The Strollers

“Love? No.” Coldly.

“You do not fear a woman scorned?” Her lips curved in a smile, displaying her faultless teeth.

“Not when the avenging angel is so charming and so heartless!” he added satirically.

Her lashes veiled the azure orbs.

“You think to disarm her with a compliment? How well you understand women!” And, as he rose, the pressure of the hand she gave him at parting was lingering.

Above in his room, Barnes, with plays and manuscripts scattered around him, was engaged in writing in his note and date book, wherein autobiography, ledger and journal accounts, and such miscellaneous matter mingled indiscriminately. “To-day she said to me: ‘I am going to the races with Mr. Saint-Prosper.’ What did I say? ‘Yes,’ of course. What can there be in common between Lear and Juliet? Naturally, she sometimes turns from an old fellow like me–now, if she were only a slip of a girl again–with her short frock–her disorder of long ringlets–running and romping–

“A thousand details pass through my mind, reminiscences of her girlhood, lightening a lonesome life like glimmerings of sunshine in a secluded wood; memories of her mother and the old days when she played in my New York theater–for Barnes, the stroller, was once a metropolitan manager! Her fame had preceded her and every admirer of histrionic art eagerly awaited her arrival.

“But the temple of art is a lottery. The town that had welcomed her so wildly now went Elssler-mad. The gossamer floatings of this French danseuse possessed everyone. People courted trash and trumpery. Greatness gave way to triviality. This pitiful condition preyed upon her. The flame of genius never for a moment became less dim, but her eyes grew larger, brighter, more melancholy. Sometimes she would fall into a painful reverie and I knew too well the subject of her thoughts. With tender solicitude she would regard her daughter, thinking, thinking! She was her only hope, her only joy!

“‘The town wants dancers, not tragedians, Mr. Barnes,’ she said sadly one day.

“‘Nonsense,’ I replied. ‘The town wants a change of bill. We will put on a new piece next week.’

“‘It will be but substituting one tragedy for another,’ she retorted. ‘One misfortune for a different one! You should import a rival dancer. You are going down; down hill! I will leave you; perhaps you will discover your dancer, and your fortune is made!’

“‘And you? What would you do?’ I demanded. ‘And your child?’

“At this her eyes filled and she could not answer. ‘And now, Madam,’ I said firmly, ‘I refuse once and for all to permit you to break your contract. Pooh! The tide will change. Men and women are sometimes fools; but they are not fools all the time. The dancer will have had her day. She will twirl her toes to the empty seats and throw her kisses into unresponsive space. Our patrons will gradually return; they will grow tired of wriggling and twisting, and look again for a more substantial diet.’

“Matters did, indeed, begin to mend somewhat, when to bring the whole fabric tumbling down on our heads, this incomparable woman fell ill.

“‘You see? I have ruined you,’ she said sadly.

“‘I am honored, Madam,’ was all I could reply.

“She placed her hand softly on mine and let her luminous eyes rest on me.

“‘Dear old friend!’ she murmured.

“Then she closed her eyes and I thought she was sleeping. Some time elapsed when she again opened them.

“‘Death will break our contract, Mr. Barnes,’ she said softly.

“I suppose my hand trembled, for she tightened her grasp and continued firmly: ‘It is not so terrible, after all, or would not be, but for one thing.’

“‘You will soon get well, Madam,’ I managed to stammer.

“‘No! Do you care? It is pleasant to have one true, kind friend in the world; one who makes a woman believe again in the nobility of human nature. My life has been sad as you know. I should not regret giving it up. Nor should I fear to die. I can not think that God will be unkind to one who has done her best; at least, has tried to. Yet there is one thing that makes me crave for life. My child–what will she do–poor, motherless, fatherless girl–all alone, all alone–.

“‘Madam, if I may–will you permit me to care for her? If I might regard her as my child!’

