Читать книгу The Strollers - Isham Frederic Stewart - Страница 3

The crowing of the cock awakened the French traveler, and, going to the window, he saw that daylight had thrown its first shafts upon the unromantic barn-yard scene, while in the east above the hill-tops spread the early flush of morning. The watch-dog had left his one-roomed cottage and was promenading before it in stately fashion with all the pomp of a satisfied land-holder, his great undershot jaw and the extraordinary outward curve of his legs proclaiming an untarnished pedigree. The hens were happily engaged in scratching the earth for their breakfast; the rooster, no longer crestfallen, was strutting in the sunshine, while next to the barn several grunting, squealing pigs struggled for supremacy in the trough. From the cow-shed came an occasional low and soon a slip-shod maid, yawning mightily, appeared, pail in hand, and moved across the yard to her early morning task.

Descending the stairs and making his way to the barn, the soldier called to Sandy, the stable boy, who was performing his ablutions by passing wet fingers through a shock of red hair, to saddle his horse. The sleepy lad led forth a large but shapely animal, and soon the stranger was galloping across the country, away from the village, now down a gentle declivity, with the virgin forest on either side, then through a tract of land where was apparent the husbandry of the people.

After a brisk pace for some miles, he reined in his horse, and, leisurely riding in a circuit, returned on the road that crossed the farming country back of the tavern. Around him lay fields of rye and buckwheat sweet with the odor of the bee-hive; Indian corn, whose silken tassels waved as high as those of Frederick’s grenadiers’, and yellow pumpkins nestling to the ground like gluttons that had partaken too abundantly of mother earth’s nourishment. Intermingling with these great oblong and ovoid gourds, squashes, shaped like turbans and many-cornered hats, appeared in fantastic profusion.

The rider was rapidly approaching the inn, when a sudden turn in the highway, as the road swept around a wind-break of willows, brought him upon a young woman who was walking slowly in the same direction. So fast was the pace of his horse, and so unexpected the meeting, she was almost under the trampling feet before he saw her. Taken by surprise, she stood as if transfixed, when, with a quick, decisive effort, the rider swerved his animal, and, of necessity, rode full tilt at the fence and willows. She felt the rush of air; saw the powerful animal lift itself, clear the rail-fence and crash through the bulwark of branches. She gazed at the wind-break; a little to the right, or the left, where the heavy boughs were thickly interlaced, and the rider’s expedient had proved serious for himself, but chance–he had no time for choice–had directed him to a vulnerable point of leaves and twigs. Before she had fairly recovered herself he reappeared at an opening on the other side of the willow-screen, and, after removing a number of rails, led his horse back to the road.

With quivering nostrils, the animal appeared possessed of unquenchable spirit, but his master’s bearing was less assured as he approached, with an expression of mingled anxiety and concern on his face, the young girl whom the manager had addressed as Constance.

“I beg your pardon for having alarmed you!” he said. “It was careless, inexcusable!”

“It was a little startling,” she admitted, with a faint smile.

“Only a little!” he broke in gravely. “If I had not seen you just when I did–”

“You would not have turned your horse–at such a risk to yourself!” she added.

“Risk to myself! From what?” A whimsical light encroached on the set look in his blue eyes. “Jumping a rail fence? But you have not yet said you have pardoned me?”

The smile brightened. “Oh, I think you deserve that.”

“I am not so sure,” he returned, glancing down at her.

Slanting between the lower branches of the trees the sunshine touched the young girl’s hair in flickering spots and crept down her dress like caressing hands of light, until her figure, passing into a solid shadow, left these glimmerings prone upon the dusty road behind her. The “brides,” or strings of her little muslin cap, flaunted in the breeze and a shawl of China crape fluttered from her shoulders. So much of her dusky hair as defied concealment contrasted strongly with the calm translucent pallor of her face. The eyes, alone, belittled the tranquillity of countenance; against the rare repose of features, they were the more eloquent, shining beneath brows, delicately defined but strongly marked, and shaded by long upturned lashes, deep in tone as a sloe.

“You are an early riser,” he resumed.

“Not always,” she replied. “But after yesterday it seemed so bright outdoors and the country so lovely!”

