Isham Frederic Stewart
The Strollers

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, à 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!”

CHAPTER XIII
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 rôle 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 rôle 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.