“How tightly she held my hand at that! Her eyes seemed to blaze with heavenly fire. But let me not dwell further upon the sad events that led to the end of her noble career. Something of her life I had heard; something, I surmised. Unhappy as a woman, she was majestic as an actress; the fire of her voice struck every ear; its sweetness had a charm, never to be forgotten. But only to those who knew her well were revealed the unvarying truth and simplicity of her nature. Even as I write, her spirit, tender and steadfast, seems standing by my side; I feel her eyes in the darkness of night, and, when the time comes–and often of late, it has seemed not far–to go from this mere dressing-room, the earth, into the higher life–”

A knock at the door rudely dispelled these memories. For a moment the manager looked startled, as one abruptly called back to his immediate surroundings; then the pen fell from his hand, and he pushed the book from him to the center of the table.

“Come in,” he said.

The door opened and Saint-Prosper entered.

“Am I interrupting you?” asked the soldier, glancing at the littered table.

“Not at all,” answered the manager, recovering himself, and settling back in his chair. “Make yourself at home. You’ll find some cigars on the mantel, or if you prefer your pipe, there’s a jar of tobacco on the trunk. Do you find it? I haven’t had time yet to bring order out of chaos. A manager’s trunks are like a junk-shop, with everything from a needle to an anchor.”

Filling his pipe from the receptacle indicated, which lay among old costumes and wigs, the soldier seated himself near an open window that looked out upon a balcony. Through a door at the far end of the balcony a light streamed from a chandelier within, playing upon the balustrade. Once the figure of the young actress stepped for a moment out upon the balcony; she leaned upon the balustrade, looked across the city, breathed the perfume of the flowers, and then quickly vanished.

“Can you spare me a little time to-morrow morning–early–before rehearsal?” said Saint-Prosper, finally.

“Yes,” returned the manager, in surprise. “What is it?”

“A foolish piece of business! The patroon is in New Orleans.”

Barnes uttered an exclamation of annoyance and apprehension. “Here! What is he doing here?” he said. “I thought we had seen the last of him. Has he followed–Constance?”

“I don’t know. We met yesterday at the races.”

“It is strange she did not tell me about it,” remarked the manager, without endeavoring to conceal the anxiety this unexpected information afforded him.

“She does not know he is here.” And Saint-Prosper briefly related the circumstances of his meeting with the land baron, to which the manager listened attentively.

“And so she must be dragged into it?” exclaimed Barnes at length, resentfully. “Her name must become public property in a broil?”

A frown darkened the soldier’s face, but he replied quickly: “Need any one know? The land baron has not been seen with her.”

“No; but you have,” returned the manager, suddenly pausing and looking down at the other.

The silence between them lasted for some moments. Barnes stood with his hands in his pockets, his face downcast and moody. He felt that events were happening over which he had no control, but which were shaping the destiny of all he loved best. In the dim light the rugged lines of his countenance were strongly, decisively outlined. Turning to the trunk, with a quick, nervous step, he filled a pipe himself. After he had lighted it, he once more contemplated the soldier, thinking deeply, reviewing the past.

“We have been together for some time, Mr. Saint-Prosper,” he said, at length. “We have gone through fair and rough weather, and”–he paused a moment before continuing–“should understand each other. You asked me when you came in if you were interrupting me, and I told you that you were not. As a matter of fact, you were.”

And, walking to a table, Barnes took up the notebook.

“A garrulous, single man must tell his little secrets somewhere,” he continued. “Will you look at the pages I was writing when you came in?”

Saint-Prosper took the book, and, while he was turning the leaves that were hardly dry, the manager relighted his pipe, over which he glanced nervously from time to time at his companion. Finally, when the soldier had finished the perusal of the diary, Barnes turned to him expectantly, but the other silently laid down the little volume, and, after waiting some moments for him to speak, the manager, as though disappointed by his reticence, breathed a sigh. Then, clearing his throat, in a voice somewhat husky, he went on, simply:

“You will understand now why she is so much to me. I have always wanted to keep her from the world as much as possible; to have her world, her art! I have tried to keep the shadow of the past from her. An actress has a pretty face; and there’s a hue and cry! It is not notoriety she seeks, but fame; fame, bright and pure as sunlight!”

“The land baron will not cry abroad the cause of the meeting,” said the soldier, gravely. “These fashionable affairs need but flimsy pretexts.”

“Flimsy pretexts!” cried Barnes. “A woman’s reputation–her good name–”

“Hush!” said Saint-Prosper.