Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration]
THE STROLLERS
By FREDERIC S. ISHAM
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
HARRISON FISHER
INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOWEN-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright 1902
The Bowen-Merrill Company
March
PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS
BROOKLYN, N. Y.
THE STROLLERS
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE PAGE
THE MARQUIS' HONEYMOON 3
BOOK I
ON THE CIRCUIT IN THE WILDERNESS
CHAPTER
I THE TRAVELERS' FRIEND 11
II A NEW ARRIVAL 33
III AN INCOMPREHENSIBLE VENTURE 48
IV "GREEN GROW THE RUSHES, O!" 59
V A CONFERENCE IN THE KITCHEN 72
VI THE DEPARTURE OF THE CHARIOT 80
VII SOJOURNING IN ARCADIA 87
VIII FLIPPING THE SHILLING 99
IX SAMPLING THE VINTAGES 111
X SEALING THE COMPACT 122
XI THE QUEST OF THE SOLDIER 136
XII AN ECCENTRIC JAILER 144
XIII THE COMING OF LITTLE THUNDER 156
XIV THE ATTACK ON THE MANOR 172
XV A HASTY EXIT 178
XVI THE COUNCIL AT THE TOWN PUMP 190
XVII THE HAND FERRY 203
BOOK II
DESTINY AND THE MARIONETTES
CHAPTER
I THE FASTIDIOUS MARQUIS 211
II "ONLY AN INCIDENT" 224
III AT THE RACES 232
IV LEAR AND JULIET 250
V THE MEETING BENEATH THE OAKS 266
VI A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 275
VII A CYNICAL BARD 287
VIII THE SWEETEST THING IN NATURE 308
IX A DEBUT IN THE CRESCENT CITY 321
X LAUGHTER AND TEARS 333
XI THE PASSING OF A FINE GENTLEMAN 342
XII IN THE OLD CEMETERY 360
XIII AN INCONGRUOUS ROLE 370
BOOK III
THE FINAL CUE
CHAPTER
I OVERLOOKING THE COURT-YARD 387
II ONLY A SHADOW 399
III FROM GARRET TO GARDEN 412
IV "THE BEST OF LIFE" 420
V THE LAWYER'S TIDINGS 428
VI THE COUNCIL OF WAR 436
VII A MEETING ON THE MOUNT 450
VIII A FAIR PENITENT 464
IX "COMUS' MISTICK WITCHERIES" 476
X CONSTANCE AND THE SOLDIER 488
PROLOGUE
THE MARQUIS' HONEYMOON
Old Drury Lane rang with applause for the performance of Madame Carew.
Of British-French parentage, she was a recognized peer among the
favorite actresses on the English stage and a woman whose attractions
of face and manner were of a high order. She came naturally by her
talents, being a descendant of Madame de Panilnac, famed as an
actress, confidante of Louise-Benedicte, Duchess du Maine, who
originated the celebrated _nuits blanches_ at Sceaux during the close
of Louis XIV's reign.
The bill for the evening under consideration was "Adrienne Lecouvreur"
and in no part had the actress been more natural and effective. Her
triumph was secure, for as the prologue says:
"Your judgment given--your sentence must remain;
No writ of error lies--to Drury Lane."
She was the talk of the day and her praises or deficiencies were
discussed by the scandal-carriers of the town; the worn-out dowagers,
the superannuated maidens, the "tabernacle gallants," the male members
of the tea tables and all the coxcombs, sparks and beaux who haunted
the stage door.
The player had every stimulus to appear at her best on this particular
evening, for the audience, frivolous, volatile, taking its character
from the loose, weak king, was unusually complaisant through the
presence of the first gentleman of Europe. As the last of the Georges
declared himself in good-humor, so every toady grinned and every
courtly flunkey swore in the Billingsgate of that profanely eloquent
period that the actress was a "monstrous fine woman."
