AN ECCENTRIC JAILER
"For a man who can't abide the sex, this _is_ a predicament," muttered
the patroon's jackal, as the coach in which he found himself sped
rapidly along the highway. "Here am I as much an abductor as my lord
who whipped his lady from England to the colonies!" Gloomily regarding
a motionless figure on the seat opposite, and a face like ivory
against the dark cushions. "Curse the story; telling it led to this!
How white she is; like driven snow; almost as if--"
And Scroggs, whose countenance lost a shade of its natural flush,
going from flame-color to salmon hue, bent with sudden apprehension
over a small hand which hung from the seat.
"No; it's only a swoon," he continued, relieved, feeling her wrist
with his knobby fingers. "How she struggled! If it hadn't been for
smothering her with the cloak--but the job's done and that's the end
of it."
Settling back in his seat he watched her discontentedly, alternately
protesting against the adventure, and consoling himself weakly with the
remembrance of the retainer; weighing the risks, and the patroon's
ability to gloss over the matter; now finding the former unduly
obtrusive, again comforted with the assurance of the power pre-empted
by the land barons. Moreover, the task was half-accomplished, and it
would be idle to recede now.
"Why couldn't the patroon have remained content with his bottle?" he
grumbled. "But his mind must needs run to this frivolous and
irrational proceeding! There's something reasonable in pilfering a
purse, but carrying off a woman--Yet she's a handsome baggage."
Over the half-recumbent figure swept his glance, pausing as he
surveyed her face, across which flowed a tress of hair loosened in the
struggle. Save for the unusual pallor of her cheek, she might have
been sleeping, but as he watched her the lashes slowly lifted, and he
sullenly nerved himself for the encounter. At the aspect of those
bead-like eyes, resolute although ill at ease, like a snake striving
to charm an adversary, a tremor of half-recollection shone in her gaze
and the color flooded her face. Mechanically, sweeping back the
straggling lock of hair, she raised herself without removing her eyes.
He who had expected a tempest of tears shifted uneasily, even
irritably, from that steady stare, until, finding the silence
intolerable, he burst out:
"Well, ma'am, am I a bugbear?"
In her dazed condition she probably did not hear his words; or, if she
did, set no meaning to them, Her glance, however, strayed to the
narrow window, and then wandered back to the well-worn interior of the
coach. Suddenly, as the startling realization of her position came to
her, she uttered a loud cry, sprang toward the door, and, with nervous
fingers, strove to open it. The man's face became more rubicund as he
placed a detaining hand on her shoulder, and roughly thrust her toward
the seat.
"Make the best of it!" he exclaimed peremptorily. "You'd better, for
I'm not to be trifled with."
Recoiling from his touch, she held herself aloof with such aversion, a
sneer crossed his face, and he observed glumly:
"Oh, I'm not a viper! If you're put out, so am I."
"Who are you?" she demanded, breathlessly.
"That's an incriminating question, Ma'am," he replied. "In this case,
though, the witness has no objection to answering. I'm your humble
servant."
His forced drollery was more obnoxious than his ill-humor, and,
awakening her impatience, restored in a measure her courage. He was
but a pitiful object, after all, with his flame-colored visage, and
short, crouching figure; and, as her thoughts passed from the brutal
part he had played on the road to her present situation, she exclaimed
with more anger than apprehension:
"Perhaps you will tell me the meaning of this outrage--your smothering
me--forcing me into this coach--and driving away--where?"
His face became once more downcast and moody. Driven into a corner by
her swift words, his glance met hers fairly; he drummed his fingers
together.
"There's no occasion to show your temper, Miss," he said reflectively.
"I'm a bit touchy myself to-day; 'sudden and quick in quarrel.' You
see I know my Shakespeare, Ma'am. Let us talk about that great poet
and the parts you, as an actress, prefer--"
"Can I get an answer from you?" she cried, subduing her dread.
"What is it you asked?"
"As if you did not know!" she returned, her lip trembling with
impatience and loathing.
"Yes; I remember." Sharply. "You asked where we were driving? Across
the country. What is the meaning of this--outrage, I believe you
called it? All actions spring from two sources--Cupid and cupidity.
The rest of the riddle you'll have to guess." Gazing insolently into
her face, with his hands on his knees.
"But you have told me nothing," she replied, striving to remain
mistress of herself and to hide her apprehension.
"Do you call that nothing? You have the approximate cause--_causa
causans_. Was it Cupid? No, for like Bacon, your sex's 'fantastical'
charms move me not."
This sally put him in better temper with himself. She was helpless,
and he experienced a churlish satisfaction in her condition.
