The Strollers

But as he drove through a bit of wood, wrapped in pleasing reflections, he received startling proof that the warfare between landlord and tenants had indeed begun in earnest, for a great stone suddenly crashed through the window of the vehicle, without, however, injuring the occupant. Springing from his carriage, Mauville dashed through the fringe of wood, discharging his revolver at what he fancied was a fleeing figure. But a fluttering in the trees from the startled birds was the only result.

Little Thunder was too spry to be caught by even a pursuing bullet.

CHAPTER X

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 rôle, 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.