals of those written in
younger years. Nor had he lost the public interest. He was always sure
of an audience, and his work commanded a higher price at the last than
ever before. His was truly a passing away. He gently glided from the
homes he had loved to prepare here to one already prepared for him in
heaven, unconscious that he was entering one more beautiful than even he
had ever imagined.

Mr. Stockton was the most lovable of men. He shed happiness all around
him, not from conscious effort but out of his own bountiful and loving
nature. His tender heart sympathized with the sad and unfortunate, but
he never allowed sadness to be near, if it were possible to prevent it.
He hated mourning and gloom. They seemed to paralyze him mentally until
his bright spirit had again asserted itself, and he had recovered his
balance. He usually looked either upon the best, or the humorous side of
life. Pie won the love of every one who knew him--even that of readers
who did not know him personally, as many letters testify. To his friends
his loss is irreparable, for never again will they find his equal in
such charming qualities of head and heart.

[Illustration: THE UPPER TERRACES OF MR. STOCKTON'S GARDEN AT
CLAYMONT.]

This is not the place for a critical estimate of the work of Frank R.
Stockton.[2] His stories are, in great part, a reflex of himself. The
bright outlook on life; the courageous spirit; the helpfulness; the
sense of the comic rather than the tragic; the love of domestic life;
the sweetness of pure affection; live in his books as they lived in
himself. He had not the heart to make his stories end unhappily. He knew
that there is much of the tragic in human lives, but he chose to ignore
it as far as possible, and to walk in the pleasant ways which are
numerous in this tangled world. There is much philosophy underlying a
good deal that he wrote, but it has to be looked for; it is not
insistent, and is never morbid. He could not write an impure word, or
express an impure thought, for he belonged to the "pure in heart," who,
we are assured, "shall see God."

[Footnote 2: I may, however, properly quote from the sketch prepared by
Mr. Gary for the Century Club: "He brought to his later work the
discipline of long and rather tedious labor, with the capital amassed by
acute observation, on which his original imagination wrought the
sparkling miracles that we know. He has been called the representative
American humorist. He was that in the sense that the characters he
created had much of the audacity of the American spirit, the thirst for
adventures in untried fields of thought and action, the subconscious
seriousness in the most incongruous situations, the feeling of being at
home no matter what happens. But how amazingly he mingled a broad
philosophy with his fun, a philosophy not less wise and comprehending
than his fun was compelling! If his humor was American, it was also
cosmopolitan, and had its laughing way not merely with our British
kinsmen, but with alien peoples across the usually impenetrable barrier
of translation. The fortune of his jesting lay not in his ears, but in
the hearts of his hearers. It was at once appealing and revealing. It
flashed its playful light into the nooks and corners of our own being,
and wove close bonds with those at whom we laughed. There was no
bitterness in it. He was neither satirist nor preacher, nor of set
purpose a teacher, though it must be a dull reader that does not gather
from his books the lesson of the value of a gentle heart and a clear,
level outlook upon our perplexing world."]


MARIAN E. STOCKTON.

CLAYMONT, _May 15, 1903_.




THE CAPTAIN'S TOLL-GATE




_CHAPTER I_

_Olive._


A long, wide, and smoothly macadamized road stretched itself from the
considerable town of Glenford onward and northward toward a gap in the
distant mountains. It did not run through a level country, but rose and
fell as if it had been a line of seaweed upon the long swells of the
ocean. Upon elevated points upon this road, farm lands and forests could
be seen extending in every direction. But there was nothing in the
landscape which impressed itself more obtrusively upon the attention of
the traveler than the road itself. White in the bright sunlight and gray
under the shadows of the clouds, it was the one thing to be seen which
seemed to have a decided purpose. Northward or southward, toward the gap
in the long line of mountains or toward the wood-encircled town in the
valley, it was always going somewhere.

About two miles from the town, and at the top of the first long hill
which was climbed by the road, a tall white pole projected upward
against the sky, sometimes perpendicularly, and sometimes inclined at a
slight angle. This was a turnpike gate or bar, and gave notice to all in
vehicles or on horses that the use of this well-kept road was not free
to the traveling public. At the approach of persons not known, or too
well known, the bar would slowly descend across the road, as if it were
a musket held horizontally while a sentinel demanded the password.

