The Strollers

“Yes; he was born with a silver spoon,” replied the person addressed.

As he passed through the envious throng, the land baron had regained his self-command, although his face was marked with an unusual pallor. In his mind one thought was paramount–that the walk begun at the burial-ground was drawing to an end; their last walk; the finale of all between them! Yet he could call to mind nothing further to say. His story had been told; the conclusion reached. She, too, had spoken, and he knew she would never speak differently. Bewildered and unable to adjust his new and strange feelings, it dawned upon him he had never understood himself and her; that he had never really known what love was, and he stood abashed, confronted by his own ignorance. Passion, caprice, fancy, he had seen depth in their shallows, but now looked down and discerned the pebbly bottom. All this and much more surged through his brain as he made his way through the crowd, and, entering the corridor of the hotel, took formal leave of the young girl at the stairway.

“Good-night, Miss Carew,” he said, gravely.

“Good-night,” she replied. And then, on the steps, she turned and looked down at him, extending her hand: “Thank you!”

That half-timid, low “thank you!” he knew was all he would ever receive from her. He hardly felt the hand-clasp; he was hardly conscious when she turned away. A heavier hand fell upon his shoulder.

“You sly dog!” said a thick voice. “Well, a judge of a good horse is a judge of a handsome woman! We’re making up a few bets on the horses to-morrow. Colonel Ogelby will ride Dolly D, and I’m to ride my Gladiator. It’ll be a gentlemen’s race.”

“Aren’t we gentlemen?” growled a professional turfsman.

“Gad! it’s the first time I ever heard a jockey pretend to be one!” chuckled the first speaker. “What do you say, Mauville?”

“What do I say?” repeated the land baron, striving to collect his thoughts. “What–why, I’ll make it an even thousand, if you ride your own horse, you’ll–”

“Win?” interrupted the proud owner.

“No; fall off before he’s at the second quarter!”

“Done!” said the man, immediately.

“Huzza!” shouted the crowd.

“That’s the way they bet on a gentlemen’s race!” jeered the gleeful jockey.

“Drinks on Gladiator!” exclaimed some one. And as no southern gentleman was ever known to refuse to drink to a horse or a woman, the party carried the discussion to the bar-room.

BOOK III

THE FINAL CUE

CHAPTER I

OVERLOOKING THE COURT-YARD

“In the will of the Marquis de Ligne, probated yesterday, all of the property, real and personal, is left to his daughter, Constance,” wrote Straws in his paper shortly after the passing of the French nobleman. “The document states this disposition of property is made as ‘an act of atonement and justice to my daughter, whose mother I deserted, taking advantage of the French law to annul my marriage in England.’ The legitimacy of the birth of this, his only child, is thereupon fully acknowledged by the marquis after a lapse of many years and long after the heretofore unrecognized wife had died, deserted and forgotten. Thrown on her own resources, the young child, with no other friend than Manager Barnes, battled with the world; now playing in taverns or barns, like the players of interludes, the strollers of old, or ‘vagabonds’, as the great and mighty Junius, from his lofty plane, termed them. The story of that period of ‘vagrant’ life adds one more chapter to the annals of strolling players which already include such names as Kemble, Siddons and Kean.

“From the Junius category to a public favorite of New Orleans has been no slight transition, and now, to appear in the rôle of daughter of a marquis and heiress to a considerable estate–truly man–and woman–play many parts in this brief span called life! But in making her sole heir the marquis specifies a condition which will bring regrets to many of the admirers of the actress. He robs her of her birthright from her mother. The will stipulates that the recipient give up her profession, not because it is other than a noble one, but ‘that she may the better devote herself to the duties of her new position and by her beneficence and charity remove the stain left upon an honored name by my second wife, the Duchesse D’Argens’.”

The marquis’ reference to “charity” and “beneficence” was in such ill-accord with his character that it might be suspected an adroit attorney, in drawing up the document, had surreptitiously inserted it. His proud allusion to his honored name and slurring suggestion of the taint put upon it by his second wife demonstrated the marquis was not above the foibles of his kind, overlooking his own light conduct and dwelling on that of his noble helpmate. It was the final taunt, and, as the lady had long since been laid in God’s Acre, where there is only silence divine, it received no answer, and the world was welcome to digest and gorge it and make the most of it.

But although the marquis and his lady had no further interest in subsequent events, growing out of their brief sojourn on earth, the contents of the will afforded a theme of gossip for the living and molded the affairs of one in new shape and manner. On the same day this public exposition appeared, Barnes and the young actress were seated in the law office of Marks and Culver, a room overlooking a court-yard, brightened by statues and urns of flowers. A plaster bust of Justinian gazed benignly through the window at a fountain; a steel engraving of Jeremy Bentham watched the butterflies, and Hobbes and John Austin, austere in portraiture, frowned darkly down upon the flowering garden. While the manager and Constance waited for the attorney to appear, they were discussing, not for the first time, the proviso of the will to which Straws had regretfully alluded.

