THE COMING OF LITTLE THUNDER
The afternoon was waning; against the golden western sky the old manor
house loomed in solemn majesty, the fields and forests emphasizing its
isolation in the darkening hour of sunset, as a coach, with jaded
horses, passed through the avenue of trees and approached the broad
portico. A great string of trailing vine had been torn from the walls
by the wind and now waved mournfully to and fro with no hand to adjust
it. In the rear was a huge-timbered barn, the door of which was
unfastened, swinging on its rusty hinges with a creaking and moaning
sound.
As gaily as in the days when the periwigged coachman had driven the
elaborate equipage of the early patroons through the wrought-iron gate
this modern descendant entered the historic portals, not to be met,
however, by servitors in knee breeches at the front door, but by the
solitary care-taker who appeared on the portico in considerable
disorder and evident state of excitement, accompanied by the shaggy
dog, Oloffe.
"The deputies shot two of the tenants to-day," hurriedly exclaimed the
guardian of the place, without noticing Mauville's companion. "The
farmers fired upon them; they replied, and one of the tenants is
dead."
"A good lesson for them, since they were the aggressors," cried the
heir, as he sprang from the coach. "But you have startled the lady."
An exclamation from the vehicle in an unmistakably feminine voice
caused the "_wacht-meester_" now to observe the occupant for the first
time and the servant threw up his hands in consternation. Here was a
master who drank all night, shot his tenants by proxy, visited
strollers, and now brought one of them to the _steyn_. That the
strange lady was a player, Oly-koeks immediately made up his mind, and
he viewed her with mingled aversion and fear, as the early settlers
regarded sorcerers and witches. She was very beautiful, he observed in
that quick glance, but therefore the more dangerous; she appeared
distressed, but he attributed her apparent grief to artfulness. He at
once saw a new source of trouble in her presence; as though the
threads were not already sufficiently entangled, without the
introduction of a woman--and she a public performer!--into the
complicated mesh!
"Fasten the iron shutters of the house," briefly commanded Mauville,
breaking in upon the servant's painful reverie. "Then help this man
change the horses and put in the grays."
Oly-koeks, with a final deprecatory glance at the coach, expressive
of his estimate of his master's light conduct and his apprehension of
the outcome, disappeared to obey this order.
"May I assist you, Miss Carew?" said the land baron deferentially,
offering his arm to the young girl, whose pale but observant face
disclosed new demur and inquiry.
"But you said we would go right on?" she returned, drawing back with
implied dissent.
"When the horses are changed! If you will step out, the carriage will
be driven to the barn."
Reluctantly she obeyed, and as she did so, the patroon and the
coachman exchanged pithy glances.
"Look sharp!" commanded the master, sternly. "Oh, he won't run away,"
added Mauville quickly, in answer to her look of surprise. "He knows I
could find him, and"--fingering his revolver--"will not disoblige me.
Later we'll hear the rogue's story."
The man's averted countenance smothered a clandestine smile, as he
touched the horses with his whip and turned them toward the barn,
leaving the patroon and his companion alone on the broad portico.
Sweeping from a distant grove of slender poplars and snowy birch a
breeze bore down upon them, suddenly bleak and frosty, and she
shivered in the nipping air.
"You are chilled!" he cried. "If you would but go into the house while
we are waiting! Indeed, if you do not, I shall wonder how I have
offended you! It will be something to remember"--half lightly, half
seriously--"that you have crossed my threshold!"
He stood at the door, with such an undissembled smile, his accents so
regretful, that after a moment's hesitation, Constance entered,
followed by the patroon. Sweeping aside the heavy draperies from the
window, he permitted the golden shafts of the ebbing day to enter the
hall, gleaming on the polished floors, the wainscoting and the
furniture, faintly illuminating the faded pictures and weirdly
revealing the turnings of the massive stairway. No wonder a
half-shudder of apprehension seized the young actress in spite of her
self-reliance and courage, as she entered the solemn and mournful
place, where past grandeur offered nothing save morbid memories and
where the frailty of existence was significantly written! After that
Indian summer day the sun was sinking, angry and fiery, as though
presaging a speedy reform in the vagaries of the season and an
immediate return to the legitimate surroundings of October.
Involuntarily the girl moved to the window, where the light rested on
her brown tresses, and as Mauville watched that radiance, shifting and
changing, her hair alight with mystic color, the passion that had
prompted him to this end was stirred anew, dissipating any intrusive
doubts. The veering and flickering sheen seemed but a web of
entangling irradiation. A span of silence became an interminable
period to her, with no sight of fresh horses nor sign of preparation
for the home journey.
"What takes him so long?" she said, finally, with impatience. "It is
getting so late!"
