The Strollers

“One,” said Saint-Prosper, depositing a Mexican piece on the counter before the cubby-hole.

“We’ve taken in plenty of this kind of money to-day,” remarked the man, holding up the coin. “I reckon you come to town with old Zach?”

“Yes.” The soldier was about to turn away, when he changed his mind and observed: “You used to give legitimate drama here.”

“That was some time ago,” said the man in the box, reflectively. “The soldiers like vaudeville. Ever hear Impecunious Jordan?”

“I never did.”

“Then you’ve got a treat,” continued the vender. “He’s the best in his line. Hope you’ll enjoy it, sir,” he concluded, with the courtesy displayed toward one and all of “Old Rough and Ready’s” men that day. “It’s the best seat left in the house. You come a little late, you know.” And as the other moved away:

“How different they look before and after! They went to Mexico fresh as daisies, and come back–those that do–dead beat, done up!”

Passing through the door, Saint-Prosper was ushered to his seat in a renovated auditorium; new curtain, re-decorated stalls, mirrors and gilt in profusion; the old restfulness gone, replaced by glitter and show. Amid changed conditions, the derangement of fixed external form and outline, the sight of a broad face in the orchestra and the aspect of a colossal form riveted his attention. This person was neither stouter nor thinner than before; he perspired neither more nor less; he was neither older nor younger–seemingly; he played on his instrument neither better nor worse. Youth might fade, honors take wing, the face of nature change, but Hans, Gargantuan Hans, appeared but a figure in an eternal present! Gazing at that substantial landmark, the soldier was carried back in thought over the long period of separation to a forest idyl; a face in the firelight; the song of the katydid; the drumming of the woodpecker. Dreams; vain dreams! They had assailed him before, but seldom so sharply as now in a place consecrated to the past.

“Look out for the dandies,

Girls, beware;
Look out for their blandishments,

Dears, take care!
For they’re always ready–remember this!–
To pilfer from maids an unwilling kiss.

Oh, me! Oh, my! There! There!” (Imaginary slaps.)

sang and gesticulated a lady in abbreviated skirts and low-cut dress, winking and blinking in ironical shyness, and concluding with a flaunting of her gown, a toe pointed ceilingward, and a lively “breakdown.” Then she vanished with a hop, skip and a bow, reappeared with a ravishing smile and threw a generous assortment of kisses among the audience, and disappeared with another hop, skip and a bow, as Impecunious Jordan burst upon the spectators from the opposite side of the stage.

Even the sight of Hans, a finger-post pointing to ways long since traversed, could not reconcile the soldier to his surroundings; the humor of the burnt-cork artist seemed inappropriate to the place; his grotesque dancing inadmissible in that atmosphere once consecrated to the comedy of manners and the stately march of the classic drama. Where Hamlet had moralized, a loutish clown now beguiled the time with some tom-foolery, his wit so broad, his quips were cannon-balls, and his audience, for the most part soldiers from Mexico, open-mouthed swallowed the entire bombardment. But Saint-Prosper, finding the performance dull, finally rose and went out, not waiting for the thrilling Tableaux of the Entrance into the City of Mexico of a hundred American troops (impersonated by young ladies in tropical attire) and the submission of Santa Anna’s forces (more young ladies) by sinking gracefully to their bended knees.

Fun and frolic were now in full swing on the thoroughfares; Democritus, the rollicker, had commanded his subjects to drive dull care away and they obeyed the jovial lord of laughter. Animal spirits ran high; mischief beguiled the time; mummery romped and rioted. Marshaled by disorder, armed with drollery and divers-hued banners, they marched to the Castle of Chaos, where the wise are fools, the old are young and topsy-turvy is the order of the day.

As Saint-Prosper stood watching the versicolored concourse swarm by, a sudden rush of bystanders to view Faith on a golden pedestal, looking more like Coquetry, propelled a dainty figure against the soldier. Involuntarily he put out his arm which girded a slender waist; Faith drove simpering by; the crowd melted like a receding wave, and the lady extricated herself, breathless as one of the maids in Lorenzo de Medici’s Songs of the Carnival.

“How awkward!” she murmured. “How–”

The sentence remained unfinished and an exclamation, “Mr. Saint-Prosper!” punctuated a gleam of recognition.

“Miss Duran!” he exclaimed, equally surprised, for he had thought the strollers scattered to the four winds.

“Mrs. Service, if you please!” Demurely; at the same time extending her hand with a faint flush. “Yes; I am really and truly married! But it is so long since we met, I believe I–literally flew to your arms!”

“That was before you recognized me,” he returned, in the same tone.