“Yes,” said Barnes, folding the newspaper which contained Straws’ article and placing it in his pocket; “you should certainly give up the stage. We must think of the disappointments, the possible failure, the slender reward. There was your mother–such an actress!–yet toward the last the people flocked to a younger rival. I have often thought anxiously of your future, for I am old–yes, there is no denying it!–and any day I may leave you, dependent solely upon yourself.”

“Do not speak like that,” she answered, tenderly. “We shall be together many, many years.”

“Always, if I had my way,” he returned, heartily.

“But with this legacy you are superior to the fickle public. In fact, you are now a part of the capricious public, my dear,” he added in a jocular tone, “and may applaud the ‘heavy father,’ myself, or prattle about prevailing styles while the buskined tragedian is strutting below your box. Why turn to a blind bargain? Fame is a jade, only caught after our illusions are gone and she seems not half so sweet as when pursuing her in our dreams!”

But as he spoke, with forced lightness, beneath which, however, the young girl could readily detect the vein of anxiety and regret, she was regarding him with the clear eyes of affection. His face, seamed with many lines and bearing the deeply engraved handwriting of time, spoke plainly of declining years; every lineament was eloquent with vicissitudes endured; and as she discerningly read that varied past of which her own brief career had been a part, there entered her mind a brighter picture of a tranquil life for him at last, where in old age he could exchange uncertainty and activity for security and rest. How could she refuse to do as he desired? How often since fate had wrought this change in her life had she asked herself the question?

Her work, it is true, had grown dearer to her than ever; of late she had thrown herself into her task with an ardor and earnestness lifting each portrayal to a higher plane. Is it that only with sorrow comes the fulness of art; that its golden gates are never swung entirely open to the soul bearing no burden?

Closed to ruder buffetings, is it only to the sesame of a sad voice those portals spring magically back? But for his sake she must needs pause on the threshold of attainment, and stifle that ambition which of itself precluded consideration of a calm, uneventful existence. She was young and full of courage, but the pathos of his years smote her heart; something inexplicable had awakened her fears for him; she believed him far from well of late, although he laughed at her apprehensions and protested he had never been better in his life.

Now, reading the anxiety in his face as he watched her, she smiled reassuringly, her glance, full of love, meeting his.

“Everything shall be as you wish,” she said, softly. “You know what is best!”

The manager’s face lighted perceptibly, but before he could answer, the door opened, and Culver, the attorney, entered. With ruddy countenance and youthful bearing, in antithesis to the hair, silvered with white, he was one of those southern gentlemen who grow old gracefully. The law was his taskmaster; he practised from a sense of duty, but ever held that those who rushed to court were likely to repeat the experience of Voltaire, who had twice been ruined: once when he lost a law suit; the second time, when he won one! Nevertheless, people persisted in coming to Culver wantonly welcoming unknown ills.

“Well, Miss Carew,” he now exclaimed, after warmly greeting his visitors, “have you disburdened yourself of prejudice against this estate? Wealth may be a little hardship at first, but soon you won’t mind it.”

“Not a bit!” spoke up Barnes. “It’s as easy to get used to as–poverty, and we’ve had plenty of that!”

“You know the other condition?” she said, half-defiantly, half-sadly. “You are to be with me always.”

“How can you teach an old dog new tricks?” protested Barnes. “How can you make a fine man about town out of a ‘heavy father?’”

“The ‘heavy father’ is my father. I never knew any other. I am glad I never did.”

“Hoity-toity!” he exclaimed scoffingly, but pleased nevertheless.

“You can’t put me off that way,” she said, decisively, with a sudden flash in her eyes he knew too well to cross. “Either you leave the stage, too, or–”

“Of course, my dear, of course–”

“Then it’s all settled you will accept the encumbrance to which you have fallen heir,” resumed Culver. “Even if there had been no will in your favor, the State of Louisiana follows the French law, and the testator can under no circumstances alienate more than half his property, if he leave issue or descendants. Had the old will remained, its provisions could not have been legally carried out.”

“The old will?” said Barnes. “Then there was another will?”

“One made before he was aware of your existence, Miss Carew, in favor of his ward, Ernest Saint-Prosper.”

“Ernest Saint-Prosper!”

Constance’s cheeks flamed crimson, and her quick start of surprise did not escape the observant lawyer. Barnes, too, looked amazed over this unexpected intelligence.

“Saint-Prosper was the marquis’ ward?” he cried.

The attorney transferred his gaze from the expressive features of his fair client to the open countenance of the manager. “Yes,” he said.

“And would have inherited this property but for Constance?”

“Exactly! But you knew him, Mr. Barnes?”