With rare discretion and spirit had the latter played, a queenly
figure in that ribald, gross gathering. She had reached the scene
where the actress turns upon her tormentors, those noble ladies of
rank and position, and launches the curse of a soul lashed beyond
endurance. Sweeping forward to confront her adversaries, about to face
them, her troubled glance chanced to fall into one of the side boxes
where were seated a certain foreign marquis, somewhat notorious, and a
lady of insolent, patrician bearing. The anticipated action was
arrested, for at sight of the nobleman and his companion, Adrienne
swayed slightly, as though moved by a new overpowering emotion. Only
for a moment she hesitated, then fixing her blazing eyes upon the two
and lifting her arm threateningly, the bitter words flowed from her
lips with an earnestness that thrilled the audience. A pallor
overspread the face of the marquis, while the lady drew back behind
the draperies, almost as if in fear. At the conclusion of that effort
the walls echoed with plaudits; the actress stood as in a trance; her
face was pale, her figure seemed changed to stone and the light went
out of her eyes.
She fainted and fell and the curtain descended quickly. The woman by
the marquis' side, who had trembled at first, now forced a laugh, as
she said: "The trollop can curse! Let us go." Together they left the
box, the marquis regretting the temerity which had led him to bring
his companion to the theater. He, too, was secretly unnerved, and,
when they entered the carriage, they seated themselves as far apart as
possible, the marquis detesting the lady and she for her part
disliking him just as cordially.
Next day the critics referred to the scene with glowing words, while
in the coffee houses they discussed the proposition: Should an actress
feel the emotion she portrays? With a cynical smile the marquis read
the different accounts of the performance, when he and his companion
found themselves in the old stage coach _en route_ for Brighton. He
felt no regret for his action--had not the Prince of Wales taught the
gentlemen of his kingdom that it was fashionable to desert actresses?
Had he not left the "divine Perdita" to languish, after snubbing her
right royally in Hyde Park?
Disdainfully the lady in the coach regarded her husband and it
was evident that the ties of affection which bound these two
travelers together on life's road were neither strong nor enduring.
Yet they were traveling together; their way was the same; their
destination--but that belongs to the future. The marquis had been
relieved in his mind after a consultation with a distinguished
barrister, and, moreover, was pleased at the prospect of leaving
this island of fogs for the sunny shores of France. The times
were exciting; the country, on the verge of proposed electoral
reforms. But in France the new social system had sprung into
existence and--lamentable fact!--duty towards one's country had
assumed an empire superior to ancient devotion toward kings.
To stem this tide and attach himself closely to King Charles X was the
marquis' ambitious purpose. For this he had espoused a party in
marrying a relative of the royal princess, thus enhancing the ties
that bound him to the throne, and throwing to the winds _his_ Perdita
whose charms had once held him in folly's chains. Did he regret the
step? Has ravening aspiration any compunction; any contrite visitings
of nature? What did the player expect; that he would violate
precedence; overthrow the fashionable maxims of good George IV; become
a slave to a tragi-comic performer and cast his high destiny to the
winds? Had ever a gentleman entertained such a project? Vows? Witness
the agreeable perjuries of lovers; the pleasing pastime of fond
hearts! Every titled rascallion lied to his mistress; every noble
blackguard professed to be a Darby for constancy and was a Jonathan
Wild by instinct. If her ideals were raised so high, the worse for
her; if a farce of a ceremony was regarded as tying an indissoluble
knot--let her take example by the lady who thought herself the king's
spouse; pish! there are ceremonies and ceremonies, and wives and
wives; those of the hedge-concealed cottage and those of palace and
chateau!
As the coach sped over the road, the lady by his side smiled
disagreeably from time to time, and my lord, when he became aware of
it, winced beneath her glance. Had she fathomed his secret? Else why
that eminently superior air; that manner which said as plainly as
spoken words: "Now I have learned what to do if he should play the
tyrant. Now I see a way to liberty, equality, fraternity!" And beneath
the baneful gleam of that look of enlightenment, my lord cursed under
his breath roundly. The only imperturbable person of the party was
Francois, the marquis' valet, whose impassive countenance was that of
a stoic, apathetic to the foibles of his betters; a philosopher of the
wardrobe, to whom a wig awry or a loosened buckle seemed of more
moment than the derangement of the marriage tie or the disorder of
conjugal affection.