His gaze, following hers, traversed one of the hollows. Below yet rested deep shadows, but upon the hillside a glory celestial enlivened and animated the surrounding scene. Scattered houses, constituting the little hamlet, lay in the partial shade of the swelling land, the smoke, with its odor of burning pine, rising lazily on the languid air. In the neighboring field a farm hand was breaking up the ground with an old-fashioned, pug-nosed “dirt-rooter;” soil as rich as that of Egypt, or the land, Gerar, where Isaac reaped an hundred fold and every Israelite sat under the shadow of his own vine.

Pausing, the husbandman leaned on the handle of his plow and deliberately surveyed the couple on the road. Having at the same time satisfied his curiosity and rested his arms, he grasped the handles once more and the horses pulled and tugged at the primitive implement.

While the soldier and the young girl were thus occupied in surveying the valley and the adjacent mounds and hummocks, the horse, considering doubtlessly that there had been enough inaction, tapped the ground with rebellious energy and tossed his head in mutiny against such procrastination.

“Your horse wants to go on,” she said, observing this equine by-play.

“He usually does,” replied the rider. “Perhaps, though, I am interrupting you? I see you have a play in your hand.”

“I was looking over a part–but I know it very well,” she added, moving slowly from the border of willows. Leading his horse, he followed.

His features, stern and obdurate in repose, relaxed in severity, while the deep-set blue eyes grew less searching and guarded. This alleviation became him well, a tide of youth softening his expression as a wave smoothes the sands.

“What is the part?”

“Juliana, in ‘The Honeymoon’! It is one of our stock pieces.”

“And you like it?”

“Oh, yes.” Lingering where a bit of sward was set with field flowers.

“And who plays the duke?” he continued.

“Mr. O’Flariaty,” she answered, a suggestion of amusement in her glance. Beneath the shading of straight, black brows, her eyes were deceptively dark, until scrutinized closely, they resolved themselves into a clear gray.

“Ah,” he said, recalling Adonis, O’Flariaty’s, appearance, and, as he spoke, a smile of singular sweetness lightened his face. “A Spanish grandee with a touch of the brogue! But I must not decry your noble lord!” he added.

“No lord of mine!” she replied gaily. “My lord must have a velvet robe, not frayed, and a sword not tin, and its most sanguinary purpose must not be to get between his legs and trip him up! Of course, when we act in barns–”

“In barns!”

“Oh, yes, when we can find them to act in!”

She glanced at him half-mockingly.

“I suppose you think of a barn as only a place for a horse.”

The sound of carriage wheels interrupted his reply, and, looking in the direction from whence it came, they observed a coach doubling the curve before the willows and approaching at a rapid pace. It was a handsome and imposing equipage, with dark crimson body and wheels, preserving much of the grace of ancient outline with the utility of modern springs.

As they drew aside to permit it to pass the features of its occupant were seen, who, perceiving the young girl on the road–the shawl, half-fallen from her shoulder revealing the plastic grace of an erect figure–gazed at her with surprise, then thrust his head from the window and bowed with smiling, if somewhat exaggerated, politeness. The next moment carriage and traveler vanished down the road in a cloud of dust, but an alert observer might have noticed an eye at the rear port-hole, as though the person within was supplementing his brief observation from the side with a longer, if diminishing, view from behind.

The countenance of the young girl’s companion retrograded from its new-found favor to a more inexorable cast.

“A friend of yours?” he said, briefly.

“I never saw him before,” she answered with flashing eyes. “Perhaps he is the lord of the manor and thought I was one of his subjects.”

“There are lords in this country, then?”

“Lords or patroons, they are called,” she replied, her face still flushed.

At this moment, across the meadows, beyond the fence of stumps–poor remains of primeval monarchs!–a woman appeared at the back door of the inn with a tin horn upon which she blew vigorously, the harsh blasts echoing over hill and valley. The startled swallows and martins arose from the eaves and fluttered above the roof. The farm hand at the plow released the handle, and the slip-shod maid appeared in the door of the cow-shed, spry and nimble enough at meal time.

From the window of her room Susan saw them returning and looked surprised as well as a bit annoyed. Truth to tell, Mistress Susan, with her capacity for admiring and being admired, had conceived a momentary interest in the stranger, a fancy as light as it was ephemeral. That touch of melancholy when his face was in repose inspired a transitory desire for investigation in this past-mistress of emotional analysis. But the arrival of the coach which had passed the couple soon diverted Susan’s thoughts to a new channel.

The equipage drew up, and a young man, dressed in a style novel in that locality, sprang out. He wore a silk hat with scarcely any brim, trousers extremely wide at the ankle, a waistcoat of the dimensions of 1745, and large watch ribbons, sustaining ponderous bunches of seals.