Upon the side of the road opposite to the great post on which the
toll-gate moved, was a little house with a covered doorway, from which
toll could be collected without exposing the collector to sun or rain.
This tollhouse was not a plain whitewashed shed, such as is often seen
upon turnpike roads, but a neat edifice, containing a comfortable room.
On one side of it was a small porch, well shaded by vines, furnished
with a settle and two armchairs, while over all a large maple stretched
its protecting branches. Back of the tollhouse was a neatly fenced
garden, well filled with old-fashioned flowers; and, still farther on, a
good-sized house, from which a box-bordered path led through the garden
to the tollhouse.

It was a remark that had been made frequently, both by strangers and
residents in that part of the country, that if it had not been for the
obvious disadvantages of a toll-gate, this house and garden, with its
grounds and fields, would be a good enough home for anybody. When he
happened to hear this remark Captain John Asher, who kept the toll-gate,
was wont to say that it was a good enough home for him, even with the
toll-gate, and its obvious disadvantages.

It was on a morning in early summer, when the garden had grown to be so
red and white and yellow in its flowers, and so green in its leaves and
stalks, that the box which edged the path was beginning to be
unnoticed, that a girl sat in a small arbor standing on a slight
elevation at one side of the garden, and from which a view could be had
both up and down the road. She was rather a slim girl, though tall
enough; her hair was dark, her eyes were blue, and she sat on the back
of a rustic bench with her feet resting upon the seat; this position she
had taken that she might the better view the road.

With both her hands this girl held a small telescope which she was
endeavoring to fix upon a black spot a mile or more away upon the road.
It was difficult for her to hold the telescope steadily enough to keep
the object-glass upon the black spot, and she had a great deal of
trouble in the matter of focusing, pulling out and pushing in the
smaller cylinder in a manner which showed that she was not accustomed to
the use of this optical instrument.

"Field-glasses are ever so much better," she said to herself; "you can
screw them to any point you want. But now I've got it. It is very near
that cross-road. Good! it did not turn there; it is coming along the
pike, and there will be toll to pay. One horse, seven cents."

She put down the telescope as if to rest her arm and eye. Presently,
however, she raised the glass again. "Now, let us see," she said, "Uncle
John? Jane? or me?" After directing the glass to a point in the air
about two hundred feet above the approaching vehicle, and then to
another point half a mile to the right of it, she was fortunate enough
to catch sight of it again. "I don't know that queer-looking horse," she
said. "It must be some stranger, and Jane will do. No, a little boy is
driving. Strangers coming along this road would not be driven by little
boys. I expect I shall have to call Uncle John." Then she put down the
glass and rubbed her eye, after which, with unassisted vision, she gazed
along the road. "I can see a great deal better without that old thing,"
she continued. "There's a woman in that carriage. I'll go myself." With
this she jumped down from the rustic seat, and with the telescope under
her arm, she skipped through the garden to the little tollhouse.

The name of this girl was Olive Asher. Captain John Asher, who took the
toll, was her uncle, and she had now been living with him for about six
weeks. Olive was what is known in certain social circles as a navy girl.
About twenty years before she had come to her uncle's she had been born
in Genoa, her father at the time being a lieutenant on an American
war-vessel lying in the harbor of Villa Franca. Her first schooldays
were passed in the south of France, and she spent some subsequent years
in a German school in Dresden. Here she was supposed to have finished
her education but when her father's ship was stationed on our Pacific
coast and Olive and her mother went to San Francisco they associated a
great deal with army people, and here the girl learned so much more of
real life and her own country people that the few years she spent in the
far West seemed like a post-graduate course, as important to her true
education as any of the years she had spent in schools.

After the death of her mother, when Olive was about eighteen, the girl
had lived with relatives, East and West, hoping for the day when her
father's three years' cruise would terminate, and she could go and make
a home for him in some pleasant spot on shore. Now, in the course of
these family visits she had come to stay with her father's brother, John
Asher, who kept the toll-gate on the Glenford pike.