Not long thereafter the player left for America, where she procured an
engagement in New York City, and, so far as London was concerned, she
might have found rest and retiredness in the waters of Lethe. Of her
reception in the old New York Theater; the verdict of the phalanx of
critics assembled in the Shakespeare box which, according to
tradition, held more than two hundred souls; the gossip over
confections or tea in the coffee room of the theater--it is
unnecessary to dwell upon. But had not the player become a voluntary
exile; had she not foregone her former life for the new; had she not
found that joy sometimes begets the bitterest grief, there would have
been no occasion for this chronicle.
BOOK I
ON THE CIRCUIT IN THE WILDERNESS
CHAPTER I
THE TRAVELERS' FRIEND
It was a drizzly day in the Shadengo Valley. A mist had settled down
upon the old inn; lost to view was the landscape with its varied
foliage. Only the immediate foreground was visible to a teamster who
came down the road--the trees with dripping branches, and the inn from
the eaves of which water fell to the ground with depressing monotony;
the well with its pail for watering the horses and the log trough in
whose limpid waters a number of speckled trout were swimming. The
driver drew up his horses before the Travelers' Friend--as the place
was named--and called out imperatively:
"Hullo there!"
No one appearing, he leaned over and impatiently rapped on the door
with the heavy oak butt-end of his whip. Still there was no response.
Again he knocked, this time louder than before, and was preparing for
an even more vigorous assault upon the unhospitable entrance, when the
door swung back and the landlord, a tall, gaunt individual, confronted
the driver.
"Well, I heard ye," he said testily. "Are ye coming in or shall I
bring it out?"
"Bring it out," was the gruff response of the disgruntled teamster.
Shortly afterwards mine host reappeared with a tankard of generous
dimensions. The teamster raised it; slowly drained it to the bottom;
dropped a coin into the landlord's hand; cracked his whip in a lively
manner and moved on. The steam from his horses mingled with the mist
and he was soon swallowed up, although the cheerful snap of his whip
could yet be heard. Then that became inaudible and the boniface who
had stood for a brief space in the doorway, empty tankard in hand,
re-entered the house satisfied that no more transient patronage would
be forthcoming at present.
Going through an outer room, called by courtesy a parlor, the landlord
passed into an apartment which served as dining-room, sitting-room and
bar. Here the glow of a wood fire from the well swept hearth and the
aspect of the varied assortment of bottles, glasses and tankards, gave
more proof of the fitness of the appellation on the creaking sign of
the road-house than appeared from a superficial survey of its exterior
and far from neat stable yard, or from that chilly, forbidding room,
so common especially in American residences in those days, the parlor.
Any doubt regarding the contents of the hospitable looking bottles was
dispelled by such prominent inscriptions in gilt letters as "Whisky,"
"Brandy" and "Rum." To add to the effect, between the decanters were
ranged glass jars of striped peppermint and winter-green candies,
while a few lemons suggested pleasing possibilities of a hot sling,
spiced rum flip or Tom and Jerry. The ceiling of this dining-room was
blackened somewhat and the huge beams overhead gave an idea of the
substantial character of the construction of the place. That fuel was
plentiful, appeared in evidence in the open fireplace where were
burning two great logs, while piled up against the wall were many
other good-sized sections of hickory.
Seated at a respectful distance from this cheerful conflagration was a
young man of perhaps five-and-twenty, whose travel-stained attire
indicated he had but recently been on the road. Upon a chair near by
were a riding-whip and hat, the latter spotted with mud and testifying
to the rough character of the road over which he had come. He held a
short pipe to his lips and blew clouds of smoke toward the fire, while
upon a table, within arm's length, rested a glass of some hot mixture.
But in spite of his comfortable surroundings, the expression of his
face was not that of a person in harmony with the Johnsonian
conclusion, "A chair in an inn is a throne of felicity." His
countenance, well bronzed as a weather-tried trooper's, was harsh,
gloomy, almost morose; not an unhandsome face, but set in such a
severe cast the observer involuntarily wondered what experience had
indited that scroll. Tall, large of limb, muscular, as was apparent
even in a restful pose, he looked an athlete of the most approved
type, active and powerful.
Mine host, having found his guest taciturn, had himself become genial,
and now remarked as he entered: "How do you find the punch? Is it to
your liking?"
"Yes," shortly answered the stranger, without raising his eyes from a
moody regard of the fire.
