SEALING THE COMPACT
"The show troupe has come to town," said the tall, lank postmaster to
every one who called, and the words passed from mouth to mouth, so
that those who did not witness the arrival were soon aware of it.
Punchinello and his companions never attracted more attention from the
old country peasants than did the chariot and its occupants, as on the
day after their night in the woods they passed through the main
thoroughfare of the village where they were soon to appear.
Children in woolen dresses of red retinet, or in calico vandykes and
aprons, ran after the ponderous vehicle with cries of delight; the
staid, mature contingent of the population shook their heads
disapprovingly, while viewing with wonder the great lumbering coach,
its passengers inside and out, and, behind, the large wagon with its
load of miscellaneous trappings. Now on the stage throne lolled the
bass viol player, even as Jacques assumed the raiment of the Duke of
Aranza, reclining the while in his chair of state. Contentment was
written upon his face, and he was as much a duke or a king, as
Jacques when he swelled like a shirt bleaching in a high wind and
looked burly as a Sunday beadle.
The principal avenue of the village boasted but few prosperous-looking
business establishments. In the general "mixed store," farmers'
implements, groceries, West India goods and even drugs were dispensed.
But the apothecary's trade then had its limitations, homeopathy being
unknown, while calomel, castor oil and rhubarb were mainly in demand,
as well as senna, manna and other bitter concoctions with which both
young and old were freely dosed. The grocer, haberdasher, and
druggist, all rolled into one substantial personage, so blocked the
doorway of his own establishment, while gazing at the strollers, it
would have puzzled a customer, though but a "sketch and outline" of a
man, to have slipped in or out. Dashing as in review before the rank
and file of the village, the coach, with an extra flourish, rattled up
to the hotel, a low but generous-sized edifice, with a wide,
comfortable veranda, upon the railing of which was an array of boots,
and behind them a number of disconsolate-looking teamsters.
"You want to register, do you?" said the landlord in answer to Barnes'
inquiry, as the latter entered the office, the walls of which were
covered with advertisements of elections, auctions, sales of stock,
lands and quack medicines.
"We don't keep no register," continued the landlord, "but I guess we
can accommodate you, although the house is rather full with the
fellers from the ark. Or," he added, by way of explanation in answer
to the manager's look of surprise, "Philadelphia freight wagons, I
suppose you would call them. But we speak of them as arks, because
they take in all creation. Them's the occupants, making a Mount Ararat
of the porch. They're down-hearted, because they used to liquor up
here and now they can't, for the town's temperance."
"I trust, nevertheless, you are prepared for a season of legitimate
drama," suggested Barnes.
The other shook his head dubiously. "The town's for lectures clear
through," he answered. "They've been making a big fuss about show
folks."
The manager's countenance did not fall, however, upon hearing
this announcement; on the contrary, it shed forth inscrutable
satisfaction.
No sooner were they settled in far from commodious quarters than
preparations for the future were seriously begun; and now the drama
proceeded apace, with Barnes, the moving spirit. Despite his assertion
that he was no scholar, the manager's mind was the storehouse of a
hundred plays, and in that depository were many bags of gold and many
bags of chaff. From this accumulation he drew freely, frankly, in the
light-fingered fashion of master playwrights and lesser theatrical
thimble-riggers.
Before the manager was a table--the stage!--upon which were scattered
miscellaneous articles, symbols of life and character. A stately
salt-cellar represented the leading lady; a pepper box, the irascible
father; a rotund mustard pot, the old woman; a long, slim cruet, the
_ingenue_; and a pewter spoon, the lover.
Barnes gravely demonstrated the action of the scene to Saint-Prosper,
and the soldier became collaborator, "abandoning, as it were," wrote
the manager in his autobiographical date-book and diary, "the sword
for the pen, and the glow of the Champ de Mars for the glimmer of a
kerosene lamp." And yet not with the inclination of Burgoyne, or other
military gentlemen who have courted the buskin and sock! On the
contrary, so foreign was the occupation to his leaning, that often a
whimsical light in his eye betrayed his disinclination and modest
disbelief in his own fitness for the task. "He said the way I laid out
an act reminded him of planning a campaign, with the outriders and
skirmishers before; the cavalry arrayed for swift service, and the
infantry marching steadily on, carrying with them the main plot, or
strength of the movement."
