Isham Frederic Stewart
The Strollers

CHAPTER V
THE LAWYER’S TIDINGS

The sudden and tragic death of Constance’s foster-father–which occurred virtually as narrated by Straws–set a seal of profound sadness on the heart of the young girl. “Good sir, adieu!” she had said in the nunnery scene and the eternal parting had shortly followed. Her affection for the old manager had been that of a loving daughter; the grief she should have experienced over the passing of the marquis was transferred to the memory of one who had been a father through love’s kinship. In the far-away past, standing at the bier of her mother, the manager it was who had held her childish hand, consoling her and sharing her affliction, and, in those distant but unforgotten days of trouble, the young girl and the homeless old man became all in all to each other.

Years had rolled by; the child that prattled by his side became the stately girl, but the hand-clasp at that grave had never been relinquished. She could not pretend to mourn the death of the marquis, her own father; had he not ever been dead to her; as dead as the good wife (or bad wife) of that nobleman; as dead as Gross George, and all the other honored and dishonored figures of that misty past? But Barnes’ death was the abrupt severing of ties, strengthened by years of tender association, and, when his last summons came, she felt herself truly alone.

In an old cemetery, amid the crumbling bricks, Barnes was buried, his sealed tomb above ground bearing in its inscription the answer to the duke’s query: “Thy Best of Life is Sleep.” After the manager’s death and Constance’s retirement from the stage, it naturally followed that the passengers of the chariot became separated. Mrs. Adams continued to play old woman parts throughout the country, remaining springy and buoyant to the last. Susan transferred herself and her talents to another stock company performing in New Orleans, while Kate procured an engagement with a traveling organization. Adonis followed in her train. It had become like second nature to quarrel with Kate, and at the mere prospect of separation, he forthwith was driven to ask her for her hand, and was accepted–on probation, thus departing in leading strings. Hawkes, melancholy as of old, drifted into a comic part in a “variety show,” acquiring new laurels as a dry comedian of the old school. But he continued to live alone in the world, mournfully sufficient unto himself.

Constance remained in New Orleans. There the old manager had found his final resting place and she had no definite desire to go elsewhere. Adrift in the darkness of the present, the young girl was too perplexed to plan for the future. So she remained in the house Barnes had rented shortly before his death. An elderly gentlewoman of fallen fortunes, to whom this semi-rural establishment belonged, Constance retained as a companion, passing her time quietly, soberly, almost in solitude. This mansion, last remnant of its owner’s earthly estate, was roomy and spacious, nestling among the oranges and inviting seclusion with its pretentious wall surrounding the grounds.

The old-fashioned gentlewoman, poor and proud, was a fitting figure in that ancient house, where in former days gay parties had assembled. But now the principal callers at the old house were the little fat priest, with a rosy smile, who looked after the aged lady’s soul, of which she was most solicitous in these later days, and the Count de Propriac, who came ostensibly to see the elderly woman and chat about genealogy and extraction, but was obviously not unmindful of the presence of the young girl nor averse to seeking to mitigate her sorrow. Culver, the lawyer, too, came occasionally, to talk about her affairs, but often her mind turned impatiently from figures and markets to the subtle rhythm of Shakespeare. She regretted having left the stage, feeling the loneliness of this simple existence; yet averse to seeking diversion, and shunning rather than inviting society. As the inert hours crept by, she longed for the forced wakefulness and stir of other days–happy days of insecurity; fleeting, joyous days, gone now beyond recall!

But while she was striving to solve these new problems of her life they were all being settled for her by Fate, that arrogant meddler. Calling one morning, Culver, nosegay in hand, was obliged to wait longer than usual and employed the interval in casually examining his surroundings–and, incidentally, himself. First, with the vanity of youngish old gentlemen, he gazed into a tall mirror, framed in the fantastic style of the early Venetians; a glass which had belonged to the marquis and had erstwhile reflected the light beauty of his noble spouse. Pausing about as long as it would have taken a lady to adjust a curl, he peeped into a Dutch cabinet of ebony and mother-of-pearl and was studying a charming creature painted on ivory, whose head like that of Bluebeard’s wife was subsequently separated from her lovely shoulders, when a light footstep behind him interrupted his scrutiny. Turning, he greeted the young girl, and, with stately gallantry, presented the nosegay.