"You're from France, I guess?" continued the landlord, as he seated
himself on the opposite side of the fireplace. "Been here long? Where
you going?" Without waiting for an answer to his first question he
exercised his time-honored privilege of demanding any and all
information from wayfarers at the Travelers' Friend.
"I say, where you going?" he repeated, turning over a log and sending
a shower of sparks up the flue.
With no change of countenance the guest silently reached for his
punch, swallowed a portion of it, replaced the glass on the table and
resumed his smoking as though oblivious of the other's presence.
Momentarily disconcerted, the landlord devoted himself once more to
the fire. After readjusting a trunk of old hickory on the great
andirons and gazing absently for a moment at the huge crane supporting
an iron kettle of boiling water, mine host tipped back in his chair,
braced his feet against the wall, lighted a vile-smelling pipe and
again returned valiantly to the attack, resolved to learn more about
his guest.
"I hear things are kind of onsettled in France?" he observed
diplomatically, emitting a cloud of smoke. "I see in a Syracuse paper
that Louis Philippe is no longer king; that he and the queen have fled
to England. Perhaps, now,"--inwardly congratulating himself on his
shrewdness--"you left Paris for political reasons?"
The stranger deliberately emptied his pipe and thrust it into his
pocket, while the landlord impatiently awaited the response to his
pointed query. When it came, however, it was not calculated to allay
the curiosity of his questioner.
"Is it your practice," said the young man coldly, in slow but
excellent English, "to bark continuously at the heels of your
guests?"
"Oh, no offense meant! No offense! Hope none'll be taken," stammered
the landlord.
Then he recovered himself and his dignity by drawing forth a huge
wine-colored silk handkerchief, set with white polka-dots, and
ostentatiously and vigorously using it. This ear-splitting operation
having once more set him up in his own esteem, he resumed his
attentions to the stranger.
"I didn't know," he added with an outburst of honesty, "but what you
might be some nobleman in disguise."
"A nobleman!" said the other with ill-concealed contempt. "My name is
Saint-Prosper; plain Ernest Saint-Prosper. I was a soldier. Now I'm an
adventurer. There you have it all in a nut-shell."
The inn-keeper surveyed his guest's figure with undisguised
admiration.
"Well, you look like a soldier," he remarked. "You are like one
of those soldiers who came over from France to help us in the
Revolution."
This tribute being silently accepted, the landlord grew voluble as his
guest continued reserved.
"We have our own troubles with lords, too, right here in New York
State," he said confidentially. "We have our land barons, descendants
of the patroons and holders of thousands of acres. And we have our
bolters, too, who are making a big stand against feudalism."
Thereupon he proceeded to present the subject in all its details to
the soldier; how the tenants were protesting against the enforcement
of what they now deemed unjust claims and were demanding the abolition
of permanent leaseholds; how they openly resisted the collection of
rents and had inaugurated an aggressive anti-rent war against
tyrannical landlordism. His lengthy and rambling dissertation was
finally broken in upon by a rumbling on the road, as of carriage
wheels drawing near, and the sound of voices. The noise sent the
boniface to the window, and, looking out, he discovered a lumbering
coach, drawn by two heavy horses, which came dashing up with a great
semblance of animation for a vehicle of its weight, followed by a
wagon, loaded with diversified and gaudy paraphernalia.
"Some troopers, I guess," commented the landlord in a tone which
indicated the coming of these guests was not entirely welcome to him.
"Yes," he added, discontentedly, "they're stage-folk, sure enough."
The wagon, which contained several persons, was driven into the stable
yard, where it was unloaded of "drops" and "wings," representing a
street, a forest, a prison, and so on, while the stage coach, with a
rattle and a jerk, and a final flourish of the driver's whip, stopped
at the front door. Springing to the ground, the driver opened the door
of the vehicle, and at the same time two other men, with their heads
muffled against the wind and rain, leisurely descended from the top.
The landlord now stood at the entrance of the inn, a sour expression
on his face. Certainly, if the travelers had expected in him the
traditional glowing countenance, with the apostolic injunction to "use
hospitality without grudging" writ upon it, they were doomed to
disappointment.