Captain John Asher was an older man than his brother, the naval officer,
but he was in the prime of life, and able to hold the command of a ship
if he had cared to do it. But having been in the merchant service for a
long time, and having made some money, he had determined to leave the
sea and to settle on shore; and, finding this commodious house by the
toll-gate, he settled there. There were some people who said that he had
taken the position of toll-gate keeper because of the house, and there
were others who believed that he had bought the house on account of the
toll-gate. But no matter what people thought or said, the good captain
was very well satisfied with his home and his official position. He
liked to meet with people, and he preferred that they should come to him
rather than that he should go to them. He was interested in most things
that were going on in his neighborhood, and therefore he liked to talk
to the people who were going by. Sometimes a good talking acquaintance
or an interesting traveler would tie his horse under the shade of the
maple-tree and sit a while with the captain on the little porch. Certain
it was, it was the most hospitable toll-gate in that part of the
country.

There was a road which branched off from the turnpike, about a mile from
the town, and which, after some windings, entered the pike again beyond
the toll-gate, and although this road was not always in very good
condition, it had seen a good deal of travel, which, in time, gave it
the name of the shunpike. But since Captain Asher had lived at the
toll-gate it was remarked that the shunpike was not used as much as in
former times. There were penurious people who had once preferred to go a
long way round and save money whose economical dispositions now gave way
before the combined attractions of a better road, and a chat with
Captain Asher.

It had been predicted by some of her relatives that Olive would not be
content with her life in her uncle's somewhat peculiar household. He was
a bachelor, and seldom entertained company, and his ordinary family
consisted of an elderly housekeeper and another servant. But Olive was
not in the least dissatisfied. From her infancy up, she had lived so
much among people that she had grown tired of them; and her good-natured
uncle, with his sea stories, the garden, the old-fashioned house, the
fields and the woods beyond, the little stream, which came hurrying down
from the mountains, where she could fish or wade as the fancy pleased
her, gave her a taste of some of the joys of girlhood which she had not
known when she was really a girl.

Another thing that greatly interested her was the toll-gate. If she had
been allowed to do so, she would have spent the greater part of her time
taking money, making change, and talking to travelers. But this her
uncle would not permit. He did not object to her doing some occasional
toll-gate work, and he did not wonder that she liked it, remembering how
interesting it often was to himself, but he would not let her take toll
indiscriminately.

So they made a regular arrangement about it. When the captain was at his
meals, or shaving, or otherwise occupied, old Jane attended to the
toll-gate. At ordinary times, and when any of his special friends were
seen approaching, the captain collected toll himself, but when women
happened to be traveling on the road, then it was arranged that Olive
should go to the gate.

Two or three times it had happened that some young men of the town,
hearing their sisters talk of the pretty girl who had taken their toll,
had thought it might be a pleasant thing to drive out on the pike, but
their money had always been taken by the captain, or else by the
wooden-faced Jane, and nothing had come of their little adventures.

The garden hedge which ran alongside the road was very high.




_CHAPTER II_

_Maria Port._


Olive stood impatiently at the door of the little tollhouse. In one hand
she held three copper cents, because she felt almost sure that the
person approaching would give her a dime or two five-cent pieces.

"I never knew horses to travel so slowly as they do on this pike!" she
said to herself. "How they used to gallop on those beautiful roads in
France!"

In due course of time the vehicle approached near enough to the
toll-gate for Olive to take an observation of its occupant. This was a
middle-aged woman, dressed in black, holding a black fan. She wore a
black bonnet with a little bit of red in it. Her face was small and
pale, its texture and color suggesting a boiled apple dumpling. She had
small eyes of which it can be said that they were of a different color
from her face, and were therefore noticeable. Her lips were not
prominent, and were closely pressed together as if some one had begun to
cut a dumpling, but had stopped after making one incision.

This somewhat somber person leaned forward in the seat behind her young
driver, and steadily stared at Olive. When the horse had passed the
toll-bar the boy stopped it so that his passenger and Olive were face
to face and very near each other.

"Seven cents, please," said Olive.

The cleft in the dumpling enlarged itself, and the woman spoke. "Bless
my soul," she said, "are you Captain Asher's niece?"

"I am," said Olive in surprise.

"Well, well," said the other, "that just beats me! When I heard he had
his niece with him I thought she was a plain girl, with short frocks and
her hair plaited down her back."