“How well you are looking!” he said. “Though there might be a little more color, perhaps, like some of these flowers. If I were a doctor, I should prescribe: Less cloister; more city!”

She took the flowers, meeting his kindly gaze with a faint smile.

“Most patients would like such prescriptions,” he went on. “I should soon become a popular society physician.”

But although he spoke lightly, his manner was partly forced and he regarded her furtively. Their brief acquaintance had awakened in him an interest, half-paternal, half-curious. Women were an unknown, but beautiful quantity; from the vantage point of a life of single blessedness, he vaguely, but quixotically placed them in the same category with flowers, and his curiosity was no harsher than that of a gardener studying some new variety of bud or blossom. Therefore he hesitated in what he was about to say, shifting in his chair uneasily when they were seated, but finally coming to the point with:

“Have you read the account of the engagement between the Mexican and the American forces at Vera Cruz?”

“No; not yet,” she admitted.

“Nor the list of–of casualties?” he continued, hesitatingly.

“The casualties!” she repeated. “Why–”

“Saint-Prosper has no further interest in the marquis’ sous,” he said quickly.

She gazed straight before her, calm and composed. This absence of any exhibition of feeling reassured the attorney.

“He is–dead?” she asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“How did he die?”

“Gallantly,” replied the caller, now convinced she had no interest in the matter, save that of a mere acquaintance. “His death is described in half a column. You see he did not live in vain!”

“Was he–killed in battle?”

“In a skirmish. His company was sent to break up a band of guerilla rancheros at Antigua. They ambushed him; he drove them out of the thicket but fell–You have dropped your flowers. Allow me!–at the head of his men.”

“At the head of his men!” She drew in her breath.

“There passed the last of an ill-fated line,” said the lawyer, reflectively. “Poor fellow! He started with such bright prospects, graduating from the military college with unusual honors. Ambitious, light-hearted, he went to Africa to carve out a name in the army. But fate was against him. The same ship that took him over carried back, to the marquis, the story of his brother’s disgrace–”

“His brother’s disgrace!” she exclaimed.

Culver nodded. “He sold a French stronghold in Africa, Miss Carew.”

Had the attorney been closely observing her he would have noticed the sudden look of bewilderment that crossed her face. She stared at him with her soul in her eyes.

“Ernest Saint-Prosper’s–brother?”

The turmoil of her thoughts held her as by a spell; in the disruption of a fixed conclusion her brain was filled with new and poignant reflections. Unconsciously she placed a nervous hand upon his arm.

“Then Ernest Saint-Prosper who was–killed in Mexico was not the traitor?”

“Certainly not!” exclaimed Culver, quickly, “Owing to the disgrace, I am sure, more than to any other reason, he bade farewell to his country–and now lies unmourned in some mountain ravine. It is true the marquis quarreled with him, disliking not a little the young man’s republican ideas, but–my dear young lady!–you are ill?”

“No, no!” she returned, hastily, striving to maintain her self-possession. “How–do you know this?”

“Through the marquis, himself,” he replied, somewhat uneasy beneath her steady gaze. “He told me the story in order to protect the estate from any possible pretensions on the part of the traitor. The renegade was reported dead, but the marquis, nevertheless remained skeptical. He did not believe in the old saw about the devil being dead. ‘Le diable lives always,’ he said.”

The visitor observed a perceptible change in the young girl, just what he could not define, but to him it seemed mostly to lie in her eyes where something that baffled him looked out and met his glance.

“His brother was an officer in the French army?” she asked, as though forcing herself to speak.

“Yes; ten years older than Ernest Saint-Prosper, he had already made a career for himself. How eagerly, then, must the younger brother have looked forward to meeting him; to serving with one who, in his young eyes, was all that was brave and noble! What a bitter awakening from the dream! It is not those we hate who can injure us most–only those we love can stab us so deeply!”

Mechanically she answered the lawyer, and, when he prepared to leave, the hand, given him at parting, was as cold as ice.