A rustle of skirts, and there emerged from the interior of the coach,
first, a little, dried-up old lady whose feet were enclosed in
prunella boots, with Indian embroidered moccasins for outside
protection; second, a young woman who hastily made her way into the
hostelry, displaying a trim pair of ankles; third, a lady resembling
the second and who the landlord afterwards learned was her sister;
fourth, a graceful girl above medium height, wearing one of those
provoking, quilted silk hoods of the day, with cherry-colored lining,
known as "Kiss-me-if-you-dare" hoods.
Then followed a dark melancholy individual, the utility man, whose
waistcoat of figured worsted was much frayed and whose "tooth-pick"
collar was the worse for the journey. He preceded a more natty person
in a bottle-green, "shad-belly" coat, who strove to carry himself as
though he were fashionably dressed, instead of wearing clothes which
no longer could conceal their shabbiness. The driver, called in
theatrical parlance "the old man," was a portly personage in a blue
coat with velvet collar and gilt buttons, a few of which were missing;
while the ruffles of his shirt were in sad plight, for instead of
protruding elegantly a good three or even four inches, their glory had
gone and they lay ignominiously flattened upon the bosom of the
wearer. A white choker rivaled in hue the tooth-pick collar of the
melancholy individual.
The tavern's stable boy immediately began to remove the trunks into
the main hallway. This overgrown, husky lad evidently did not share
his employer's disapproval of the guests, for he gazed in open-eyed
wonder at the sisters, and then, with increasing awe, his glance
strayed to the young girl. To his juvenile imagination an actress
appeared in the glamour of a veritable goddess. But she had obviously
that tender consideration for others which belongs to humanity, for
she turned to the old man with an affectionate smile, removing from
his shoulders the wet Petersham overcoat, and, placing it on a chair,
regarded him with a look of filial anxiety. Yet their appearance
belied the assumption of such relationship; he was hearty, florid and
sturdy, of English type, while she seemed a daughter of the South, a
figure more fitting for groves of orange and cypress, than for this
rugged northern wilderness.
The emotion of the stable boy as he gazed at her, and the forbidding
mood of the landlord were broken in upon by the tiny old lady, who, in
a large voice, remarked:
"A haven at last! Are you the landlord?"
"Yes, ma'am," testily replied that person.
"I am pleased to meet you, sir," exclaimed the melancholy individual,
as he extended a hand so cold and clammy that shivers ran up and down
the back of the host when he took it gingerly. "We are having fine
tragedy weather, sir!"
"A fire at once, landlord!" commanded the would-be beau.
"Refreshments will be in order!" exclaimed she of the trim ankles.
"And show me the best room in the house," remarked her sister.
Mine host, bewildered by this shower of requests, stared from one to
the other in helpless confusion, but finally collected his wits
sufficiently to usher the company into the tap-room with:
"Here you'll find a fire, but as for the best room, this
gentleman"--indicating the reticent guest--"already occupies it."
The young man at the fire, thus forced prominently into notice, arose
slowly.
"You are mistaken, landlord," he said curtly, hardly glancing at the
players. "I no longer occupy it since these ladies have come."
"Your complaisance does credit to your good nature, sir," exclaimed
the old man. "But we can not take advantage of it."
"It is too good of you," remarked the elder sister with a glance
replete with more gratitude than the occasion demanded. "Really,
though, we could not think of it."
"Thank you; thank you," joined in the wiry old lady, bobbing up and
down like a miniature figure moved by the unseen hand of the showman.
"Allow me, sir!" And she gravely tendered him a huge snuff-box of
tortoise shell, which he declined; whereupon she continued:
"You do not use it? New fashions; new habits! Though whether for the
better is not for me to say."
She helped herself to a liberal portion and passed the box to the
portly old gentleman. Here the landlord, in a surly tone, told the
stable boy to remove the gentleman's things and show the ladies to
their rooms. Before going, the girl in the provoking hood--now
unfastened, and freeing sundry rebellious brown curls where the
moisture yet sparkled like dew--turned to the old man:
"You are coming up directly? Your stock wants changing, while your
ruffles"--laughing--"are disgraceful!"
"Presently, my dear; presently!" he returned.
The members of the company mounted the broad stairway, save the driver
of the coach--he of the disordered ruffles--who wiped his heavy boots
on a door mat and made his way to the fire, where he stood in English
fashion with his coat-tails under his arms, rubbing his hands and
drying himself before the flames.
