The Strollers

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.