Olive did not like this woman. It is wonderful how quickly likes and
dislikes may be generated.

"But you see I am not," she replied. "Seven cents, please."

"Don't you suppose I know what the toll is?" said the woman in the
carriage. "I'm sure I've traveled over this road often enough to know
that. But what I'm thinkin' about is the difference between what I
thought the captain's niece was and what she really is."

"It does not make any difference what the difference is," said Olive,
speaking quickly and with perhaps a little sharpness in her voice, "all
I want is for you to pay me the toll."

"I'm not goin' to pay any toll," said the other.

Olive's face flushed. "Little boy," she exclaimed, "back that horse!" As
the youngster obeyed her peremptory request Olive gave a quick jerk to a
rope and brought down the toll-gate bar so that it stretched itself
across the road, barely missing in its downward sweep the nose of the
unoffending horse. "Now," said Olive, "if you are ready to pay your
toll you can go through this gate, and if you are not, you can turn
round and go back where you came from."

"I'm not goin' to pay any toll," said the other, "and I don't want to go
through the gate. I came to see Captain Asher.--Johnny, turn your horse
a little and let me get out. Then you can stop in the shade of this tree
and wait until I'm ready to go back.--I suppose the captain's in," she
said to Olive, "but if he isn't, I can wait."

"Oh, he's at home," said Olive, "and, of course, if I had known you were
coming to see him, I would not have asked you for your toll. This way,
please," and she stepped toward a gate in the garden hedge.

"When I've been here before," said the visitor, "I always went through
the tollhouse. But I suppose things is different now."

"This is the entrance for visitors," said Olive, holding open the gate.

Captain Asher had heard the voices, and had come out to his front door.
He shook hands with the newcomer, and then turned to Olive, who was
following her.

"This is my niece, my brother Alfred's daughter," he said, "and Olive,
let me introduce you to Miss Maria Port."

"She introduced herself to me," said Miss Port, "and tried to get seven
cents out of me by letting down the bar so that it nearly broke my
horse's nose. But we'll get to know each other better. She's very
different from what I thought she was."

"Most people are," said Captain Asher, as he offered a chair to Miss
Port in his parlor, and sat down opposite to her. Olive, who did not
care to hear herself discussed, quietly passed out of the room.

"Captain," said Miss Port, leaning forward, "how old is she, anyway?"

"About twenty," was the answer.

"And how long is she going to stay?"

"All summer, I hope," said Captain John.

"Well, she won't do it, I can tell you that," remarked Miss Port.
"She'll get tired enough of this place before the summer's out."

"We shall see about that," said the captain, "but she is not tired yet."

"And her mother's dead, and she's wearin' no mournin'."

"Why should she?" said the captain. "It would be a shame for a young
girl like her to be wearing black for two years."

"She's delicate, ain't she?"

"I have not seen any signs of it."

"What did her mother die of?"

"I never heard," said the captain; "perhaps it was the bubonic plague."

Miss Port pushed back her chair and drew her skirts about her.

"Horrible!" she exclaimed. "And you let that child come here!"

The captain smiled. "Perhaps it wasn't that," he said. "It might have
been an avalanche, and that is not catching."

Miss Port looked at him seriously. "It's a great pity she's so
handsome," she said.

"I don't think so; I am glad of it," replied the captain.

Miss Port heaved a sigh. "What that girl is goin' to need," she said,
"is a female guardeen."

"Would you like to take the place?" asked the captain with a grin.

At that instant it might have been supposed that a certain dumpling
which has been mentioned was made of very red apples and that its
covering of dough was somewhat thin in certain places. Miss Port's eyes
were bent for an instant upon the floor.

"That is a thing," she said, "which would need a great deal of
consideration."

A sudden thrill ran through the captain which was not unlike a moment in
his past career when a gentle shudder had run through his ship as its
keel grazed an unsuspected sand-bar, and he had not known whether it was
going to stick fast or not; but he quickly got himself into deep water
again.

"Oh, she is all right," said he briskly; "she has been used to taking
care of herself almost ever since she was born. And by the way, Miss
Port, did you know that Mr. Easterfield is at his home?"

Miss Port was not pleased with the sudden change in the conversation,
and she remembered, too, that in other days it had been the captain's
habit to call her Maria.