“Remember,” he said, admonishingly; “less cloister, more city!”

Some hours later, the old lady, dressed in her heavy silk and brocade and with snow-white hair done up in imposing fashion, rapped on Constance’s door, but received no answer. Knocking again, with like result, she entered the room, discovering the young girl on the bed, her cheeks tinted like the rose, her eyes with no gleam of recognition in them, and her lips moving, uttering snatches of old plays. Taking her hand, the old lady found it hot and dry.

“Bless me!” she exclaimed. “She is down with a fever.” And at once prepared a simple remedy which soon silenced the babbling lips in slumber, after which she sent for the doctor.

CHAPTER VI
THE COUNCIL OF WAR

“Adjutant, tell Colonel Saint-Prosper I wish to see him.”

The adjutant saluted and turned on his heel, while General Scott bent over the papers before him, studying a number of rough pencil tracings. Absorbed in his task, the light of two candles on the table brought into relief, against the dark shadows, a face of rugged character and marked determination. Save for a slight contraction of the brow, he gave no evidence of the mental concentration he bestowed upon the matter in hand, which was to lead to the culmination of the struggle and to vindicate the wisdom and boldness of his policy.

“You sent for me, General?”

An erect, martial figure stood respectfully at the entrance of the tent.

“Yes,” said the General, pushing the papers from him. “I have been studying your drawings of the defensive works at San Antonio Garita and find them entirely comprehensive. A council of officers has been called, and perhaps it will be as well for you to remain.”

“At what time shall I be here, General?”

“It is about time now,” answered the commander-in-chief, consulting his watch. “You have quite recovered from your wounds?” he added, kindly.

“Yes, thank you, General.”

“I see by the newspapers you were reported dead. If your friends read that it will cause them needless anxiety. You had better see that the matter is corrected.”

“It is hardly worth while,” returned the young man, slowly.

The commanding general glanced at him in some surprise. “A strange fellow!” he thought. “Has he reasons for wishing to be considered dead? However, that is none of my business. At any rate, he is a good soldier.” And, after a moment, he continued: “Cerro Gordo was warm work, but there is warmer yet in store for us. Only Providence, not the Mexicans, can stop us. But here are the officers,” as General Pillow, Brevet-General Twiggs and a number of other officers entered.

The commander-in-chief proceeded to give such information as he had, touching the approaches to the city. Many of the officers favored operating against San Antonio Garita, others attacking Chapultepec. Saint-Prosper, when called on, stated that the ground before the San Antonio gate was intersected by many irrigating ditches and that much of the approach was under water.

“Then you would prefer storming a fortress to taking a ditch?” said one of the generals, satirically.

“A series of ditches,” replied the other.

“Colonel Saint-Prosper is right,” exclaimed the commanding general. “I had already made up my mind. Let it be the western gate, then.”

And thus was brought to a close one of the most memorable councils of war, for it determined the fate of the City of Mexico.

Saint-Prosper looked older than when seen in New Orleans, as though he had endured much in that brief but hard campaign. His wound had incapacitated him for only a few months, and in spite of the climate and a woful lack of medical attendance and nourishing supplies, his hardy constitution stood him in such stead he was on his feet and in the saddle, while his comrades languished and died in the fierce heat of the temporary hospitals. His fellow-officers knew him as a fearless soldier, but a man reticent about himself, who made a confidant of no one. Liked for his ready, broad military qualities, it was a matter of comment, nevertheless, that no one knew anything about him except that he had served in the French army and was highly esteemed by General Scott as a daring and proficient engineer.

One evening shortly before the skirmish of Antigua, a small Mexican town had been ransacked, where were found cattle, bales of tobacco, pulque and wine. At the rare feast which followed a veteran drank to his wife; a young man toasted his sweetheart, and a third, with moist eyes, sang the praises of his mother. In the heart of the enemy’s land, amid the uncertainties of war, remembrance carried them back to their native soil, rugged New England, the hills of Vermont, the prairies of Illinois, the blue grass of Kentucky.

“Saint-Prosper!” they cried, calling on him, when the festivities were at their height.

“To you, gentlemen,” he replied, rising, glass in hand. “I drink to your loved ones!”

