SOJOURNING IN ARCADIA
Calm and still was the morning; the wandering air just stirred the
pendulous branches of the elms and maples, and, in the clear
atmosphere, the russet hills were sharply outlined. As they swung out
into the road, with Hans, the musician, at the reins, the young girl
removed her bonnet and leaned back in the chair of state, where kings
had fretted and queens had lolled.
The throne, imposing on the stage, now appeared but a flimsy article
of furniture, with frayed and torn upholstering, and carving which had
long since lost its gilded magnificence. Seated amid the jumble of
theatrical appliances and accoutrements--scenery, rolled up
rug-fashion, property trunks, stage clock, lamps and draperies--she
accepted the situation gracefully, even finding nothing strange in the
presence of the soldier. New faces had come and gone in the company
before, and, when Barnes had complacently informed her Saint-Prosper
would journey with the players to New Orleans in a semi-business
capacity, the arrangement appeared conformable to precedent. The
manager's satisfaction augured well for the importance of the
semi-business role assumed by the stranger, and Barnes' friendliness
was perhaps in some degree unconsciously reflected in her manner; an
attitude the soldier's own reserve, or taciturnity, had not tended to
dispel. So, his being in the property wagon seemed no more singular
than Hans' occupancy of the front seat, or if Adonis, Hawkes, or Susan
had been there with her. She was accustomed to free and easy
comradeship; indeed, knew no other life, and it was only assiduous
attentions, like those of the land baron's, that startled and
disquieted her.
As comfortably as might be, she settled back in the capacious,
threadbare throne, a slender figure in its depths--more adapted to
accommodate a corpulent Henry VIII!--and smiled gaily, as the wagon,
in avoiding one rut, ran into another and lurched somewhat violently.
Saint-Prosper, lodged on a neighboring trunk, quickly extended a
steadying hand.
"You see how precarious thrones are!" he said.
"There isn't room for it to more than totter," she replied lightly,
removing her bonnet and lazily swinging it from the arm of the chair.
"Then it's safer than real thrones," he answered, watching the swaying
bonnet, or perhaps, contrasting the muscular, bronzed hand he had
placed on the chair with the smooth, white one which held the blue
ribbons; a small, though firm, hand to grapple with the minotaur,
Life!
She slowly wound the ribbons around her fingers.
"Oh, you mean France," she said, and he looked away with sudden
disquietude. "Poor monarchs! Their road is rougher than this one."
"Rougher truly!"
"You love France?" she asked suddenly, after studying, with secret,
sidelong glances his reserved, impenetrable face.
His gaze returned to her--to the bonnet now resting in her lap--to the
hand beside it.
"It is my native land," he replied.
"Then why did you leave it--in its trouble?" she asked impulsively.
"Why?" he repeated, regarding her keenly; but in a moment he added:
"For several reasons. I returned from Africa, from serving under
Bugeaud, to find the red flag waving in Paris; the king fled!"
"Oh," she said, quickly, "a king should--"
"What?" he asked, as she paused.
"I was going to say it was better to die like a king than--"
"Than live an outcast!" he concluded for her, a shadow on his brow.
She nodded. "At any rate, that is the way they always do in the
plays," she added brightly. "But you were saying you found your real
king fled?"
His heavy brows contracted, though he answered readily enough: "Yes,
the king had fled. A kinsman in whose house I had been reared then
bade me head a movement for the restoration of the royal fugitive. For
what object? The regency was doomed. The king, a May-fly!"
"And so you refused?"
"We quarreled; he swore like a Gascon. His little puppet should yet
sit in the chair where Louis XIV had lorded it! I, who owed my
commission to his noble name, was a republican, a deserter! The best
way out of the difficulty was out of the country. First it was
England, then it was here. To-morrow--where?" he added, in a lower
tone, half to himself.
"Where?" she repeated, lightly. "That is our case, too."
He looked at her with sudden interest. "Yours is an eventful life,
Miss Carew."
"I have never known any other," she said, simply, adding after a
pause: "My earliest recollections are associated with my mother and
the stage. As a child I watched her from the wings. I remember a grand
voice and majestic presence. When the audience broke into applause, my
heart throbbed with pride."
But as her thoughts reverted to times past, the touch of melancholy,
invoked by the memory of her mother, was gradually dispelled, as fancy
conjured other scenes, and a flickering smile hovered over the lips
whose parting displaced that graver mood.
"Once or twice I played with her, too," she added. "I thought it nice
to be one of the little princes in Richard III and wear white satin
clothes. One night after the play an old gentleman took me on his knee
and said: I had to come, my child, and see if the wicked old uncle
hadn't really smothered you!' When he had gone, my mother told me he
was Mr. Washington Irving. I thought him very kind, for he brought me
a bag of bonbons from the coffee-room."
"It's the first time I ever heard of a great critic laden with
sweetmeats!" said the soldier. "And were you not flattered by his
honeyed regard?"
