The Strollers

“As many as you please!” cried his flattered brother-bard. “What shall it be?”

“One of your Rhymes for Children. Your ‘Boy’s Kingdom,’ beginning:

“When I was young, I dreamed of knights
And dames with silken trains.”

“Thou shalt have it, mon ami!”

And Phazma gaily caught up the refrain, while Straws beat time to the tinkling measures.

The last entry in the date-book, or diary, of Barnes seems curiously significant as indicating a knowledge that his end was near. For the first time in the volume he rambles on in a reminiscent mood about his boyhood days:

“The first bit of good fortune I ever enjoyed was when as a lad in sweeping a crossing in the neighborhood of the Strand I found a bright, shining sovereign. How tightly I grasped it in my little fist that night when I slept in a doorway! I dared not trust it in my pocket. The next night I walked to the ticket-seller at Drury Lane, and demanded a seat down stairs. ‘Gallery seats sold around the corner,’ said this imposing gentleman with a prodigious frown, and, abashed, I slunk away. My dream of being near the grand people vanished and I climbed once more to my place directly under the roof.

“My next bit of good fortune happened in this wise. Sheridan, the playwright-orator, attracted my attention on Piccadilly one day, and, for the delight of gazing upon him, I followed. When he stopped, I stopped; when he advanced, I did likewise. I felt that I was treading in the footsteps of a king. Suddenly he paused, wheeled about and confronted me, a raw-boned, ragged, awkward lad of fourteen. ‘What one of my creditors has set you following me?’ he demanded. ‘None, sir,’ I stammered. ‘I only wanted to look at the author of “The Rivals.”’ He appeared much amused and said: ‘Egad! So you are a patron of the drama, my boy?’ I muttered something in the affirmative. He regarded my appearance critically. ‘I presume you would not be averse to genteel employment, my lad?’ he asked. With that he scribbled a moment and handed me a note to the property man of Drury Lane. My heart was too full; I had no words to thank him. The tears were in my eyes, which, noting, he remarked, with an assumption of sternness: ‘Are you sure, boy, you are not a bailiff in disguise?’ At this I laughed and he left me. The note procured me an engagement as errand boy at the stage-door and later I rose to the dignity of scene-shifter. How truly typical of this man’s greatness, to help lift a homeless lad out of the gutters of London town!

“But I am rambling on as though writing an autobiography, to be read when I am gone–”

Here the entry ceases and the rest of the pages in the old date-book are blank.

CHAPTER V

THE LAWYER’S TIDINGS

The sudden and tragic death of Constance’s foster-father–which occurred virtually as narrated by Straws–set a seal of profound sadness on the heart of the young girl. “Good sir, adieu!” she had said in the nunnery scene and the eternal parting had shortly followed. Her affection for the old manager had been that of a loving daughter; the grief she should have experienced over the passing of the marquis was transferred to the memory of one who had been a father through love’s kinship. In the far-away past, standing at the bier of her mother, the manager it was who had held her childish hand, consoling her and sharing her affliction, and, in those distant but unforgotten days of trouble, the young girl and the homeless old man became all in all to each other.

Years had rolled by; the child that prattled by his side became the stately girl, but the hand-clasp at that grave had never been relinquished. She could not pretend to mourn the death of the marquis, her own father; had he not ever been dead to her; as dead as the good wife (or bad wife) of that nobleman; as dead as Gross George, and all the other honored and dishonored figures of that misty past? But Barnes’ death was the abrupt severing of ties, strengthened by years of tender association, and, when his last summons came, she felt herself truly alone.

In an old cemetery, amid the crumbling bricks, Barnes was buried, his sealed tomb above ground bearing in its inscription the answer to the duke’s query: “Thy Best of Life is Sleep.” After the manager’s death and Constance’s retirement from the stage, it naturally followed that the passengers of the chariot became separated. Mrs. Adams continued to play old woman parts throughout the country, remaining springy and buoyant to the last. Susan transferred herself and her talents to another stock company performing in New Orleans, while Kate procured an engagement with a traveling organization. Adonis followed in her train. It had become like second nature to quarrel with Kate, and at the mere prospect of separation, he forthwith was driven to ask her for her hand, and was accepted–on probation, thus departing in leading strings. Hawkes, melancholy as of old, drifted into a comic part in a “variety show,” acquiring new laurels as a dry comedian of the old school. But he continued to live alone in the world, mournfully sufficient unto himself.

Constance remained in New Orleans. There the old manager had found his final resting place and she had no definite desire to go elsewhere. Adrift in the darkness of the present, the young girl was too perplexed to plan for the future. So she remained in the house Barnes had rented shortly before his death. An elderly gentlewoman of fallen fortunes, to whom this semi-rural establishment belonged, Constance retained as a companion, passing her time quietly, soberly, almost in solitude. This mansion, last remnant of its owner’s earthly estate, was roomy and spacious, nestling among the oranges and inviting seclusion with its pretentious wall surrounding the grounds.