“To your own!” cried a young man, flushed with the wine.

Saint-Prosper gazed around that rough company, brave hearts softened to tenderness, and, lifting his canteen, said, after a moment’s hesitation:

“To a princess on a tattered throne!”

They looked at him in surprise. Who was this adventurer who toasted princesses? The Mexican war had brought many soldiers of fortune and titled gentlemen from Europe to the new world, men who took up the cause more to be fighting than that they cared what the struggle was about. Was the “tattered throne” Louis Philippe’s chair of state, torn by the mob in the Tuileries? And what foreign princess was the lady of the throne? But they took up the refrain promptly, good-naturedly, and a chorus rolled out:

“To the princess!”

Little they knew she was but a poor stroller; an “impudent, unwomanish, graceless monster,” according to Master Prynne.

After leaving the commanding general’s tent, Saint-Prosper retired to rest in that wilderness which had once been a monarch’s pleasure grounds. Now overhead the mighty cypresses whispered their tales of ancient glory and faded renown; the wind waved those trailing beards, hoary with age; a gathering of venerable giants, murmuring the days when the Aztec monarch had once held courtly revels under the grateful shadows of their branches. The moaning breeze seemed the wild chant of the Indian priest in honor of the war-god of Anahuac. It told of battles to come and conflicts which would level to the dust the descendants of the conquerors of that ill-starred country. And so the soldier finally fell asleep, with that requiem ringing in his ears.

When daybreak again penetrated the mountain recesses and fell upon the valley, Saint-Prosper arose to shake off a troubled slumber. An unhealthy mist hung over the earth, like a miasma, and the officer shivered as he walked in that depressing and noxious atmosphere. It lay like a deleterious veil before the glades where myrtles mingled with the wild limes. It concealed from view a cross, said to have been planted by Cortez–the cross he worshiped because of its resemblance to the hilt of a sword!–and enveloped the hoary trees that were old when Montezuma was a boy or when Marina was beloved by the mighty free-booter.

The shade resting on the valley appeared that of a mighty, virulent hand. Out of the depths arose a flock of dark-hued birds, soaring toward the morbific fog; not moving like other winged creatures, with harmony of motion, but rising without unity, and filling the vale with discordant sounds. Nowhere could these sable birds have appeared more unearthly than in the “dark valley,” as it was called by the natives, where the mists moved capriciously, yet remained persistently within the circumference of this natural cauldron, now falling like a pall and again hovering in mid air. Suddenly the uncanny birds vanished among the trees as quickly as they had arisen, and there was something mysterious about their unwarranted disappearance and the abrupt cessation of clamorous cries.

While viewing this somber scene, Saint-Prosper had made his way to a little adobe house which the natives had built near the trail that led through the valley. As he approached this hut he encountered a dismal but loquacious sentinel, tramping before the partly opened door.

“This is chilly work, guard?” said the young man, pausing.

“Yis, Colonel,” replied the soldier, apparently grateful for the interruption; “it’s a hot foight I prefer to this cool dooty.”

“Whom are you guarding?” continued the officer.

“A spy, taken in the lines a few days ago. He’s to be executed this morning at six. But I don’t think he will moind that, for it’s out of his head he is, with the malaria.”

“He should have had medical attendance,” observed the officer, stepping to the door.

“Faith, they’ll cure him at daybreak,” replied the guard. “It’s a medicine that niver fails.”

Saint-Prosper pushed open the door. The interior was so dim that at first he could not distinguish the occupant, but when his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he discovered the figure of the prisoner, who was lying with his back toward him on the ground of the little hut with nothing but a thin blanket beneath him. The only light revealing the barren details of this Indian residence sifted through the small doorway or peered timorously down through a narrow aperture in the roof that served for a chimney. As Saint-Prosper gazed at the prostrate man, the latter moved uneasily, and from the parched lips fell a few words:

“Lock the doors, Oly-koeks! Hear the songsters, Mynheer Ten Breecheses! Birds of prey, you Dutch varlet! What do you think of the mistress of the manor? The serenading anti-renters have come for her.” Then he repeated more slowly: “The squaw Pewasch! For seventeen and one-half ells of duffels! A rare principality for the scornful minx! Lord! how the birds sing now around the manor–screech owls, cat-birds, bobolinks!”