"It is late," he answered. "Almost too late to go on! You are weary
and worn. Why not rest here to-night?"
"Rest here?" she repeated, with a start of surprise.
"You are not fit to drive farther. To-morrow we can return."
"To-morrow!" she cried. "But--what do you mean?"
"That I must insist upon your sparing yourself!" he said, firmly,
although a red spot flushed his cheek.
"No; no! We must leave at once!" she answered.
He smiled reassuringly. "Why will you not have confidence in me?" he
asked. "You have not the strength to travel all night--over a rough
road--after such a trying day. For your own sake, I beg you to give up
the idea. Here you are perfectly safe and may rest undisturbed."
"Please call the horses at once!"
An impatient expression furrowed his brow. He had relied on easily
prevailing upon her through her gratitude; continuing in his
disinterested role for yet some time; resuming the journey on the
morrow, carrying her farther away under pretext of mistaking the road,
until--Here his plans had faded into a vague perspective, dominated by
unreasoning self-confidence and egotism.
But her words threatened a rupture at the outset that would seriously
alter the status of the adventure.
"It is a mistake to go on to-night," he said, with a dissenting
gesture. "However, if you are determined--" And Mauville stepped to
the window. "Why, the carriage is not there!" he exclaimed, looking
out.
"Not there!" she repeated, incredulously. "You told them to change the
horses. Why--"
"I don't understand," returned the land baron, with an effort to make
his voice surprised and concerned. "He may--Hello-a, there!
You!--Oly-koeks!" he called out, interrupting his own explanation.
Not Oly-koeks, but the driver's face, appeared from behind the barn
door, and, gazing through the window, the young girl, with a start,
suddenly realized that she had seen him not for the first time that
day--but where?--when? Through the growing perplexity of her thoughts
she heard the voice of her companion
"Why don't you hitch up the grays?"
"There are no horses in the barn," came the answer.
"Strange, the care-taker did not tell me they had been taken away!"
commented the other, hastily, stepping from the window as the driver
vanished once more into the barn. "I am sorry, but there seems no
alternative but to wait--at least, until I can send for others."
She continued to gaze toward the door through which the man had
disappeared. She could place him now, although his livery had been
discarded for shabby clothes; she recalled him distinctly in spite of
this changed appearance.
"Why not make the best of it?" said Mauville, softly, but with glance
sparkling in spite of himself. "After all, are you not giving yourself
needless apprehensions? You are at home here. Anything you wish shall
be yours. Consider yourself mistress; me, one of your servants!"
Almost imperceptibly his manner had changed. Instinctive misgivings
which had assailed her in the coach with him now resolved themselves
into assured fears. Something she could not explain had aroused her
suspicions before they reached the manor, but his words had
glossed these inward qualms, and a feeling of obligation suggested
trust, not shrinking; but, with his last words, a full light illumined
her faculties; an association of ideas revealed his intent and
performance.
"It was you, then," she said, slowly, studying him with steady,
penetrating glance.
"You!" she repeated, with such contempt that he was momentarily
disconcerted. "The man in the carriage--he was hired by you. The
driver--his face is familiar. I remember now where I saw him--in the
Shadengo Valley. He is your coachman. Your rescue was planned to
deceive me. It deceived even your man. He had not expected that. Your
reassuring me was false; the plan to change horses a trick to get me
here--"
"If you would but listen--"
"When"--her eyes ablaze--"will this farce end?"
Her words took him unawares. Not that he dreaded the betrayal of his
actual purpose. On the contrary, his reckless temper, chafing under
her unexpected obduracy, now welcomed the opportunity of discarding
the disinterested and chivalrous part he had assumed.
"When it ends in a honeymoon, _ma belle_ Constance!" he said,
swiftly.
His sudden words, removing all doubts as to his purpose, awoke such
repugnance in her that for a moment aversion was paramount to every
other feeling. Again she looked without, but only the solitude of the
fields and forests met her glance.
The remoteness of the situation gave the very boldness of his plan
feasibility. Was he not his own magistrate in his own province? Why,
then, he had thought, waste the golden moments? He had but one heed
now; a study of physical beauty, against a crimson background.
"To think of such loveliness lost in the wilderness!" he said, softly.
"The gates of art should all open to you. Why should you play to
rustic bumpkins, when the world of fashion would gladly receive you? I
am a poor prophet if you would not be a success in town. It is not
always easy to get a hearing, to procure an audience, but means could
be found. Soon your name would be on every one's lips. Your art is
fresh. The jaded world likes freshness. The cynical town runs to
artless art as an antidote to its own poison. Most of the players are
wrinkled and worn. A young face will seem like a new-grown white
rose."