"A disagreeable time of year, sir," he observed to the soldier, who
had returned to his seat before the table. "Twice on the road we
nearly broke down, and once the wagon dumped our properties in the
ditch. Meanwhile, to make matters worse, the ladies heaped reproaches
upon these gray hairs. This, sir, to the man who was considered one of
the best whips in old Devonshire county."
The other did not answer immediately, but regarded the speaker with
the look of one not readily disposed to make acquaintances. His
conclusions were apparently satisfactory, however, for he presently
vouchsafed the remark:
"You are the manager, I presume?"
"I enjoy that honor," returned the loquacious stranger. "But my duties
are manifold. As driver of the chariot, I endure the constant
apprehension of wrecking my company by the wayside. As assistant
carpenter, when we can not find a stage it is my task to erect one. As
bill-poster and license-procurer, treasurer and stage manager, my time
is not so taken up, sir, as to preclude my going on and assuming a
character."
"A life of variety," observed the young man, politely if indifferently.
"Yes; full of ups and downs, as the driver of the property wagon said
when we entered this hilly district," replied the manager, with the
contentment of a man who has found a snug haven after a hard ride in a
comparatively unbroken country. "Affluence we may know, but poverty is
apt to be our companion."
To this the other deemed no response necessary and a silence fell
between them, broken only by the simmering water in the iron kettle,
the sputtering of the sap in the burning logs and the creaking without
of the long balancing pole that suspended the moss-covered bucket. The
wind sighed in the chimney and the wooing flames sprang to meet it,
while the heart of the fire glowed in a mass of coals between the
andirons.
The old gentleman before the blaze began to outrival the kettle in
steaming; from his coat-tails a thin veil of mist ascended, his face
beaming through the vapor with benign felicity. Then he turned and
toasted the other side and the kettle reigned supreme until he thawed
once more and the clouds ascended, surrounding him like Jupiter on the
celestial mount. At that the kettle hummed more angrily and the old
gentleman's face beamed with satisfaction.
"A snug company, sir," he said, finally, glowing upon the impassive
face before him, "like a tight ship, can weather a little bad weather.
Perhaps you noticed our troupe? The old lady is Mrs. Adams. She is
nearly seventy, but can dance a horn-pipe or a reel with the best of
them. The two sisters are Kate and Susan Duran, both coquettes of the
first water. Our juvenile man is a young Irishman who thinks much of
his dress and little of the cultivation of mind and manners. Then,"
added the old man tenderly, "there is my Constance."
He paused abruptly. "Landlord, a pot of ale. My throat is hoarse from
the mist. Fancy being for hours on a road not knowing where you are!
Your good-fortune, sir!" Lifting the mug. "More than once we lurched
like a cockle-shell."
The conversation at this point was interrupted by the appearance of
the juvenile man.
"Mr. Barnes, the ladies desire your company immediately."
The manager hurriedly left the room and the newcomer regarded his
retiring figure with a twinkle in his eye. Then he took a turn around
the room in stilted fashion--like one who "carried about with him his
pits, boxes and galleries"--and observed:
"Faith, Mr. Barnes' couch is not a bed of roses. It is better to have
the fair ones dangling after you, than to be running at their every
beck and call."
Here he twisted his mustache upward.
"A woman is a strange creature," he resumed. "If she calls and you
come once, your legs will be busy for the rest of your natural days."
He seemed about to continue his observations along this philosophical
line, when the manager appeared in much perturbation, approaching the
landlord, who, at the same time, had entered the room from the
kitchen.
"The ladies insist that their sheets are damp," began the manager in
his most plausible manner.
A dangerous light appeared in the other's eyes.
"It's the weather, you understand. Not your fault; bless you, no!"
The landlord's face became a shade less acrimonious.
"Now, if there was a fire in the room--it is such a comfortable,
cheery room--"
"Sandy!" interrupted the host, calling to the long-armed, red-handed
stable boy, who thrust a shock of hair through the kitchen door.
"Build a fire upstairs."
Mr. Barnes heaved a sigh of relief and drawing a chair to the blaze
prepared once more to enjoy a well-earned rest.