"Oh, yes; I devoured it and wanted more," she laughed.
Hans' flourishing whip put an end to further conversation. "Der stage
goach!" he said, turning a lumpish countenance upon them and pointing
down the road.
Approaching at a lively gait was one of the coaches of the regular
line, a vehicle of ancient type, hung on bands of leather and
curtained with painted canvas, not unlike the typical French
diligence, except for its absence of springs. The stage was
spattered with mud from roof to wheel-tire, but as the mire was not
fresh and the road fair, the presumption followed that custom and
practice precluded the cleaning of the coach. The passengers, among
whom were several ladies, wearing coquettish bonnets with ribbons
or beau-catchers attached, were too weary even to view with wonder
the odd-looking theatrical caravan. Only the driver, a diminutive
person with puckered face the color of dried apples, so venerable
as to be known as Old Hundred, seemed as spry and cheery as when
he started.
"Morning," he said, briskly, drawing in his horses. "Come back, have
ye, with yer troupe? What's the neuws from Alban-y?"
"Nothing, except Texas has been admitted as a State," answered
Barnes.
"Sho! We air coming on!" commented the Methuselah of the road.
"Coming on!" groaned a voice in the vehicle, and the florid face of an
English traveler appeared at the door. "I say, do you call this
'coming on!' I'm nearly gone, don't you know!"
"Hi!--ge' long!--steady there!" And Old Hundred again whipped up his
team, precipitating a lady into the lap of the gentleman who was
"nearly gone," and well-nigh completing his annihilation.
In less time than when a friendly sail is lost in the mist, Old
Hundred's bulky land-wherry passed from view, and the soldier again
turned to his companion. But she was now intent on some part in a play
which she was quietly studying and he contented himself with lighting
that staple luxury of the early commonwealth, a Virginia stogie,
observing her from time to time over the glowing end. With the book
upon her knee, her head downcast and partly turned from him, he could,
nevertheless, through the mazy convolutions and dreamy spirals of the
Indian weed, detect the changing emotions which swept over her, as in
fancy she assumed a role in the drama. Now the faintest shadow of a
smile, coming and going; again beneath the curve of her long lashes, a
softer gleaming in the dark eyes, adding new charm to the pale, proud
face. Around them nature seemed fraught with forgetfulness; the Libyan
peace that knows not where or wherefore. Rocked in the cradle of ruts
and furrows, Hans, portly as a carboy, half-dozed on the front seat.
Shortly before noon they approached an ancient hostelry, set well back
from the road. To the manager's dismay, however, the door was locked
and boards were nailed across the windows. Even the water pail,
hospitably placed for man or beast, had been removed from its
customary proximity to the wooden pump. Abandoned to decay, the
tenantless inn was but another evidence of traffic diverted from the
old stage roads by the Erie Canal Company. Cold was the fireplace
before which had once rested the sheep-skin slippers for the guests;
empty was the larder where at this season was wont to be game in
abundance, sweet corn, luscious melons--the trophies of the hunt, the
fruits of the field; missing the neat, compact little keg whose spigot
had run with consolation for the wanderer!
Confronted by the deserted house, where they had expected convivial
cheer, there was no alternative but to proceed, and their journey was
resumed with some discomfiture to the occupants of the coach which now
labored like a portly Spanish galleon, struck by a squall. They had
advanced in this manner for some distance through furrow and groove,
when the vehicle gave a sharper lurch down a deeper rut; a crash was
followed by cries of affright and the chariot abruptly settled on one
side. Barnes held the plunging horses in control, while the gentlemen
scrambled to the ground and assisted the ladies to dismount.
"Any one hurt?" asked the manager from his box.
"No damage done--except to the coach," said Hawkes.
By this time the horses had become quiet and Barnes, now that the
passengers were rescued, like a good skipper, left the quarter deck.
"We couldn't have chosen a better place for our lunch," he remarked
philosophically. "How fortunate we should have broken down where we
did!"
"Very fortunate!" echoed the old lady ironically.
The accident had happened upon a slight plateau, of which they
accordingly took possession, tethering the horses to graze. From the
branches overhead the squirrels surveyed them as if asking what manner
of people were these, and the busy woodpecker ceased his drumming,
cocking his head inquisitively at the intruders; then shyly drew away,
mounting spirally the trunk of the tree to the hole, chiseled by his
strong beak for a nest. As Barnes gazed around upon the pleasing
prospect, he straightway became the duke in the comedy of the forest.
"Ha, my brothers in exile," he exclaimed, "are not these woods more
free from peril than the envious court?"
"All it wants," said the tragedian, hungrily, "is mutton, greens and a
foaming pot."
"I can't promise the foaming pot," answered the manager. "But, at
least, we have a well-filled hamper."