The soldier started back, vivid memories assailing his mind. Who was this man whose brain, independent of the corporeal shell, played waywardly with scenes, characters and events, indissolubly associated with his own life?

“Do you know, Little Thunder, the Lord only rebuked the Pharisees?” continued the prostrate man. “Though the Pharisee triumphs after all! But it was the stroller I wanted, not the principality.”

He stirred quickly, as if suddenly aware of the presence of another in the hut, and, turning, lifted his head in a startled manner, surveying the figure near the doorway with conflicting emotions written on his pallid countenance. Perhaps some fragment of a dream yet lingered in his brain; perhaps he was confused at the sight of a face that met his excited look with one of doubt and bewilderment, but only partial realization of the identity of the intruder came to him in his fevered condition.

Arising deliberately, his body, like a machine, obeying automatically some unconscious power, he confronted the officer, who recognized in him, despite his thin, worn face and eyes, unnaturally bright, the once pretentious land baron, Edward Mauville. Moving toward the door, gazing on Saint-Prosper as though he was one of the figures of a disturbing phantasm, he reached the threshold, and, lifting his hand above his head, the prisoner placed it against one of the supports of the hut and stood leaning there. From the creation of his mind’s eye, as he doubtlessly, half-conscious of his weakness, designated the familiar form, he glanced at the sentinel and shook as though abruptly conscious of his situation. Across the valley the soldiers showed signs of bestirring themselves, the smoke of many fires hovering earthward beneath the mist. Drawing his thin frame proudly to its full height, with a gesture of disdain for physical weakness, and setting his keen, wild eyes upon the soldier, Mauville said in a hollow tone:

“Is that really you, Mr. Saint-Prosper? At first I thought you but a trick of the imagination. Well, look your fill upon me! You are my Nemesis come to see the end.”

“I am here by chance, Edward Mauville; an officer in the American army!”

“And I, a spy in the Mexican army. So are we authorized foes.”

Rubbing his trembling hands together, his eyes shifted from the dark birds to the mists, then from the phantom forests back to the hut, finally resting on his shabby boots of yellow leather. The sunlight penetrating a rift in the mist settled upon him as he moved feebly and uncertainly through the doorway and seated himself upon a stool. This sudden glow brought into relief his ragged, unkempt condition, the sallowness of his face, and his wasted form, and Saint-Prosper could not but contrast pityingly this cheerless object, in the garb of a ranchero, with the prepossessing, sportive heir who had driven through the Shadengo Valley.

Apparently now the sun was grateful to his bent, stricken figure, and, basking in it, he recalled his distress of the previous night:

“This is better. Not long ago I awoke with chattering teeth. ‘This,’ I said, ‘is life; a miasma, cold, discomfort,’ Yes, yes; a fever, a miasma, with phantoms fighting you–struggling to choke you–but now”–he paused, and fumbling in his pocket, drew out a cigarette case, which he opened, but found empty. A cigar the other handed him he took mechanically and lighted with scrupulous care. Near at hand the guard, more cheerful under the prospect of speedy relief from his duties, could be heard humming to himself:

 
 “Oh, Teady-foley, you are my darling,
You are my looking-glass night and morning–”
 

Watching the smoker, Saint-Prosper asked himself how came Mauville to be serving against his own country, or why he should have enlisted at all, this pleasure-seeking man of the world, to whom the hardships of a campaign must have been as novel as distasteful.

“Are you satisfied with your trial?” said the soldier at length.

“Yes,” returned Mauville, as if breaking from a reverie. “I confess I am the secret agent of Santa Anna and would have carried information from your lines. I am here because there is more of the Latin than the Anglo-Saxon in me. Many of the old families”–with a touch of insane pride–“did not regard the purchase of Louisiana by the United States as a transaction alienating them from other ties. Fealty is not a commercial commodity. But this,” he added, scornfully, “is something you can not understand. You soldiers of fortune draw your swords for any master who pays you.”