No sooner were the Salt Cellar and Pepper Box reunited, and the Pewter
Spoon clasped in the arms of the loving Cruet, with the curtain
descending, than Barnes, who like the immortal Alcibiades Triplet
could turn his hand to almost anything, became furiously engaged in
painting scenery. A market-place, with a huge wagon, containing
porkers and poultry, was dashed off with a celerity that would have
made a royal academician turn green with envy. The Tiddly Wink Inn was
so faithfully reproduced that the painted bottles were a real
temptation, while on the pastoral green of a rural landscape grazed
sheep so life-like that, as Hawkes observed, it actually seemed "they
would eat the scenery all up." But finally sets and play were alike
finished, and results demonstrated that the manager was correct in his
estimate of such a drama, which became a forerunner of other pieces of
this kind, "The Bottle," "Fruits of the Wine Cup," "Aunt Dinah's
Pledge," and "Ten Nights in a Bar Room."
In due time the drama was given in the town hall, after the rehearsals
had been witnessed by a committee from the temperance league, who
reported that the play "could not but exercise a good influence and
was entertaining withal ... We recommend the license to be issued and
commend the drama to all Good Templars." Therefore, the production was
not only well attended, but play and players were warmly received. The
town hall boasted a fairly commodious platform which now served the
purpose of a stage, and--noteworthy circumstance!--there were gas jets
for footlights, the illuminating fluid having at that early date been
introduced in several of the more progressive villages. Between the
acts, these yellow lights were turned low, and--running with the
current of popular desire--the orchestra, enlarged to four, played, by
special request, "The Old Oaken Bucket."
The song had just sprung into popularity, and, in a moment, men, women
and children had added their voices to the instruments. It was not the
thrill of temperance fanaticism that stirred their hearts, but it was
the memories of the old pioneer home in the wilderness; the
rail-splitting, road-building days; the ancient rites of "raisings"
and other neighborly ceremonies; when the farmer cut rye with a
cradle, and threshed it out with his flail; when "butter and eggs were
pin money" and wheat paid the store-keeper.
"How solemnly they take their amusements in the North, Mr. Barnes!"
exclaimed a voice in one of the entrances. "What a contrast to the
South--the wicked South!"
The manager turned sharply.
"We are mere servants of the public, Mr. Mauville."
"And the public is master, Mr. Barnes! How the dramatic muse is
whipped around! In Greece, she was a goddess; in Rome, a hussy; in
England, a sprightly dame; now, a straight-laced Priscilla. But you
have a recruit, I see?"
"You mean Saint-Prosper?"
"Yes, and I can hardly blame him--under the circumstances!" murmured
the land baron, at the same time glancing around as though seeking
some one.
"Circumstances! What circumstances?" demanded the manager.
"Why, the pleasant company he finds himself in, of course," said the
visitor, easily. "Ah, I see Miss Carew," he added, his eye immediately
lightening, "and must congratulate her on her performance. Cursed
dusty hole, isn't it?" Brushing himself with his handkerchief as he
moved away.
"What business has he behind the scenes anyway?" grumbled the
manager. "Dusty hole, indeed! Confound his impudence!" But his
attention being drawn to the pressing exigencies of a first night,
Barnes soon forgot his irritation over this unwarranted intrusion in
lowering a drop, hoisting a fly or readjusting a flat to his liking.
The land baron meanwhile crossed to the semi-darkness at the rear of
the stage behind the boxed scene, where he had observed the young girl
waiting for the curtain to rise on the last act. A single light on
each side served partly to relieve the gloom; to indicate the
frame-work of the set scene and throw in shadow various articles
designed for use in the play. As she approached Mauville, who stood
motionless in an unlighted spot, the pale glow played upon her a
moment, white on her neck, in sheen on the folds of her gown, and then
she stepped into the shadow, where she was met by a tall figure, with
hand eagerly outstretched.