She did not answer; unresponsive as a statue, she did not move. The
sun shot beneath an obstructing branch, and long, searching shafts
found access to the room. Mauville moved forward impetuously, until he
stood on the verge of the sunlight on the satinwood floor.
"May I not devote myself to this cause, Constance?" he continued. "You
are naturally resentful toward me now. But can I not show you that I
have your welfare at heart? If you were as ambitious as you are
attractive, what might you not do? Art is long; our days are short;
youth flies like a summer day."
His glance sought hers questioningly; still no reply; only a wave of
blood surged over her neck and brow, while her eyes fell. Then the
glow receded, leaving her white as a snow image.
"Come," he urged. "May I not find for you those opportunities?"
He put out his eager hand as if to touch her. Then suddenly the figure
in the window came to life and shrank back, with widely opened eyes
fixed upon his face. His gaze could not withstand hers, man of the
world though he was, and his free manner was replaced by something
resembling momentary embarrassment. Conscious of this new and annoying
feeling, his egotism rose in arms, as if protesting against the novel
sensation, and his next words were correspondingly violent.
"Put off your stage manners!" he exclaimed. "You are here at my
pleasure. It was no whim, my carrying you off. After you left I went
to the manor, where I tried to forget you. But nights of revelry--why
should I not confess it?--could not efface your memory." His voice
unconsciously sank to unreserved candor. "Your presence filled these
halls. I could no longer say: Why should I trouble myself about one
who has no thought for me?"
Breathing hard, he paused, gazing beyond her, as though renewing the
memories of that period.
"Learning you were in the neighboring town," he continued, "I went
there, with no further purpose than to see you. On the journey perhaps
I indulged in foolish fancies. How would you receive me? Would you be
pleased; annoyed? So I tempted my fancy with air-castles like the most
unsophisticated lover. But you had no word of welcome; scarcely
listened to me, and hurried away! I could not win you as I desired;
the next best way was this."
He concluded with an impassioned gesture, his gaze eagerly seeking the
first sign of lenity or favor on her part, but his confession seemed
futile. Her eyes, suggestive of tender possibilities, expressed now
but coldness and obduracy. In a revulsion of feeling he forgot the
distance separating the buskined from the fashionable world; the
tragic scatterlings from the conventions of Vanity Fair! He forgot all
save that she was to him now the one unparagoned entirety, overriding
other memories.
"Will not a life of devotion atone for this day, Constance?" he cried.
"Do you know how far-reaching are these lands? All the afternoon you
drove through them, and they extend as wide in the other direction.
These--my name--are yours!"
A shade of color swept over her brow.
"Answer me," he urged.
"Drive back and I will answer you."
"Drive back and you will laugh at me," he retorted, moodily. "You
would make a woman's bargain with me."
"Is yours a man's with me?" Contemptuously.
"What more can I do?"
"Undo what you have done. Take me back!"
"I would cut a nice figure doing that! No; you shall stay here."
He spoke angrily; her disdain at his proposal not only injured his
pride but awoke his animosity. On the other hand, his words
demonstrated she had not improved her own position. If he meant to
keep her there he could do so, and opposition made him only more
obstinate, more determined to press his advantage. Had she been more
politic--Juliana off the stage as well as on--she, whose artifice was
glossed by artlessness--
Her lashes drooped; her attitude became less aggressive; her eyes,
from beneath their dark curtains, rested on him for a moment. What it
was in that glance so effective is not susceptible to analysis. Was it
the appeal that awakened the quixotic sense of honor; the helplessness
arousing compassion; the irresistible quality of a brimming eye so
fatal to masculine calculation and positiveness? Whatever it was, it
dispelled the contraction on the land baron's face, and--despite his
threats, vows!--he was swayed by a look.
"Forgive me," he said, tenderly.
"You will drive back?"
"Yes; I will win you in your own way, fairly and honestly! I will take
you back, though the whole country laughs at me. Win or lose, back we
go, for--I love you!" And impetuously he threw his arm around her
waist.
Simulation could not stand the test; it was no longer acting, but
reality; she had set herself to a role she could not perform. Hating
him for that free touch, she forcibly extricated herself with an
exclamation and an expression of countenance there was no mistaking.
From Mauville's face the glad light died; he regarded her once more
cruelly, vindictively.
"You dropped the mask too soon," he said, coldly. "I was not prepared
for rehearsal, although you were perfect. You are even a better
actress than I thought you, than which"--mockingly--"I can pay you no
better compliment."
She looked at him with such scorn he laughed, though his eyes
flashed.
"Bravo!" he exclaimed.