The gallant fop touched the narrow brim of his hat to Kate, who was peeping from one window, and waved a kiss to Susan, who was surreptitiously glancing from another, whereupon both being detected, drew back hastily. Overwhelmed by the appearance of a guest of such manifest distinction, the landlord bowed obsequiously as the other entered the tavern with a supercilious nod.

To Mistress Susan this incident was exciting while it lasted, but when the dandy had disappeared her attention was again attracted to Constance and Saint-Prosper, who slowly approached. He paused with his horse before the front door and she stood a moment near the little porch, on either side of which grew sweet-williams, four-o’clocks and larkspur. But the few conventional words were scanty crumbs for the fair eavesdropper above, the young girl soon entering the house and the soldier leading his horse in the direction of the stable. As the latter disappeared around the corner of the tavern, Susan left the window and turned to the mirror.

“La!” she said, holding a mass of blond hair in one hand and deftly coiling it upon her little head, “I believe she got up early to meet him.” But Kate only yawned lazily.

Retracing his steps from the barn, the soldier crossed the back-yard, where already on the clothes’ line evidences of early matutinal industry, a pair of blue over-alls, with sundry white and red stockings, were dancing in the breeze. First the over-alls performed wildly, then the white stockings responded with vim, while the red ones outdid themselves by their shocking abandonment, vaunting skyward as though impelled by the phantom limbs of some Parisian danseuse.

Making his way by this dizzy saturnalia and avoiding the pranks of animated hosiery and the more ponderous frolics of over-alls, sheets and tablecloths, Saint-Prosper entered the kitchen. Here the farm hand and maid of all work were eating, and the landlord’s rotund and energetic wife was bustling before the fireplace. An old iron crane, with various sized pothooks and links of chain, swung from the jambs at the will of the housewife. Boneset, wormwood and catnip had their places on the wall, together with ears of corn and strings of dried apples.

Bustling and active, with arms bared to the elbow and white with flour, the spouse of mine host realized the scriptural injunction: “She looketh well to the ways of her household.” Deftly she spread the dough in the baking pan; smoothly leveled it with her palm; with nice mathematical precision distributed bits of apple on top in parallel rows; lightly sprinkled it with sugar, and, lo and behold, was fashioned an honest, wholesome, Dutch apple cake, ready for the baking!

In the tap-room the soldier encountered the newcomer, seated not far from the fire as though his blood flowed sluggishly after his long ride in the chill morning air. Upon the table lay his hat, and he was playing with the seals on his watch ribbon, his legs indolently stretched out straight before him. Occasionally he coughed when the smoke, exuding from the damp wood, was not entirely expelled up the chimney, but curled around the top of the fireplace and diffused itself into the atmosphere. Well-built, although somewhat slender of figure, this latest arrival had a complexion of tawny brown, a living russet, as warm and glowing as the most vivid of Vandyke pigments.

He raised his eyes slowly as the soldier entered and surveyed him deliberately. From a scrutiny of mere physical attributes he passed on to the more important details of clothes, noting that his sack coat was properly loose at the waist and that the buttons were sufficiently large to pass muster, but also detecting that the trousers lacked breadth at the ankles and that the hat had a high crown and a broad brim, from which he complacently concluded the other was somewhat behind the shifting changes of fashion.

“Curse me, if this isn’t a beastly fire!” he exclaimed, stretching himself still more, yawning and passing a hand through his black hair. “Hang them, they might as well shut up their guests in the smoke-house with the bacons and hams! I feel as cured as a side of pig, ready to be hung to a dirty rafter.”

With which he pulled himself together, went to the window, raised it and placed a stick under the frame.

“They tell me there’s a theatrical troupe here,” he resumed, returning to his chair and relapsing into its depths. “Perhaps you are one of them?”

“I have not that honor.”

“Honor!” repeated the new arrival with a laugh. “That’s good! That was one of them on the road with you, I’ll be bound. You have good taste! Heigho!” he yawned again. “I’m anchored here awhile on account of a lame horse. Perhaps though”–brightening–“it may not be so bad after all. These players promise some diversion.” At that moment his face wore an expression of airy, jocund assurance which faded to visible annoyance as he continued: “Where can that landlord be? He placed me in this kennel, vanished, and left me to my fate. Ah, here he is at last!” As the host approached, respectfully inquiring:

“Is there anything more I can do for you?”