"Mr. Mauville!" she exclaimed, drawing back at the suddenness of the
encounter.
His restless eyes held hers, but his greeting was conventional.
"Did I not say the world was small and that we might meet again?"
"Of course, we are always meeting people and parting from them," she
replied unconcernedly.
He laughed. "With what delightful indifference you say that! You did
not think to see me again?"
"I hadn't thought about it," she answered, frankly, annoyed by his
persistence.
"I am unfortunate!" he said.
Beneath his free gaze she changed color, as though the shadow of a
rose had touched her face.
"You are well?" he continued.
"Yes."
"I need not have asked." His expression conveyed more--so much more,
she bit her lip impatiently. "How do you like the new part?"
"It is hard to tell yet," she answered evasively.
"You would do justice to any role, but I prefer you in a historical or
romantic play, with the picturesque old costumes. If it were in my
domains, you should appear in those dramas, if I had to hang every
justice of the peace in the district."
Her only response was a restless movement and he hastened to add: "I
fear, however, I am detaining you."
He drew aside with such deference to permit her to pass that her
conscience smote her and she was half-minded to turn and leave him
more graciously, but this impulse was succeeded by another feeling,
ill-defined, the prevailing second thought. Had she looked, she would
have seen that her fluttering shawl touched his hand and he quickly
raised it to his lips, releasing it immediately. As it was, she moved
on, unaware of the gesture. The orchestra, or rather string quartet,
had ceased; Hans, a host in himself, a mountain of melody, bowed his
acknowledgments; the footlights glared, the din of voices subsiding;
and the curtain rose.
Remaining in the background, the land baron watched the young girl
approach the entrance to the stage, where she stood, intent, one hand
resting against the scenery, her dress upheld with the other; the
glimmer from the footlights, reflected through the opening, touching
her face; suddenly, with a graceful movement, she vanished, and her
laughing voice seemed to come from afar.
Was it for this he had made his hasty journey? To be treated with
indifference by a wandering player; he, the patroon, the unsuccessful
suitor of a stroller! She, who appeared in taverns, in barns, perhaps,
was as cold and proud as any fine lady, untroubled about the morrow,
and, as he weighed this phase of the matter, the land baron knew not
whether he loved her most for her beauty or hated her for the slight
she put upon him. But love or hate, it was all one, and he told
himself he would see the adventure to the end.
"How do you do, Mr. Mauville?" said a gay but hushed voice,
interrupting his ruminations, and Susan, in a short skirt and bright
stockings, greeted him.
"The better for seeing you, Mistress Susan." Nonchalantly surveying
her from head to foot.
She bore his glance with the assurance of a pretty woman who knows she
is looking her best.
"Pooh!" Curtesying disdainfully. "I don't believe you! You came to see
some one else. Well"--lightly--"she is already engrossed."
"Really?" said the land baron.
"Yes. You understand? He follows her with his every glance," she added
roguishly. Susan was never averse to straining the truth a little when
it served her purpose.
"I should infer he was following her with more than his eyes,"
retorted the master of the manor dryly.
Susan tapped the stage viciously with a little foot. "She's a lovely
girl," she continued, drawing cabalistic figures with the provoking
slipper.
"You are piqued?" he said, watching her skeptically.
"Not at all." Quickly, startled by his blunt accusation.
"Not a little jealous?" he persisted playfully.
"Jealous?" Then with a frown, hesitatingly: "Well, she is given
prominence in the plays and--"
"--You would not be subordinated, if she were not in the company?
Apart from this, you are fond of her?"
The foot ceased its tracing and rested firmly on the floor.
"I hate her!" snapped Susan, angered by this baiting. No sooner had
she spoken than she regretted her outburst. "How you draw one out! I
was only joking--though she does have the best parts and we take what
we can get!"
"But she's a lovely girl!" concluded the land baron. Susan's eyes
flashed angrily.