While thus confronting each other a footfall sounded without, the door
burst open, and the driver of the coach, with features drawn by fear,
unceremoniously entered the room. The patroon turned on him enraged,
but the latter without noticing his master's displeasure, exclaimed
hurriedly:
"The anti-renters are coming!"
The actress uttered a slight cry and stepped toward the window, when
she was drawn back by an irresistible force.
"Pardon me," said a hard voice, from which all passing compunction had
vanished. "Be kind enough to come with me."
"I will follow you, but--" Her face expressed the rest.
"This way then!"
He released her and together they mounted the stairway. For a long
time a gentle footfall had not passed those various landings; not
since the ladies in hoops, with powdered hair, had ascended or
descended, with attendant cavaliers, bewigged, beruffled, bedizened.
The land baron conducted his companion to a distant room up stairs,
the door of which he threw open.
"Go in there," he said curtly.
She hesitated on the threshold. So remote was it from the main part of
the great manor, the apartment had all the requirements of a prison.
"You needn't fear," he continued, reading her thoughts. "I'm not going
to be separated from you--yet! But we can see what is going on here."
Again she mutely obeyed him, and entered the room. It was a commodious
apartment, where an excellent view was offered of the surrounding
country on three sides. But looking from the window to discern his
assailants, Mauville could see nothing save the fields and openings,
fringed by the dark groves. The out-houses and barns were but dimly
outlined, while scattered trees here and there dotted the open spaces
with small, dark patches. A single streak of red yet lingered in the
west. A tiny spot, moving through the obscurity, proved to be a cow,
peacefully wandering over the dewy grass. The whirring sound of a
diving night-hawk gave evidence that a thing of life was inspecting
the scene from a higher point of vantage.
From that narrow, dark crimson ribbon, left behind by the flaunting
sun, a faint reflection entered the great open windows of the chamber
and revealed Mauville gazing without, pistol in hand; Constance
leaning against the curtains and the driver of the coach standing in
the center of the room, quaking inwardly and shaking outwardly. This
last-named had found an old blunderbuss somewhere, useful once
undoubtedly, but of questionable service now.
Meanwhile Oly-koeks had not returned. Having faithfully closed and
locked all the iron shutters, he had crept out of a cellar window and
voluntarily resigned as care-taker of the manor, with its burden of
dangers and vexations. With characteristic prudence, he had timed the
period of his departure with the beginning of the end in the fortunes
of the old patroon principality. The storm-cloud, gathering during the
life of Mauville's predecessor, was now ready to burst, the impending
catastrophe hastened by the heir's want of discretion and his failure
to adjust difficulties amicably. That small shadow, followed by a
smaller shadow, passing through the field, were none other than
Oly-koeks and Oloffe, who grew more and more imperceptible until they
were finally swallowed up and seemingly lost forever in the darkness
of the fringe of the forest.
A branch of a tree grated against the window as Mauville looked out
over the peaceful vale to the ribbon of red that was being slowly
withdrawn as by some mysterious hand. Gradually this adornment,
growing shorter and shorter, was wound up while the shadows of the
out-houses became deeper and the meadow lands appeared to recede in
the distance. As he scanned the surrounding garden, the land baron's
eye fell upon an indistinct figure stealing slowly across the sward in
the partial darkness. This object was immediately followed by another
and yet another. To the observer's surprise they wore the headgear of
Indians.
Suddenly the patroon heard the note of the whippoorwill, the nocturnal
songster that mourns unseen. It was succeeded by the sharp tones of a
saw-whet and the distinct mew of a cat-bird. A wild pigeon began to
coo softly in another direction and was answered by a thrush. The
listener vaguely realized that all this unexpected melody came from
the Indians, who had by this time surrounded the house and who took
this method of communicating with one another.
An interval of portentous silence was followed by a loud knocking at
the front door, which din reverberated through the hall, echoing and
re-echoing the vigorous summons. Mauville at this leaned from the
window and as he did so, there arose a hooting from the sward as
though bedlam had broken loose. Maintaining his post, the heir called
out:
"What do you want, men?"
At these words the demonstration became more turbulent, and, amid the
threatening hubbub, voices arose, showing too well the purpose of the
gathering. Aroused to a fever of excitement by the shooting of the
tenants, they were no longer skulking, stealthy Indians, but a riotous
assemblage of anti-renters, expressing their determination in an
ominous chorus:
"Hang the land baron!"
In the midst of this far from reassuring uproar a voice arose like a
trumpet:
"We are the messengers of the Lord, made strong by His wrath!"
"You are the messenger of the devil, Little Thunder," Mauville shouted
derisively.
A crack of a rifle admonished the land baron that the jest might have
cost him dear.