The Strollers

“Oh, I’m not a viper! If you’re put out, so am I.”

“Who are you?” she demanded, breathlessly.

“That’s an incriminating question, Ma’am,” he replied. “In this case, though, the witness has no objection to answering. I’m your humble servant.”

His forced drollery was more obnoxious than his ill-humor, and, awakening her impatience, restored in a measure her courage. He was but a pitiful object, after all, with his flame-colored visage, and short, crouching figure; and, as her thoughts passed from the brutal part he had played on the road to her present situation, she exclaimed with more anger than apprehension:

“Perhaps you will tell me the meaning of this outrage–your smothering me–forcing me into this coach–and driving away–where?”

His face became once more downcast and moody. Driven into a corner by her swift words, his glance met hers fairly; he drummed his fingers together.

“There’s no occasion to show your temper, Miss,” he said reflectively. “I’m a bit touchy myself to-day; ‘sudden and quick in quarrel.’ You see I know my Shakespeare, Ma’am. Let us talk about that great poet and the parts you, as an actress, prefer–”

“Can I get an answer from you?” she cried, subduing her dread.

“What is it you asked?”

“As if you did not know!” she returned, her lip trembling with impatience and loathing.

“Yes; I remember.” Sharply. “You asked where we were driving? Across the country. What is the meaning of this–outrage, I believe you called it? All actions spring from two sources–Cupid and cupidity. The rest of the riddle you’ll have to guess.” Gazing insolently into her face, with his hands on his knees.

“But you have told me nothing,” she replied, striving to remain mistress of herself and to hide her apprehension.

“Do you call that nothing? You have the approximate cause–causa causans. Was it Cupid? No, for like Bacon, your sex’s ‘fantastical’ charms move me not.”

This sally put him in better temper with himself. She was helpless, and he experienced a churlish satisfaction in her condition.

“What was it, then? Cupidity. Do you know what poverty is like in this barren region?” he cried harshly. “The weapons of education only unfit you for the plow. You stint, pinch, live on nothing!” He rubbed his dry hands together. “It was crumbs and scraps under the parsimonious régime; but now the prodigal has come into his own and believes in honest wages and a merry life.”

Wonderingly she listened, the scene like a grotesque dream, with the ever-moving coach, the lonely road, the dark woods, and–so near, she could almost place her hand upon him–this man, muttering and mumbling. He had offered her the key of the mystery, but she had failed to use it. His ambiguous, loose talk, only perplexed and alarmed her; the explanation was none at all.

As he watched her out of the corner of his eye, weighing doubt and uncertainty, new ideas assailed him. After all she had spirit, courage! Moreover, she was an actress, and the patroon was madly in love with her.

“If we were only leagued together, how we could strip him!” he thought.

His head dropped contemplatively to his breast, and for a long interval he remained silent, abstracted, while the old springless coach, with many a jolt and jar, covered mile after mile; up the hills, crowned with bush and timber; across the table land; over the plank bridges spanning the brooks and rivulets. More reconciled to his part and her presence, his lips once or twice parted as if he were about to speak, but closed again. He even smiled, showing his amber-hued teeth, nodding his head in a friendly fashion, as to say: “It’ll come out all right, Madam; all right for both of us!” Which, indeed, was his thought. She believed him unsettled, bereft of reason, and, although, he was manifestly growing less hostile, his surveillance became almost unbearable. At every moment she felt him regarding her like a lynx, and endeavored therefore to keep perfectly still. What would her strange warder do next? It was not an alarming act, however. He consulted a massive watch, remarking:

“It’s lunch time and over! With your permission, I’ll take a bite and a drop. Will you join me?”

She turned her head away, and, not disconcerted by her curt refusal, he drew a wicker box from beneath a seat and opened it. His reference to a “bite and a drop” was obviously figurative, especially the “drop,” which grew to the dimensions of a pint, which he swallowed quickly. Perhaps the flavor of the wine made him less attentive to his prisoner, for as he lifted the receptacle to his lips, she thrust her arms through the window and a play book dropped from her hand, a possible clue for any one who might follow the coach. For some time she had been awaiting this opportunity and when it came, the carriage was entering a village.

Scroggs finished his cup. “You see, we’re provided for,” he began. Here the bottle fell from his hand.

“The patroon village!” he exclaimed in consternation. “I’d forgotten we were so close! And they’re all gathered in the square, too!”

He cast a quick glance at her. “You’re all ready to call for help,” he sneered, “but I’m not ready to part company yet.”