"How clever of you! You twist and turn one's words about and give
them a different meaning from what was intended. If I wanted to catch
you up--"
"A truce!" he exclaimed. "Let us take each other seriously, hereafter.
Is it agreed?" She nodded. "Well, seriously, you can help me and help
yourself."
"How?" doubtfully.
"Why not be allies?"
"What for?"
"Mutual service."
"Oh!" dubiously.
"A woman's 'yes'!"
"No," with affirmative answer in her eyes.
He believed the latter.
"We will seal the compact then."
And he bent over and saluted Mistress Susan on the lips. She became as
rosy as the flowers she carried and tapped him playfully with them.
"For shame! La! What must you think of me?"
"That you are an angel."
"How lovely! But I must go."
"May I see you after the play?"
"Yes."
"Do not fail me, or the soldier will not transfer his affections to
you!"
"If he dared!" And she shook her head defiantly as she tripped away.
"Little fool!" murmured Mauville, his lips curling scornfully. "The
one is a pastime; the other"--he paused and caught his breath--"a
passion!"
But he kept his appointment with Susan, escorting her to the hotel,
where he bade her good-night with a lingering pressure of the hand,
and--ordered his equipage to the door!
"Hadn't you better wait until morning?" asked the surprised landlord,
when the young patroon announced his intention of taking an immediate
departure. "There are the barn-burners and--traveling at night--"
"Have they turned footpads?" was the light reply. "Can't I drive
through my own lands? Let me see one of their thieving faces--" And he
made a significant gesture. "Not ride at night! These Jacobins shall
not prevent me."
Barring the possible danger from the lease-holders who were
undoubtedly ripe for any mischief, the journey did not promise such
discomfiture as might have been expected, the coach being especially
constructed for night traveling. On such occasions, between the seats
the space was filled by a large cushion, adapted to the purpose, which
in this way converted the interior of the vehicle into a sleeping-room
of limited dimensions. With pillows to neutralize the jarring, the
land baron stretched himself indolently upon his couch, and gazed
through the window at the crystalline lights of the heavens, while
thoughts of lease-holders and barn-burners faded into thin air.
At dawn, when he opened his eyes, the morning star yet gleamed with a
last pale luster. Raising himself on his elbow and looking out over
the country to learn his whereabouts, his eye fell upon a tree,
blood-red, a maple amid evergreens. Behind this somber community of
pines, stiff as a band of Puritan elders, surrounding the bright-hued
maple, a Hester in that austere congregation, appeared the glazed tile
roof of Little Thunder's habitation, a two-story abode of modest
proportions and olden type. As the land baron passed, a brindle cow in
the side yard saluted the morn, calling the sluggard from his couch,
but at the manor, which the patroon shortly reached, the ever wakeful
Oly-koeks was already engaged in chopping wood near the kitchen door.
The growling of the hound at his feet called the care-taker's
attention to the master's coming, and, driving the ax into an
obstinate stick of hickory, he donned his coat, drawing near the
vehicle, where he stood in stupid wonderment as the land baron
alighted.
"Any callers, Oly-koeks?" carelessly asked the master.
"A committee of barn-burners, Mynheer, to ask you not to serve any
more writs."
"And so give them time to fight me with the lawmakers! But there;
carry my portmanteau into the library and"--as Oloffe's upper lip drew
back--"teach your dog to know me."
"He belonged to the old master, Mynheer. When he died, the dog lay
near his grave day and night."
"I dare say; like master, like dog! But fetch the portmanteau, you
Dutch varlet!" Entering the house, while the coachman drove the tired
horses toward the barn. "There's something in it I want. Bring it
here." As he passed into the library. "Yes; I put it in there, I am
sure. Ah, here we have it!" And unpacking the valise, he took
therefrom a handsome French writing case.
"Thou Wily Limb of the Law," wrote the patroon, "be it known by these
presents, thou art summoned to appear before me! I have work for
you--not to serve any one with a writ; assign; bring an action, or any
of your rascally, pettifogging tricks! Send me no demurrer, but your
own intemperate self."
Which epistle the patroon addressed to his legal satellite and
despatched by messenger.