The Strollers Part 16

In the historic market place, as Saint-Prosper rode down the street, were a.s.sembled a number of lease-holders of both s.e.xes and all ages, from the puny babe in arms to the decrepit crone and h.o.a.ry grand-sire, listening to the flowing tongue of a rustic speech-maker. This forum of the people was shaded by a s.e.xtette of well-grown elms. The platform of the local Demosthenes stood in a corner near the street.

"'Woe to thee, O Moab! Thou art undone, O people of Chemosh,' if you light not the torch of equal rights!" exclaimed the platform patterer as Saint-Prosper drew near. "Awake, sons of the free soil! Now is the time to make a stand! Forswear all allegiance to the new patroon; this Southern libertine and despot from the land of slavery!"

The grandam wagged her head approvingly; the patriarch stroked his beard with acquiescence and strong men clenched their fists as the spokesman mouthed their real or fancied wrongs. It was an earnest, implacable crowd; men with lowering brows merely glanced at the soldier as he rode forward; women gazed more intently, but were quickly lured back by the tripping phrases of the mellifluous speaker.

On the outskirts of the gathering, near the road, stood a tall, beetling individual whom Saint-Prosper addressed, reining in his horse near the wooden rail, which answered for a fence.

"Dinna ye ken I'm listening?" impatiently retorted the other, with a fierce frown. "Gang your way, mon," he added, churlishly, as he turned his back.

Judging from the wrathful faces directed toward him, the lease-holders esteemed Saint-Prosper a political disturber, affiliating with the other faction of the Democratic party, and bent, perhaps, on creating dissension at the tenants' camp-fire. The soldier's impatience and anger were ready to leap forth at a word; he wheeled fiercely upon the weedy Scot, to demand peremptorily the information so uncivilly withheld, when a gust of wind blowing something light down the road caused his horse to shy suddenly and the rider to glance at what had frightened the animal. After a brief scrutiny, he dismounted quickly and examined more attentively the object,--a pamphlet with a red cover, upon which appeared the printed design of the conventional Greek masks of Tragedy and Comedy, and beneath, the t.i.tle, "The Honeymoon." The bright binding, albeit soiled by the dusty road, and the fluttering of the leaves in the breeze had startled the horse and incidentally attracted the attention of his master. Across the somber mask of melancholy was traced in buoyant hand the name of the young actress.

But the soldier needed not the confirmation, for had he not noticed this same prompt book in her lap on the journey of the chariot? It was a mute, but eloquent message. Could she have spoken more plainly if she had written with ink and posted the missive with one of those new bronze-hued portraits of Franklin, called stamps by the government and "sticking plaster" by the people? Undoubtedly she had hoped the manager was following her when she intrusted the message to that erratic postman, Chance, who plied his vocation long before the black Was.h.i.+ngton or the bronze Franklin was a talisman of more or less uncertain delivery.

The soldier, without a moment's hesitation, thrust the pamphlet inside his coat, flung himself on his horse, and, turning from the market-place, dashed down the road.

CHAPTER XII

AN ECCENTRIC JAILER

"For a man who can't abide the s.e.x, this _is_ a predicament," muttered the patroon's jackal, as the coach in which he found himself sped rapidly along the highway. "Here am I as much an abductor as my lord who whipped his lady from England to the colonies!" Gloomily regarding a motionless figure on the seat opposite, and a face like ivory against the dark cus.h.i.+ons. "Curse the story; telling it led to this!

How white she is; like driven snow; almost as if--"

And Scroggs, whose countenance lost a shade of its natural flush, going from flame-color to salmon hue, bent with sudden apprehension over a small hand which hung from the seat.

"No; it's only a swoon," he continued, relieved, feeling her wrist with his k.n.o.bby fingers. "How she struggled! If it hadn't been for smothering her with the cloak--but the job's done and that's the end of it."

Settling back in his seat he watched her discontentedly, alternately protesting against the adventure, and consoling himself weakly with the remembrance of the retainer; weighing the risks, and the patroon's ability to gloss over the matter; now finding the former unduly obtrusive, again comforted with the a.s.surance of the power pre-empted by the land barons. Moreover, the task was half-accomplished, and it would be idle to recede now.

"Why couldn't the patroon have remained content with his bottle?" he grumbled. "But his mind must needs run to this frivolous and irrational proceeding! There's something reasonable in pilfering a purse, but carrying off a woman--Yet she's a handsome baggage."

Over the half-rec.u.mbent figure swept his glance, pausing as he surveyed her face, across which flowed a tress of hair loosened in the struggle. Save for the unusual pallor of her cheek, she might have been sleeping, but as he watched her the lashes slowly lifted, and he sullenly nerved himself for the encounter. At the aspect of those bead-like eyes, resolute although ill at ease, like a snake striving to charm an adversary, a tremor of half-recollection shone in her gaze and the color flooded her face. Mechanically, sweeping back the straggling lock of hair, she raised herself without removing her eyes.

He who had expected a tempest of tears s.h.i.+fted uneasily, even irritably, from that steady stare, until, finding the silence intolerable, he burst out:

"Well, ma'am, am I a bugbear?"