By this time the shadows had begun to lengthen in the room as the
first traces of early twilight filled the valley. The gurgling still
continued down the water pipe; the old sign before the front door
moaned monotonously. An occasional gust of wind, which mysteriously
penetrated the mist without sweeping it aside, rattled the windows and
waved wildly in mid-air a venturesome rose which had clambered to the
second story of the old inn. The barn-yard appeared even more dismal
because of the coming darkness and the hens presented a pathetic
picture of discomfort as they tucked their heads under their wet
feathers for the night, while his lordship, the rooster, was but a
sorry figure upon his high perch, with the moisture regularly and
unceasingly dripping through the roof of the hen-house upon his
unprotected back.
An aroma from the kitchen which penetrated the room seemed especially
grateful to the manager who smiled with satisfaction as he conjured up
visions of the forthcoming repast. By his Falstaffian girth, he
appeared a man not averse to good living, nor one to deny himself
plentiful libations of American home-brewed ale.
"Next to actual dining," observed this past-master in the art, "are
the anticipations of the table. The pleasure consists in speculation
regarding this or that aroma, in classifying the viands and separating
this combination of culinary odors into courses of which you will in
due time partake. Alas for the poor stroller when the tavern ceases to
be! Already it is almost extinct on account of the Erie Canal. Only a
short time ago this room would have been crowded with teamsters of the
broad-tired Pennsylvania wagons, drawn by six or eight horses."
Again the appetizing aroma from the kitchen turned the current of his
reflections into its original channel, for he concluded with: "An
excellent dinner is in progress, if my diagnosis of these penetrating
fragrances be correct."
And it was soon demonstrated that the manager's discernment was not in
error. There was not only abundance but quality, and the landlord's
daughter waited on the guests, thereby subjecting herself to the very
open advances of the Celtic Adonis. The large table was laden with
heavy crockery, old-fashioned and quaint; an enormous rotary castor
occupied the center of the table, while the forks and spoons were--an
unusual circumstance!--of silver.
When the company had seated themselves around the board the waitress
brought in a sucking pig, done to a turn, well stuffed, and with an
apple in its mouth. The manager heaved a sigh.
"The lovely little monster," said Kate, admiringly.
"Monster!" cried Susan. "Say cherub!"
"So young and tender for such a fate!" exclaimed Hawkes, the
melancholy individual, with knife and fork held in mid-air.
"But worthy of the bearer of the dish!" remarked Adonis, so pointedly
that the landlord's daughter, overwhelmed with confusion, nearly
dropped the platter, miniature porker and all. Whereupon Kate cast an
angry glance at the offender whom "she could not abide," yet regarded
in a certain proprietary way, and Adonis henceforth became less open
in his advances.
Those other aromas which the manager had mentally classified took form
and substance and were arranged in tempting variety around the
appetizing and well-browned suckling. There were boiled and baked
hams, speckled with cloves, plates of doughnuts and pound cake, beet
root and apple sauce. Before each of the guests stood a foaming mug
of home-brewed ale that carried with it a palpable taste of the hops.
"There is nothing of the stage repast about this," commented the
manager.
To which Kate, having often partaken of the conventional banquet of
the theater, waved her hand in a serio-comic manner toward the _piece
de resistance_ and observed:
"Suppose, now, by some necromancy our young and tender friend here on
the platter should be changed to a cleverly fashioned block of wood,
painted in imitation of a roasted porker, with a wooden apple in his
mouth?"
The manager, poising the carving knife, replied:
"Your suggestion is startling. We will obviate the possibility of any
such transformation."
And he cut the "ambrosian fat and lean" with a firm hand, eying the
suckling steadfastly the while as if to preclude any exhibition of
Hindoo mysticism, while the buxom lass, the daughter of the boniface,
with round arms bared, bore sundry other dishes from place to place
until the plates were heaped with an assortment of viands.
"Well, my dear, how are you getting on?" said the manager to the young
actress, Constance, as he helped himself to the crackle. "Have you
everything you want?"
She nodded brightly, and the stranger who was seated some distance
from her glanced up; his gaze rested on her for a moment and then
returned in cold contemplation to the fare set before him.