The old-fashioned gentlewoman, poor and proud, was a fitting figure in that ancient house, where in former days gay parties had assembled. But now the principal callers at the old house were the little fat priest, with a rosy smile, who looked after the aged lady’s soul, of which she was most solicitous in these later days, and the Count de Propriac, who came ostensibly to see the elderly woman and chat about genealogy and extraction, but was obviously not unmindful of the presence of the young girl nor averse to seeking to mitigate her sorrow. Culver, the lawyer, too, came occasionally, to talk about her affairs, but often her mind turned impatiently from figures and markets to the subtle rhythm of Shakespeare. She regretted having left the stage, feeling the loneliness of this simple existence; yet averse to seeking diversion, and shunning rather than inviting society. As the inert hours crept by, she longed for the forced wakefulness and stir of other days–happy days of insecurity; fleeting, joyous days, gone now beyond recall!

But while she was striving to solve these new problems of her life they were all being settled for her by Fate, that arrogant meddler. Calling one morning, Culver, nosegay in hand, was obliged to wait longer than usual and employed the interval in casually examining his surroundings–and, incidentally, himself. First, with the vanity of youngish old gentlemen, he gazed into a tall mirror, framed in the fantastic style of the early Venetians; a glass which had belonged to the marquis and had erstwhile reflected the light beauty of his noble spouse. Pausing about as long as it would have taken a lady to adjust a curl, he peeped into a Dutch cabinet of ebony and mother-of-pearl and was studying a charming creature painted on ivory, whose head like that of Bluebeard’s wife was subsequently separated from her lovely shoulders, when a light footstep behind him interrupted his scrutiny. Turning, he greeted the young girl, and, with stately gallantry, presented the nosegay.

“How well you are looking!” he said. “Though there might be a little more color, perhaps, like some of these flowers. If I were a doctor, I should prescribe: Less cloister; more city!”

She took the flowers, meeting his kindly gaze with a faint smile.

“Most patients would like such prescriptions,” he went on. “I should soon become a popular society physician.”

But although he spoke lightly, his manner was partly forced and he regarded her furtively. Their brief acquaintance had awakened in him an interest, half-paternal, half-curious. Women were an unknown, but beautiful quantity; from the vantage point of a life of single blessedness, he vaguely, but quixotically placed them in the same category with flowers, and his curiosity was no harsher than that of a gardener studying some new variety of bud or blossom. Therefore he hesitated in what he was about to say, shifting in his chair uneasily when they were seated, but finally coming to the point with:

“Have you read the account of the engagement between the Mexican and the American forces at Vera Cruz?”

“No; not yet,” she admitted.

“Nor the list of–of casualties?” he continued, hesitatingly.

“The casualties!” she repeated. “Why–”

“Saint-Prosper has no further interest in the marquis’ sous,” he said quickly.

She gazed straight before her, calm and composed. This absence of any exhibition of feeling reassured the attorney.

“He is–dead?” she asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“How did he die?”

“Gallantly,” replied the caller, now convinced she had no interest in the matter, save that of a mere acquaintance. “His death is described in half a column. You see he did not live in vain!”

“Was he–killed in battle?”

“In a skirmish. His company was sent to break up a band of guerilla rancheros at Antigua. They ambushed him; he drove them out of the thicket but fell–You have dropped your flowers. Allow me!–at the head of his men.”

“At the head of his men!” She drew in her breath.

“There passed the last of an ill-fated line,” said the lawyer, reflectively. “Poor fellow! He started with such bright prospects, graduating from the military college with unusual honors. Ambitious, light-hearted, he went to Africa to carve out a name in the army. But fate was against him. The same ship that took him over carried back, to the marquis, the story of his brother’s disgrace–”

“His brother’s disgrace!” she exclaimed.

Culver nodded. “He sold a French stronghold in Africa, Miss Carew.”

Had the attorney been closely observing her he would have noticed the sudden look of bewilderment that crossed her face. She stared at him with her soul in her eyes.

“Ernest Saint-Prosper’s–brother?”

The turmoil of her thoughts held her as by a spell; in the disruption of a fixed conclusion her brain was filled with new and poignant reflections. Unconsciously she placed a nervous hand upon his arm.

“Then Ernest Saint-Prosper who was–killed in Mexico was not the traitor?”

“Certainly not!” exclaimed Culver, quickly, “Owing to the disgrace, I am sure, more than to any other reason, he bade farewell to his country–and now lies unmourned in some mountain ravine. It is true the marquis quarreled with him, disliking not a little the young man’s republican ideas, but–my dear young lady!–you are ill?”

“No, no!” she returned, hastily, striving to maintain her self-possession. “How–do you know this?”

“Through the marquis, himself,” he replied, somewhat uneasy beneath her steady gaze. “He told me the story in order to protect the estate from any possible pretensions on the part of the traitor. The renegade was reported dead, but the marquis, nevertheless remained skeptical. He did not believe in the old saw about the devil being dead. ‘Le diable lives always,’ he said.”

The visitor observed a perceptible change in the young girl, just what he could not define, but to him it seemed mostly to lie in her eyes where something that baffled him looked out and met his glance.

“His brother was an officer in the French army?” she asked, as though forcing herself to speak.

“Yes; ten years older than Ernest Saint-Prosper, he had already made a career for himself. How eagerly, then, must the younger brother have looked forward to meeting him; to serving with one who, in his young eyes, was all that was brave and noble! What a bitter awakening from the dream! It is not those we hate who can injure us most–only those we love can stab us so deeply!”

Mechanically she answered the lawyer, and, when he prepared to leave, the hand, given him at parting, was as cold as ice.