The wind moaned down the mountain side, and the slender trees swayed and bent; only the heavy and ponderous cactus remained motionless, a formidable monarch receiving obeisance from supple courtiers. Like cymbals, the leaves clashed around this armament of power with its thousand spears out-thrust in all directions.

The ash fell from the cigar as Mauville held the weed before his eyes.

“It is an hour-glass,” he muttered. “When smoked–Oh, for the power of Jupiter to order four nights in one, the better to pursue his love follies! Love follies,” he repeated, and, as a new train of fancy was awakened, he regarded Saint-Prosper venomously.

“Do you know she is the daughter of a marquis?” said Mauville, suddenly.

“Who?” asked the soldier.

“The stroller, of course. You can never win her,” he added, contemptuously. “She knows all about that African affair.”

Saint-Prosper started violently, but in a moment Mauville’s expression changed, and he appeared plunged in thought.

“The last time I saw her,” he said, half to himself, “she was dressed in black–her face as noonday–her hair black as midnight–crowning her with languorous allurement!”

He repeated the last word several times like a man in a dream.

“Allurement! allurement!” and again relapsed into a silence that was half-stupor.

By this time the valley, with the growing of the day, began to lose much of its evil aspect, and the eye, tempted through glades and vistas, lingered upon gorgeous forms of inflorescence. The land baron slowly blew a wreath of smoke in the air–a circle, mute reminder of eternity!–and threw the end of the cigar into the bushes. Looking long and earnestly at the surrounding scene, he started involuntarily. “The dark valley–whar de mists am risin’–I see yo’ da, honey–fo’ebber and fo’ebber–”

As he surveyed this prospect, with these words ringing in his ears, the brief silence was broken by a bugle call and the trampling of feet.

“The trumpet shall sound and the dead shall arise,” said the prisoner, turning and facing the soldiers calmly. “You have come for me?” he asked, quietly.

“Yes,” said the officer in command. “General Scott has granted your request in view of certain circumstances, and you will be shot, instead of hanged.”

The face of the prisoner lighted wonderfully. He drew himself erect and smiled with some of the assumption of the old insolence, that expression Saint-Prosper so well remembered! His features took on a semblance to the careless, dashing look they had borne when the soldier crossed weapons with him at the Oaks, and he neither asked nor intended to give quarter.

“I thank you,” he observed, courteously. “At least, I shall die like a gentleman. I am ready, sir! Do not fasten my hands. A Mauville can die without being tied or bound.”

The officer hesitated: “As to that–” he began.

“It is a reasonable request,” said Saint-Prosper, in a low tone.

Mauville abruptly wheeled; his face, dark and sinister, was lighted with envenomed malignity; an unnaturally clear perception replaced the stupor of his brain, and, bending toward Saint-Prosper, his eye rested upon him with such rancor and malevolence the soldier involuntarily drew away. But one word fell from the land baron’s lips, low, vibrating, full of inexpressible bitterness. “Traitor!”

“Come, come!” interrupted the officer in command of the execution party; “time is up. As I was told not to fasten your hands, you shall have your wish. Confess now, that is accommodating?”

“Thanks,” returned Mauville carelessly, relapsing into his old manner. “You are an obliging fellow! I would do as much for you.”

“Not much danger of that,” growled the other. “But we’ll take the will for the deed. Forward, march!”

After the reverberations, carried from rock to rock with menacing reiteration, had ceased, the stillness was absolute. Even the song-bird remained frightened into silence by those awful echoes. Then the sun rested like a benediction on the land and the white cross of Cortez was distinctly outlined against the blue sky. But soon the long roll of drums followed this interval of quiet.

“Fall in!” “Attention; shoulder arms!” And the sleeping spirit of the Aztec war-god floated in the murmur which, increasing in volume, arose to tumultuous shout.

“On to Chapultepec! On to Chapultepec!” came from a thousand throats; arms glistened in the sun, bugles sounded resonant in the air, and the pattering noise of horses’ hoofs mingled with the stentorian voices of the rough teamsters and the cracking of the whips. Like an irresistible, all-compelling wave, the troops swept out of the valley to hurl themselves against castle and fortress and to plant their colors in the heart of the capital city.