Yet was she worthy of more than passing scrutiny. The gleam of the
lamp fell upon her well-turned figure and the glistening of her eyes
could be seen in the shadow that rested on her brow beneath the crown
of hair. She wore a dark lavender dress, striped with silk, a small
"jacquette," after the style of the day, the sleeves being finished
with lace and the skirt full and flowing. Her heavy brown tresses were
arranged in a coiffure in the fashion then prevailing, a portion of
the hair falling in curls on the neck, the remainder brought forward
in plaits and fastened at the top of the forehead with a simple pearl
ornament.
If the young girl felt any interest in the presence of the taciturn
guest she concealed it, scarcely looking at him and joining but rarely
in the conversation. Susan, on the other hand, resorted to sundry
coquetries.
"I fear, sir, that you find our poor company intrusive, since we have
forced you to become one of us?" she said, toying with her fork, and
thereby displaying a white and shapely hand.
His impassive blue eyes met her sparkling ones.
"I am honored in being admitted to your fellowship," he returned
perfunctorily.
"Only poor players, sir!" exclaimed Hawkes deprecatingly, with the
regal gesture a stage monarch might use in setting forth the
perplexities of royal pre-eminence.
[Illustration]
"The landlord does not seem to share your opinion?" continued Susan,
looking once more at the stranger.
"As a host he believes in brave deeds, not fair words," said Kate,
indicating the remains of the repast.
"Peace to his bones!" exclaimed the manager, extending a hand over the
remnants of the suckling.
Here the dark-haired girl arose, the dinner being concluded. There was
none of his usual brusqueness of manner, as the manager, leaning back
in his chair and taking her hand, said:
"You are going to retire, my dear? That is right. We have had a hard
day's traveling."
She bent her head, and her lips pressed softly the old man's cheek,
after which she turned from the rest of the company with a grave bow.
But as she passed through the doorway her flowing gown caught upon a
nail in the wall. Pre-occupied though he seemed, her low exclamation
did not escape the ear of the stranger, and, quitting his place, he
knelt at her feet, and she, with half turned head and figure
gracefully poised, looked down upon him.
With awkward fingers, he released the dress, and she bowed her
acknowledgment, which he returned with formal deference. Then she
passed on and he raised his head, his glance following her through the
bleak-looking hall, up the broad, ill-lighted staircase, into the
mysterious shadows which prevailed above.
Shortly afterward the tired company dispersed, and the soldier also
sought his room. There he found the landlord's daughter before him
with the warming-pan. She had spread open the sheets of his bed and
was applying the old-fashioned contrivance for the prevention of
rheumatism, but it was evident her mind was not on this commendable
housewifely task, for she sighed softly and then observed:
"It must be lovely to be an actress!"
Dreamily she patted the pillows, until they were round and smooth, and
absently adjusted the bed, until there was not a wrinkle in the
snow-white counterpane, after which, like a good private in domestic
service, she shouldered the warming pan with its long handle, murmured
"good-night" and departed, not to dream of milking, churning or
cheese-making, but of a balcony and of taking poison in a tomb.
Absently the stranger gazed at the books on the table: "Nutting's
Grammar," "Adams' Arithmetic," "David's Tears" and the "New England
Primer and Catechism"--all useful books undoubtedly, but not
calculated long to engross the attention of the traveler. Turning from
these prosaic volumes, the occupant of the chamber drew aside the
curtain of the window and looked out.
Now the mists were swept away; the stars were shining and the gurgling
had grown fainter in the pipes that descended from the roof to the
ground. Not far was the dark fringe which marked the forest and the
liquid note of a whippoorwill arose out of the solitary depths, a
melancholy tone in the stillness of the night. The little owl, too,
was heard, his note now sounding like the filing of a saw and again
changing in character to the tinkling of a bell. A dog howled for a
moment in the barn-yard, and then, apparently satisfied with having
given this evidence of watchfulness, re-entered his house of one room
and curled himself upon the straw in his parlor, after which nothing
more was heard from him.
Drawing the curtains of his own couch, a large, four-posted affair,
sleep soon overpowered the stranger; but sleep, broken and fitful! Nor
did he dream only of France and of kings running away, of American
land barons and of "bolters." More intrusive than these, the faces of
the strollers crept in and disturbed his slumbers, not least among
which were the features of the dark-eyed girl whose gown had caught as
she passed through the doorway.