Hastily drawing up one of the wooden shutters, he placed himself near the other window, observing fiercely; “I don’t propose you shall undo what’s being done for you. Let me hear from you”–jerking his finger toward the square–“and I’ll not answer for what I’ll do.” But in spite of his admonition he read such determination in her eyes, he felt himself baffled.

“You intend to make trouble!” he cried. And putting his head suddenly through the window, he called to the driver: “Whip the horses through the market place!”

As the affrighted animals sprang forward he blocked the window, placing one hand on her shoulder. He felt her escape from his grasp, but not daring to leave his post, he leaned out of the window when they were opposite the square, and shook his fist at the anti-renters, exclaiming:

“I’ll arrest every mother’s son of you! I’ll evict you–jail you for stealing rent!”

Drowned by the answering uproar, “The patroon’s dog!” “Bullets for deputies!” the emissary of the land baron continued to threaten the throng with his fist, until well out of ear-shot, and, thanks to the level road, beyond reach of their resentment. Not that they strove to follow him far, for they thought the jackal had taken leave of his senses. Laughter mingled with their jeers at the absurd figure he presented, fulminating and flying at the same time. But there was no defiance left in him when they were beyond the village, and he fell back into his seat, his face now ash-colored.

“If they’d stopped us my life wouldn’t have been worth the asking,” he muttered hoarsely. “But I did it!” Triumphantly gazing at the young girl who, trembling with excitement, leaned against the side of the coach. “I see you managed to get down the shutter. I hope you heard your own voice. I didn’t; and, what’s more, I’m sure they didn’t!”

With fingers he could hardly control he opened a second bottle, dispensed with the formality of a glass, and set the neck to his lips, repeating the operation until it was empty, when he tossed it out of the window to be shattered against a rock, after which he sank again into a semblance of meditation.

Disappointed over her ineffectual efforts, overcome by the strain, the young girl for the time relaxed all further attempt. Unseen, unheard, she had stood at her window! She had tried to open the door, but it resisted her frantic efforts, and then the din had died away and left her weak, powerless, hardly conscious of the hateful voice of her companion from time to time addressing her.

But fortunately he preferred the gross practice of draining the cup to the fine art of conversation. Left to the poor company of her thoughts, she dwelt upon the miscarriage of her design, and the slender chance of assistance. They would probably pass through no more villages and if they did, he would undoubtedly find means to prevent her making herself known. Unless–and a glimmer of hope flickered through her thoughts!–her warder carried his potations to a point where vigilance ceased to be a virtue. Inconsiderately he stopped at the crucial juncture, with all the signs of contentment and none of drowsiness.

So minutes resolved themselves into hours and the day wore on. Watching the sun-rays bathe the top of the forest below them, she noted how fast the silver disk was descending. The day which had seemed interminable now appeared but too short, and she would gladly have recalled those fleeting hours. Ignorant of the direction in which they had been traveling, she realized that the driver had been unsparing and the distance covered not inconsiderable. The mystery of the assault, the obscurity of the purpose and the vagueness of their destination were unknown quantities which, added to the declining of the day and the brewing terrors of the night, were well calculated to terrify and crush her.

Despairingly, she observed how the sun dipped, and ever dipped toward the west, when suddenly a sound afar rekindled her fainting spirits. Listening more attentively, she was assured imagination had not deceived her; it was the faint patter of a horse’s hoofs. Nearer it drew; quicker beat her pulses. Moreover, it was the rat-a-tat of galloping. Some one was pursuing the coach on horseback. Impatient to glance behind, she only refrained for prudential reasons.

Immersed in his own grape-vine castle her jailer was unmindful of the approaching rider, and she turned her face from him that he might not read her exultation. Closer resounded the beating hoofs, but her impatience outstripped the pursuer, and she was almost impelled to rush to the window.

Who was the horseman? Was it Barnes? Saint-Prosper? The latter’s name had quickly suggested itself to her.

Although the rider, whoever he might be, continued to gain ground, to her companion, the approaching clatter was inseparable from the noise of the vehicle, and it was not until the horseman was nearly abreast, and the cadence of the galloping resolved itself into clangor, that the dreamer awoke with an imprecation. As he sprang to his feet, thus rudely disturbed, a figure on horseback dashed by and a stern voice called to the driver:

“Stop the coach!”

Probably the command was given over the persuasive point of a weapon, for the animals were drawn up with a quick jerk and came to a standstill in the middle of the road. Menacing and abusive, as the vehicle stopped, the warder’s hand sought one of his pockets, when the young girl impetuously caught his arm, clinging to it tenaciously.

“Quick!–Mr. Saint-Prosper!” she cried, recognizing, as she thought, the voice of the soldier.

“You wild-cat!” her jailer exclaimed, struggling to throw her off.

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–”