Susan laughed. “But how do you happen to be here? I thought you were dead. No; only wounded? How fortunate! Of course you came with the others. I should hardly know you. I declare you’re as thin as a lath and gaunt as a ghost. You look older, too. Remorse, I suppose, for killing so many poor Mexicans!”

“And you”–surveying her face, which had the freshness of morn–“look younger!”

“Of course!” Adjusting some fancied disorder of hair or bonnet. “Marriage is a fountain of youth for”–with a sigh–“old maids. Susan Duran, spinster! Horrible! Do you blame me?”

“For getting married? Not at all. Who is the fortunate man?” asked Saint-Prosper.

“A minister; an orthodox minister; a most orthodox minister!”

“No?” His countenance expressed his sense of the incongruity of the union. Susan one of the elect; the meek and lowly yokemate of–“How did it happen?” he said.

“In a perverse moment, I–went to church,” answered Susan. “There, I met him–I mean, I saw him–no, I mean, I heard him! It was enough. All the women were in love with him. How could I help it?”

“He must have been very persuasive.”

“Persuasive! He scolded us every minute. Dress and the devil! I”–casting down her eyes–“interested him from the first. He–he married me to reform me.”

“Ah,” commented the soldier, gazing doubtfully upon Susan’s smart gown, which, with elaborate art, followed the contours of her figure.

“But, of course, one must keep up appearances, you know,” she continued. “What’s the use of being a minister’s wife if you aren’t popular with the congregation? At least,” she added, “with part of them!” And Susan tapped the pavement with a well-shod boot and showed her white teeth. “If you weren’t popular, you couldn’t fill the seats–I mean pews,” she added, evasively. “But you must come and see me–us, I should say.”

“Unfortunately, I am leaving to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!” repeated Susan, reflectively. The pupils of her eyes contracted, something they did whenever she was thinking deeply, and her gaze passed quickly over his face, striving to read his impassive features. “So soon? When the carnival is on! That is too bad, to stay only one day, and not call on any of your old friends! Constance, I am sure, would be delighted to see you.”

Many women would have looked away under the circumstances, but Susan’s eyes were innocently fixed upon his. Half the pleasure of the assurance was in the accompanying glance and the friendly smile that went with it.

But a quiet question, “Miss Carew is living here?” was all the satisfaction she received.

“Yes. Have you not heard? She has a lovely home and an embarrassment of riches. Sweet embarrassment! Health and wealth! What more could one ask? Although I forgot, she was taken ill shortly after you left.”

“Ill,” he said, starting.

“Quite! But soon recovered!” And Susan launched into a narration of the events that had taken place while he was in Mexico, to which he listened with the composure of a man who, having had his share of the vagaries of fate, is not to be taken aback by new surprises, however singular or tragic. Susan expected an expression of regret–by look or word–over the loss of the marquis’ fortune, but either he simulated indifference or passed the matter by with philosophical fortitude.

“Poor Barnes!” was his sole comment.

“Yes; it was very lonely for Constance at first,” rattled on Susan. “But I fancy she will find a woman’s solace for that ailment,” she added meaningly.

“Marriage?” he asked soberly.

“Well, the engagement is not yet announced,” said Susan, hesitatingly. “But you know how things get around? And the count has been so attentive! You remember him surely–the Count de Propriac? But I must be off. I have an appointment with my husband and am already half an hour late.”

“Don’t let me detain you longer, then, I beg.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. He’s so delightfully jealous when I fail to appear on the stroke of the clock! Always imagines I am in some misch–but I mustn’t tell tales out of school! So glad to have met you! Come and see me–do!”

And Susan with friendly hand-clasp and lingering look, tore herself away, the carnival lightness in her feet and the carnival laughter in her eyes.

“He is in love with her still,” she thought, “or he wouldn’t have acted so indifferent!” Her mind reverted to a cold little message she had received from Constance. “And to think he was innocent after all!” she continued, mentally reviewing the contents of the letter in which Constance had related the conversation with the lawyer. “I don’t believe he’ll call on her now, though, after–Well, why shouldn’t I have told him what every one is talking about? Why not, indeed?”

A toss of the head dismissed the matter and any doubts pertaining thereto, while her thoughts flew from past to present, as a fortress on a car, its occupants armed with pellets of festival conflict, drove by amid peals of laughter. Absorbed in this scene of merriment, Susan forgot her haste, and kept her apostolic half waiting at the rendezvous with the patience of a Jacob tarrying for a Rachel. But when she did finally appear, with hat not perfectly poised, her hair in a pretty disarray, she looked so waywardly charming, he forgave her on the spot, and the lamb led the stern shepherd with a crook from Eve’s apple tree.