“More?” exclaimed this latest guest, ironically. “Well, better late than never! See that my servant has help with the trunks.”

“Very well, sir; I’ll have Sandy look after them. You are going to stay then?” Shifting several bottles on the bar with apparent industry.

“How can I tell?” returned the newcomer lightly. “Fate is a Sphynx, and I am not Œdipus to answer her questions!”

The landlord looked startled, paused in his feigned employment, but slowly recovering himself, began to dust a jar of peppermint candy.

“How far is it to Meadtown?” continued the guest.

“Forty odd miles! Perhaps you are seeking the old patroon manor there? They say the heir is expected any day”–gazing fixedly at the young man–“at least, the anti-renters have received information he is coming and are preparing–”

The sprightly guest threw up his hands.

“The trunks! the trunks!” he exclaimed in accents of despair. “Look at the disorder of my attire! The pride of these ruffles leveled by the dew; my wristbands in disarray; the odor of the road pervading my person! The trunks, I pray you!”

“Yes, sir; at once, sir! But first let me introduce you to Mr. Saint-Prosper, of Paris, France. Make yourselves at home, gentlemen!”

With which the speaker hurriedly vanished and soon the bumping and thumping in the hall gave cheering assurance of instructions fulfilled.

“That porter is a prince among his kind,” observed the guest satirically, wincing as an unusual bang overhead shook the ceiling. “But I’ll warrant my man won’t have to open my luggage after he gets through.”

Then as quiet followed the racket above–“So you’re from Paris, France?” he asked half-quizzically. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet somebody from somewhere. As I, too, have lived–not in vain!–in Paris, France, we may have mutual friends?”

“It is unlikely,” said the soldier, who meanwhile had drawn off his riding gloves, placed them on the mantel, and stood facing the fire, with his back to the other guest. As he spoke he turned deliberately and bent his penetrating glance on his questioner.

“Really? Allow me to be skeptical, as I have considerable acquaintance there. In the army there’s that fire-eating conqueror of the ladies, Gen–”

“My rank was not so important,” interrupted the other, “that I numbered commanders among my personal friends.”

“As you please,” said the last guest carelessly. “I had thought to exchange a little gossip with you, but–n’importe! In my own veins flows some of the blood of your country.”

For the time his light manner forsook him.

“Her tumults have, in a measure, been mine,” he continued. “Now she is without a king, I am well-nigh without a mother-land. True; I was not born there–but it is the nurse the child turns to. Paris was my bonne– a merry abigail! Alas, her vicious brood have turned on her and cast her ribbons in the mire! Untroubled by her own brats, she could extend her estates to the Eldorado of the southwestern seas.” He had arisen and, with hands behind his back, was striding to and fro. Coming suddenly to a pause, he asked abruptly:

“Do you know the Abbé Moneau?”

At the mention of that one-time subtle confidant of the deposed king, now the patron of republicanism, Saint-Prosper once more regarded his companion attentively.

“By reputation, certainly,” he answered, slowly.

“He was my tutor and is now my frequent correspondent. Not a bad sort of mentor, either!” The new arrival paused and smiled reflectively. “Only recently I received a letter from him, with private details of the flight of the king and vague intimations of a scandal in the army, lately come to light.”

His listener half-started from his seat and had the speaker not been more absorbed in his own easy flow of conversation than in the attitude of the other, he would have noticed that quick change of manner. Not perceiving it, however, he resumed irrelevantly:

“You see I am a sociable animal. After being cramped in that miserable coach for hours, it is a relief to loosen one’s tongue as well as one’s legs. Even this smoky hovel suggests good-fellowship and jollity beyond a dish of tea. Will you not join me in a bottle of wine? I carry some choice brands to obviate the necessity of drinking the home-brewed concoctions of the inn-keepers of this district.”

“Thank you,” said the soldier, at the same time rising from his chair. “I have no inclination so early in the day.”

“Early?” queried the newcomer. “A half-pint of Chateau Cheval Blanc or Cru du Chevalier, high and vinous, paves a possible way for Brother Jonathan’s déjeuner– fried pork, potatoes and chicory!” And turning to his servant who had meanwhile entered, he addressed a few words to him, and, as the door closed on the soldier, exclaimed with a shrug of the shoulders:

“An unsociable fellow! I wonder what he is doing here.”