“My lady, your tongue is too sharp!” exclaimed Adonis, nettled.
“And put in a love scene for Adonis and myself,” she continued, lazily floating into the room. “He is so fond of me, it would not be like acting!”
This bantering was at length interrupted by the appearance of the chariot and the property wagon at the front door, ready for the journey. The rumbling of the vehicles, the resounding hoofs and the resonant voice of the stable boy awakened the young lord of the manor in his chamber above. He stretched himself sleepily, swore and again composed himself for slumber, when the noise of a property trunk, thumping its way down the front stairs a step at a time, galvanized him into life and consciousness.
“Has the world come to an end?” he muttered. “No; I remember; it’s only the players taking their departure!”
But, although he spoke carelessly, the bumping of boxes and slamming and banging of portable goods annoyed him more than he would confess. With the “crazy-quilt”–a patch-work of heptagons of different hues and patterns–around his shoulders, clothing him with all the colors of the rainbow, he sat up in bed, wincing at each concussion.
“I might as well get up!” he exclaimed. “I’ll see her once more–the perverse beauty!” And tossing the kaleidoscopic covering viciously from him, he began to dress.
Meanwhile, as the time for their going drew near, mine host down-stairs sped the parting guest with good cheer, having fared profitably by the patronage the players had brought to the inn; but his daughter, Arabella, looked sad and pensive. How weary, flat and stale appeared her existence now! With a lump in her throat and a pang in her heart, she recklessly wiped her eyes upon the best parlor curtains, when Barnes mounted to the box, as robust a stage-driver as ever extricated a coach from a quagmire. The team, playful through long confinement, tugged at the reins, and Sandy, who was at the bits, occasionally shot through space like an erratic meteor.
The manager was flourishing his whip impatiently when Constance and Susan appeared, the former in a traveling costume of blue silk; a paletot of dark cloth, and, after the fashion of the day, a bonnet of satin and velvet. Susan was attired in a jupe sweeping and immensely full–to be in style!–and jacquette with sleeves of the pagoda form. The party seemed in high spirits, as from his dormer window Mauville, adjusting his attire, peered through the lattice over the edge of the moss-grown roof and leaf-clogged gutters and surveyed their preparations for departure. How well the rich color of her gown became the young girl! He had told himself white was her best adornment, but his opinion veered on the moment now, and he thought he had never seen her to better advantage, with the blue of her dress reappearing in the lighter shade, above the dark paletot, in the lining of the bonnet and the bow of ribbons beneath her chin.
“On my word, but she looks handsome!” muttered the patroon. “Might sit for a Gainsborough or a Reynolds! What dignity! What coldness! All except the eyes! How they can lighten! But there’s that adventurer with her,” as the figure of the soldier crossed the yard to the property wagon. “No getting rid of him until the last moment!” And he opened the shutters wider, listening and watching more closely.
“Are you going to ride in the property wagon?” he heard Saint-Prosper ask.
“Yes; when I have a part to study I sometimes retire to the stage throne,” she answered lightly. “I suppose you will ride your horse?”
Of his reply the listener caught only the words, “wind-break” and “lame.” He observed the soldier assist her to the throne, and then, to Mauville’s surprise, spring into the wagon himself.
“Why, the fellow is going with them!” exclaimed the land baron. “Or, at any rate, he is going with her. What can it mean?” And hurriedly quitting his post, his toilet now being complete, he hastened to the door and quickly made his way down-stairs.
During the past week his own addresses had miscarried and his gallantry had been love’s labor lost. At first he had fancied he was making progress, but soon acknowledged to himself he had underestimated the enterprise. Play had succeeded play–he could not have told what part favored her most! Ophelia sighed and died; Susan danced on her grave between acts, according to the program, and turned tears into smiles; the farewell night had come and gone–and yet Constance had made no sign of compliance to reward the patient wooer. Now, at the sight of these preparations for departure, and the presence of the stalwart stranger in the property wagon, he experienced a sudden sensation of pique, almost akin to jealousy.
Stepping from the tavern, it was with an effort he suppressed his chagrin and vexation and assumed that air of nonchalance which became him well. Smilingly he bade Susan and the other occupants of the chariot farewell, shook Barnes by the hand, and turned to the property wagon.
“The noise of your departure awakened me,” he said to the young girl. “So I have come to claim my compensation–the pleasure of seeing you–”
“Depart!” she laughed quickly.
Momentarily disconcerted, he turned to the soldier. “You ride early.”
“As you see,” returned the other, immovably.
“A habit contracted in the army, no doubt!” retorted Mauville, recovering his easy self-possession. “Well, a bumping trunk is as efficacious as a bugle call! But au revoir, Miss Carew; for we may meet again. The world is broad–yet its highways are narrow! There is no need wishing you a pleasant journey.”
His glance rested on Saint-Prosper for a moment, but told nothing beyond the slight touch of irony in his words and then shifting to the young girl, it lingered upon each detail of costume and outline of feature. Before she could reply, Barnes cracked his whip, the horses sprang forward, and the stable boy, a confused tangle of legs and arms, was shot as from a catapult among the sweet-williams. The abrupt departure of the chariot was the cue for the property wagon, which followed with some labor and jolting, like a convoy struggling in the wake of a pretentious ship. From the door Mauville watched it until it reached a toll-gate, passed beneath the portcullis and disappeared into the broad province of the wilderness.
CHAPTER VII
SOJOURNING IN ARCADIA
Calm and still was the morning; the wandering air just stirred the pendulous branches of the elms and maples, and, in the clear atmosphere, the russet hills were sharply outlined. As they swung out into the road, with Hans, the musician, at the reins, the young girl removed her bonnet and leaned back in the chair of state, where kings had fretted and queens had lolled.
The throne, imposing on the stage, now appeared but a flimsy article of furniture, with frayed and torn upholstering, and carving which had long since lost its gilded magnificence. Seated amid the jumble of theatrical appliances and accoutrements–scenery, rolled up rug-fashion, property trunks, stage clock, lamps and draperies–she accepted the situation gracefully, even finding nothing strange in the presence of the soldier. New faces had come and gone in the company before, and, when Barnes had complacently informed her Saint-Prosper would journey with the players to New Orleans in a semi-business capacity, the arrangement appeared conformable to precedent. The manager’s satisfaction augured well for the importance of the semi-business rôle assumed by the stranger, and Barnes’ friendliness was perhaps in some degree unconsciously reflected in her manner; an attitude the soldier’s own reserve, or taciturnity, had not tended to dispel. So, his being in the property wagon seemed no more singular than Hans’ occupancy of the front seat, or if Adonis, Hawkes, or Susan had been there with her. She was accustomed to free and easy comradeship; indeed, knew no other life, and it was only assiduous attentions, like those of the land baron’s, that startled and disquieted her.
As comfortably as might be, she settled back in the capacious, threadbare throne, a slender figure in its depths–more adapted to accommodate a corpulent Henry VIII!–and smiled gaily, as the wagon, in avoiding one rut, ran into another and lurched somewhat violently. Saint-Prosper, lodged on a neighboring trunk, quickly extended a steadying hand.
“You see how precarious thrones are!” he said.
“There isn’t room for it