"What was it, then? Cupidity. Do you know what poverty is like in this
barren region?" he cried harshly. "The weapons of education only
unfit you for the plow. You stint, pinch, live on nothing!" He rubbed
his dry hands together. "It was crumbs and scraps under the
parsimonious regime; but now the prodigal has come into his own and
believes in honest wages and a merry life."
Wonderingly she listened, the scene like a grotesque dream, with the
ever-moving coach, the lonely road, the dark woods, and--so near, she
could almost place her hand upon him--this man, muttering and
mumbling. He had offered her the key of the mystery, but she had
failed to use it. His ambiguous, loose talk, only perplexed and
alarmed her; the explanation was none at all.
As he watched her out of the corner of his eye, weighing doubt and
uncertainty, new ideas assailed him. After all she had spirit,
courage! Moreover, she was an actress, and the patroon was madly in
love with her.
"If we were only leagued together, how we could strip him!" he
thought.
His head dropped contemplatively to his breast, and for a long
interval he remained silent, abstracted, while the old springless
coach, with many a jolt and jar, covered mile after mile; up the
hills, crowned with bush and timber; across the table land; over the
plank bridges spanning the brooks and rivulets. More reconciled to
his part and her presence, his lips once or twice parted as if he
were about to speak, but closed again. He even smiled, showing his
amber-hued teeth, nodding his head in a friendly fashion, as to
say: "It'll come out all right, Madam; all right for both of us!"
Which, indeed, was his thought. She believed him unsettled, bereft
of reason, and, although, he was manifestly growing less hostile,
his surveillance became almost unbearable. At every moment she felt
him regarding her like a lynx, and endeavored therefore to keep
perfectly still. What would her strange warder do next? It was not an
alarming act, however. He consulted a massive watch, remarking:
"It's lunch time and over! With your permission, I'll take a bite and
a drop. Will you join me?"
She turned her head away, and, not disconcerted by her curt refusal,
he drew a wicker box from beneath a seat and opened it. His reference
to a "bite and a drop" was obviously figurative, especially the
"drop," which grew to the dimensions of a pint, which he swallowed
quickly. Perhaps the flavor of the wine made him less attentive to his
prisoner, for as he lifted the receptacle to his lips, she thrust her
arms through the window and a play book dropped from her hand, a
possible clue for any one who might follow the coach. For some time
she had been awaiting this opportunity and when it came, the carriage
was entering a village.
Scroggs finished his cup. "You see, we're provided for," he began.
Here the bottle fell from his hand.
"The patroon village!" he exclaimed in consternation. "I'd forgotten
we were so close! And they're all gathered in the square, too!"
He cast a quick glance at her. "You're all ready to call for help," he
sneered, "but I'm not ready to part company yet."
Hastily drawing up one of the wooden shutters, he placed himself near
the other window, observing fiercely; "I don't propose you shall undo
what's being done for you. Let me hear from you"--jerking his finger
toward the square--"and I'll not answer for what I'll do." But in
spite of his admonition he read such determination in her eyes, he
felt himself baffled.
"You intend to make trouble!" he cried. And putting his head suddenly
through the window, he called to the driver: "Whip the horses through
the market place!"
As the affrighted animals sprang forward he blocked the window,
placing one hand on her shoulder. He felt her escape from his grasp,
but not daring to leave his post, he leaned out of the window when
they were opposite the square, and shook his fist at the anti-renters,
exclaiming:
"I'll arrest every mother's son of you! I'll evict you--jail you for
stealing rent!"
Drowned by the answering uproar, "The patroon's dog!" "Bullets for
deputies!" the emissary of the land baron continued to threaten the
throng with his fist, until well out of ear-shot, and, thanks to the
level road, beyond reach of their resentment. Not that they strove to
follow him far, for they thought the jackal had taken leave of his
senses. Laughter mingled with their jeers at the absurd figure he
presented, fulminating and flying at the same time. But there was no
defiance left in him when they were beyond the village, and he fell
back into his seat, his face now ash-colored.
"If they'd stopped us my life wouldn't have been worth the asking," he
muttered hoarsely. "But I did it!" Triumphantly gazing at the young
girl who, trembling with excitement, leaned against the side of the
coach. "I see you managed to get down the shutter. I hope you heard
your own voice. I didn't; and, what's more, I'm sure they didn't!"
With fingers he could hardly control he opened a second bottle,
dispensed with the formality of a glass, and set the neck to his lips,
repeating the operation until it was empty, when he tossed it out of
the window to be shattered against a rock, after which he sank again
into a semblance of meditation.
Disappointed over her ineffectual efforts, overcome by the strain, the
young girl for the time relaxed all further attempt. Unseen, unheard,
she had stood at her window! She had tried to open the door, but it
resisted her frantic efforts, and then the din had died away and left
her weak, powerless, hardly conscious of the hateful voice of her
companion from time to time addressing her.