Soon the coffee was simmering and such viands as they had brought with
them--for Barnes was a far-sighted and provident manager--were spread
out in tempting profusion. Near them a swift-flowing stream chattered
about the stones like one of nature's busiest gossips; it whispered to
the flowers, murmured to the rushes and was voluble to the overhanging
branch that dragged upon the surface of the water. The flowers on its
brim nodded, the rushes waved and the branch bent as if in assent to
the mad gossip of the blithesome brook. And it seemed as though all
this animated conversation was caused by the encampment of the band of
players by the wayside.
The repast finished, they turned their attention to the injured
chariot, but fortunately the damage was not beyond repair, and Barnes,
actor, manager, bill-poster, license-procurer, added to his already
extensive repertoire the part of joiner and wheelwright. The skilled
artisans in coachmaking and coach-repairing might not have regarded
the manager as a master-workman, but the fractured parts were finally
set after a fashion. By that time, however, the sun had sunk to rest
upon a pillow of clouds; the squirrels, law-abiding citizens, had
sought their homes; the woodpecker had vanished in his snug chamber,
and only forest dwellers of nocturnal habits were now abroad, their
name legion like the gad-abouts of a populous city.
"There!" exclaimed the manager, surveying his handiwork. "The 'bus is
ready! But there is little use going on to-night. I am not sure of the
road and here is a likely spot to pass the night."
"Likely to be devoured by wild beasts," said Kate, with a shudder.
"I am sure I see two glistening eyes!" exclaimed Susan.
"Fudge!" observed the elastic old lady. "That's the first time you
have been afraid of two-glistening eyes."
"There's a vast difference between wolves and men," murmured Susan.
"I'm not so sure of that," returned the aged cynic.
But as the light of day was withdrawn a great fire sprang up,
illumining the immediate foreground. The flames were cheering, drawing
the party more closely together. Even Hawkes partly discarded his
tragedy face; the old lady threw a bundle of fifty odd years from her
shoulders as easily as a wood-carrier would cast aside his miserable
stack of fagots, while Barnes forgot his troubles in narrating the
harrowing experience of a company which had penetrated the west at a
period antedating the settlement of the Michigan and Ohio boundary
dispute.
The soldier alone was silent, curiously watching the play of light and
shade on the faces of the strollers, his gaze resting longest,
perhaps, on the features of the young girl. Leaning against an ancient
oak, so old the heart of it was gone and it towered but a mighty
shell, the slender figure of the actress was clearly outlined, but
against that dark and roughly-furrowed background she seemed too
slight and delicate to buffet with storms and hardships. That day's
experience was a forerunner of the unexpected in this wandering life,
but another time the mishap might not be turned to diversion. The
coach would not always traverse sunny byways; the dry leaf floating
from the majestic arm of the oak, the sound of an acorn as it struck
the earth presaged days less halcyon to come.
"How do you enjoy being a stroller?" asked a voice, interrupting the
soldier's reverie. "It has its bitters and its sweets, hasn't it?
Especially its sweets!" Susan added, glancing meaningly at the young
girl. "But after all, it doesn't much matter what happens to you if
you are in good company." The semi-gloom permitted her to gaze
steadfastly into his eyes. He ignored the opportunity for a
compliment, and Susan stifled a little yawn, real or imaginary.
"Positively one could die of _ennui_ in this wilderness," she
continued. "Do you know you are a welcome addition to our band? But you
will have to make yourself very agreeable. I suppose"--archly--"you
_were_ very agreeable in the property wagon?"
"Miss Carew had a part to study," he returned, coldly.
"A part to study!" In mock consternation. "How I hate studying parts!
They say what you wouldn't, and don't say what you would! But I'm off
to bed," rising impatiently. "I'm getting sleepy!"
"Sleepy!" echoed Barnes. "Take your choice! The Hotel du
Omnibus"--indicating the chariot--"or the Villa Italienne?"--with a
gesture toward a tent made of the drop curtain upon the walls of which
was the picture of an Italian scene.
"The chariot for me," answered Susan. "It is more high and dry and
does not suggest spiders and other crawling things."
"Good-night, then, and remember a good conscience makes a hard bed
soft."
"Then I shall sleep on down. I haven't had a chance"--with a sigh--"to
damage my conscience lately. But when I strike civilization
again"--and Susan shook her head eloquently to conclude her sentence.
"Oh, yes; if beds depend on conscience, boughs would be feathers for
me to-night." With which half-laughing, half-defiant conclusion, Susan
tripped to the chariot, pausing a moment, however, to cast a
reproachful glance over her shoulder at Saint-Prosper before vanishing
in the cavernous depths of the vehicle of the muses.
Her departure was the signal for the dispersing of the party to their
respective couches. Now the fire sank lower, the stars came out
brighter and the moon arose and traveled majestically up the heavens,
taking a brief but comprehensive survey of the habitations of mortals,
and then, as if satisfied with her scrutiny, sailed back to the
horizon and dropped out of sight.