The Strollers

“Yes. You understand? He follows her with his every glance,” she added roguishly. Susan was never averse to straining the truth a little when it served her purpose.

“I should infer he was following her with more than his eyes,” retorted the master of the manor dryly.

Susan tapped the stage viciously with a little foot. “She’s a lovely girl,” she continued, drawing cabalistic figures with the provoking slipper.

“You are piqued?” he said, watching her skeptically.

“Not at all.” Quickly, startled by his blunt accusation.

“Not a little jealous?” he persisted playfully.

“Jealous?” Then with a frown, hesitatingly: “Well, she is given prominence in the plays and–”

“–You would not be subordinated, if she were not in the company? Apart from this, you are fond of her?”

The foot ceased its tracing and rested firmly on the floor.

“I hate her!” snapped Susan, angered by this baiting. No sooner had she spoken than she regretted her outburst. “How you draw one out! I was only joking–though she does have the best parts and we take what we can get!”

“But she’s a lovely girl!” concluded the land baron. Susan’s eyes flashed angrily.

“How clever of you! You twist and turn one’s words about and give them a different meaning from what was intended. If I wanted to catch you up–”

“A truce!” he exclaimed. “Let us take each other seriously, hereafter. Is it agreed?” She nodded. “Well, seriously, you can help me and help yourself.”

“How?” doubtfully.

“Why not be allies?”

“What for?”

“Mutual service.”

“Oh!” dubiously.

“A woman’s ‘yes’!”

“No,” with affirmative answer in her eyes.

He believed the latter.

“We will seal the compact then.”

And he bent over and saluted Mistress Susan on the lips. She became as rosy as the flowers she carried and tapped him playfully with them.

“For shame! La! What must you think of me?”

“That you are an angel.”

“How lovely! But I must go.”

“May I see you after the play?”

“Yes.”

“Do not fail me, or the soldier will not transfer his affections to you!”

“If he dared!” And she shook her head defiantly as she tripped away.

“Little fool!” murmured Mauville, his lips curling scornfully. “The one is a pastime; the other”–he paused and caught his breath–“a passion!”

But he kept his appointment with Susan, escorting her to the hotel, where he bade her good-night with a lingering pressure of the hand, and–ordered his equipage to the door!

“Hadn’t you better wait until morning?” asked the surprised landlord, when the young patroon announced his intention of taking an immediate departure. “There are the barn-burners and–traveling at night–”

“Have they turned footpads?” was the light reply. “Can’t I drive through my own lands? Let me see one of their thieving faces–” And he made a significant gesture. “Not ride at night! These Jacobins shall not prevent me.”

Barring the possible danger from the lease-holders who were undoubtedly ripe for any mischief, the journey did not promise such discomfiture as might have been expected, the coach being especially constructed for night traveling. On such occasions, between the seats the space was filled by a large cushion, adapted to the purpose, which in this way converted the interior of the vehicle into a sleeping-room of limited dimensions. With pillows to neutralize the jarring, the land baron stretched himself indolently upon his couch, and gazed through the window at the crystalline lights of the heavens, while thoughts of lease-holders and barn-burners faded into thin air.

At dawn, when he opened his eyes, the morning star yet gleamed with a last pale luster. Raising himself on his elbow and looking out over the country to learn his whereabouts, his eye fell upon a tree, blood-red, a maple amid evergreens. Behind this somber community of pines, stiff as a band of Puritan elders, surrounding the bright-hued maple, a Hester in that austere congregation, appeared the glazed tile roof of Little Thunder’s habitation, a two-story abode of modest proportions and olden type. As the land baron passed, a brindle cow in the side yard saluted the morn, calling the sluggard from his couch, but at the manor, which the patroon shortly reached, the ever wakeful Oly-koeks was already engaged in chopping wood near the kitchen door. The growling of the hound at his feet called the care-taker’s attention to the master’s coming, and, driving the ax into an obstinate stick of hickory, he donned his coat, drawing near the vehicle, where he stood in stupid wonderment as the land baron alighted.

“Any callers, Oly-koeks?” carelessly asked the master.

“A committee of barn-burners, Mynheer, to ask you not to serve any more writs.”

“And so give them time to fight me with the lawmakers! But there; carry my portmanteau into the library and”–as Oloffe’s upper lip drew back–“teach your dog to know me.”

“He belonged to the old master, Mynheer. When he died, the dog lay near his grave day and night.”

“I dare say; like master, like dog! But fetch the portmanteau, you Dutch varlet!” Entering the house, while the coachman drove the tired horses toward the barn. “There’s something in it I want. Bring it here.” As he passed into the library. “Yes; I put it in there, I am sure. Ah, here we have it!” And unpacking the valise, he took therefrom a handsome French writing case.

“Thou Wily Limb of the Law,” wrote the patroon, “be it known by these presents, thou art summoned to appear before me! I have work for you–not to serve any one with a writ; assign; bring an action, or any of your rascally, pettifogging tricks! Send me no demurrer, but your own intemperate self.”

Which epistle the patroon addressed to his legal satellite and despatched by messenger.

CHAPTER XI

THE QUEST OF THE SOLDIER

Several bleak days were followed by a little June weather in October. A somnolent influence rested everywhere. Above the undulation of land on the horizon were the clouds, like heavenly hills, reflecting their radiance on those earthly elevations. The celestial mountains and valleys gave wondrous perspective to the outlook, and around them lay an atmosphere, unreal and idyllic.

On such a morning Susan stood at a turn in the road, gazing after a departing vehicle with ill-concealed satisfaction and yet withal some dubiousness. Now that the plan, suggested by Mauville, had not miscarried, certain misgivings arose, for there is a conscience in the culmination wanting in the conception of an act. As the partial realization of the situation swept over her, she gave a gasp, and then, the vehicle having meanwhile vanished, a desperate spirit of bravado replaced her momentary apprehension. She even laughed nervously as she waved her handkerchief in the direction the coach had taken: “Bon voyage!”

But as the words fell from the smiling lips, her eyes became thoughtful and her hand fell to her side; it occurred to Susan she would be obliged to divert suspicion from herself. The curling lips straightened; she turned abruptly and hastened toward the town. But her footsteps soon lagged and she paused thoughtfully.

“If I reach the hotel too soon,” she murmured, “they may overtake him.”

So she stopped at the wayside, attracted by the brilliant cardinal flowers, humming as she plucked them, but ever and anon glancing around guiltily. The absurd thought came to her that the bright autumn blossoms were red, the hue of sin, and she threw them on the sward, and unconsciously rubbed her hands on her dress.