But fortunately he preferred the gross practice of draining the cup to
the fine art of conversation. Left to the poor company of her
thoughts, she dwelt upon the miscarriage of her design, and the
slender chance of assistance. They would probably pass through no
more villages and if they did, he would undoubtedly find means to
prevent her making herself known. Unless--and a glimmer of hope
flickered through her thoughts!--her warder carried his potations to a
point where vigilance ceased to be a virtue. Inconsiderately he
stopped at the crucial juncture, with all the signs of contentment and
none of drowsiness.
So minutes resolved themselves into hours and the day wore on.
Watching the sun-rays bathe the top of the forest below them, she
noted how fast the silver disk was descending. The day which had
seemed interminable now appeared but too short, and she would gladly
have recalled those fleeting hours. Ignorant of the direction in which
they had been traveling, she realized that the driver had been
unsparing and the distance covered not inconsiderable. The mystery of
the assault, the obscurity of the purpose and the vagueness of their
destination were unknown quantities which, added to the declining of
the day and the brewing terrors of the night, were well calculated to
terrify and crush her.
Despairingly, she observed how the sun dipped, and ever dipped toward
the west, when suddenly a sound afar rekindled her fainting spirits.
Listening more attentively, she was assured imagination had not
deceived her; it was the faint patter of a horse's hoofs. Nearer it
drew; quicker beat her pulses. Moreover, it was the rat-a-tat of
galloping. Some one was pursuing the coach on horseback. Impatient to
glance behind, she only refrained for prudential reasons.
Immersed in his own grape-vine castle her jailer was unmindful of the
approaching rider, and she turned her face from him that he might not
read her exultation. Closer resounded the beating hoofs, but her
impatience outstripped the pursuer, and she was almost impelled to
rush to the window.
Who was the horseman? Was it Barnes? Saint-Prosper? The latter's name
had quickly suggested itself to her.
Although the rider, whoever he might be, continued to gain ground, to
her companion, the approaching clatter was inseparable from the noise
of the vehicle, and it was not until the horseman was nearly abreast,
and the cadence of the galloping resolved itself into clangor, that
the dreamer awoke with an imprecation. As he sprang to his feet, thus
rudely disturbed, a figure on horseback dashed by and a stern voice
called to the driver:
"Stop the coach!"
Probably the command was given over the persuasive point of a weapon,
for the animals were drawn up with a quick jerk and came to a
standstill in the middle of the road. Menacing and abusive, as the
vehicle stopped, the warder's hand sought one of his pockets, when the
young girl impetuously caught his arm, clinging to it tenaciously.
"Quick!--Mr. Saint-Prosper!" she cried, recognizing, as she thought,
the voice of the soldier.
"You wild-cat!" her jailer exclaimed, struggling to throw her off.
Not succeeding, he raised his free arm in a flurry of invective.
"Curse you, will you let go!"
"Quick! Quick!" she called out, holding him more tightly.
A flood of Billingsgate flowed from his lips. "Let go, or--"
But before he could in his blind passion strike her or otherwise vent
his rage, a revolver was clapped to his face through the window, and,
with a look of surprise and terror, his valor oozing from him, he
crouched back on the cushions. At the same time the carriage door was
thrown open, and Edward Mauville, the patroon, stood in the entrance!
Only an instant his eyes swept her, observing the flushed cheeks and
disordered attire, leading her wonder at his unexpected appearance,
and--to his satisfaction!--her relief as well; only an instant, during
which the warder stared at him open-mouthed--and then his glance
rested on the now thoroughly sober limb of the law.
"Get out!" he said, briefly and harshly.
"But," began the other with a sickly grin, intended to be ingratiating,
"I don't understand--this unexpected manner--this forcible departure
from--"
Coolly raising his weapon, the patroon deliberately covered the
hapless jailer, who unceremoniously scrambled out of the door. The
land baron laughed, replaced his revolver and, turning to the young
girl, removed his hat.
"It was fortunate, Miss Carew, I happened along," he said gravely.
"With your permission, I will get in. You can tell me what has
happened as we drive along. The manor house, my temporary home, is not
far from here. If I can be of any service, command me!"
The jackal saw the patroon spring into the carriage, having fastened
his horse behind, and drive off. Until the vehicle had disappeared, he
stood motionless in the road, but when it had passed from sight, he
seated himself on a stone.
"That comes from mixing the breed!" he muttered. "Dramatic effect, _a
la France_!" He wiped the perspiration from his brow. "Well, I'm three
miles from my humble habitation, but I'd rather walk than ride--under
some circumstances!"