In her dazed condition she probably did not hear his words; or, if she did, set no meaning to them, Her glance, however, strayed to the narrow window, and then wandered back to the well-worn interior of the coach. Suddenly, as the startling realization of her position came to her, she uttered a loud cry, sprang toward the door, and, with nervous fingers, strove to open it. The man's face became more rubicund as he placed a detaining hand on her shoulder, and roughly thrust her toward the seat.

"Make the best of it!" he exclaimed peremptorily. "You'd better, for I'm not to be trifled with."

Recoiling from his touch, she held herself aloof with such aversion, a sneer crossed his face, and he observed glumly:

"Oh, I'm not a viper! If you're put out, so am I."

"Who are you?" she demanded, breathlessly.

"That's an incriminating question, Ma'am," he replied. "In this case, though, the witness has no objection to answering. I'm your humble servant."

His forced drollery was more obnoxious than his ill-humor, and, awakening her impatience, restored in a measure her courage. He was but a pitiful object, after all, with his flame-colored visage, and short, crouching figure; and, as her thoughts pa.s.sed from the brutal part he had played on the road to her present situation, she exclaimed with more anger than apprehension:

"Perhaps you will tell me the meaning of this outrage--your smothering me--forcing me into this coach--and driving away--where?"

His face became once more downcast and moody. Driven into a corner by her swift words, his glance met hers fairly; he drummed his fingers together.

"There's no occasion to show your temper, Miss," he said reflectively.

"I'm a bit touchy myself to-day; 'sudden and quick in quarrel.' You see I know my Shakespeare, Ma'am. Let us talk about that great poet and the parts you, as an actress, prefer--"

"Can I get an answer from you?" she cried, subduing her dread.

"What is it you asked?"

"As if you did not know!" she returned, her lip trembling with impatience and loathing.

"Yes; I remember." Sharply. "You asked where we were driving? Across the country. What is the meaning of this--outrage, I believe you called it? All actions spring from two sources--Cupid and cupidity.

The rest of the riddle you'll have to guess." Gazing insolently into her face, with his hands on his knees.

"But you have told me nothing," she replied, striving to remain mistress of herself and to hide her apprehension.

"Do you call that nothing? You have the approximate cause--_causa causans_. Was it Cupid? No, for like Bacon, your s.e.x's 'fantastical'

charms move me not."

This sally put him in better temper with himself. She was helpless, and he experienced a churlish satisfaction in her condition.

"What was it, then? Cupidity. Do you know what poverty is like in this barren region?" he cried harshly. "The weapons of education only unfit you for the plow. You stint, pinch, live on nothing!" He rubbed his dry hands together. "It was crumbs and sc.r.a.ps under the parsimonious regime; but now the prodigal has come into his own and believes in honest wages and a merry life."

Wonderingly she listened, the scene like a grotesque dream, with the ever-moving coach, the lonely road, the dark woods, and--so near, she could almost place her hand upon him--this man, muttering and mumbling. He had offered her the key of the mystery, but she had failed to use it. His ambiguous, loose talk, only perplexed and alarmed her; the explanation was none at all.

As he watched her out of the corner of his eye, weighing doubt and uncertainty, new ideas a.s.sailed him. After all she had spirit, courage! Moreover, she was an actress, and the patroon was madly in love with her.

"If we were only leagued together, how we could strip him!" he thought.

His head dropped contemplatively to his breast, and for a long interval he remained silent, abstracted, while the old springless coach, with many a jolt and jar, covered mile after mile; up the hills, crowned with bush and timber; across the table land; over the plank bridges spanning the brooks and rivulets. More reconciled to his part and her presence, his lips once or twice parted as if he were about to speak, but closed again. He even smiled, showing his amber-hued teeth, nodding his head in a friendly fas.h.i.+on, as to say: "It'll come out all right, Madam; all right for both of us!"

Which, indeed, was his thought. She believed him unsettled, bereft of reason, and, although, he was manifestly growing less hostile, his surveillance became almost unbearable. At every moment she felt him regarding her like a lynx, and endeavored therefore to keep perfectly still. What would her strange warder do next? It was not an alarming act, however. He consulted a ma.s.sive watch, remarking:

"It's lunch time and over! With your permission, I'll take a bite and a drop. Will you join me?"

She turned her head away, and, not disconcerted by her curt refusal, he drew a wicker box from beneath a seat and opened it. His reference to a "bite and a drop" was obviously figurative, especially the "drop," which grew to the dimensions of a pint, which he swallowed quickly. Perhaps the flavor of the wine made him less attentive to his prisoner, for as he lifted the receptacle to his lips, she thrust her arms through the window and a play book dropped from her hand, a possible clue for any one who might follow the coach. For some time she had been awaiting this opportunity and when it came, the carriage was entering a village.

Scroggs finished his cup. "You see, we're provided for," he began.

Here the bottle fell from his hand.

"The patroon village!" he exclaimed in consternation. "I'd forgotten we were so close! And they're all gathered in the square, too!"

He cast a quick glance at her. "You're all ready to call for help," he sneered, "but I'm not ready to part company yet."