“Ha, my brothers in exile,” he exclaimed, “are not these woods more free from peril than the envious court?”
“All it wants,” said the tragedian, hungrily, “is mutton, greens and a foaming pot.”
“I can’t promise the foaming pot,” answered the manager. “But, at least, we have a well-filled hamper.”
Soon the coffee was simmering and such viands as they had brought with them–for Barnes was a far-sighted and provident manager–were spread out in tempting profusion. Near them a swift-flowing stream chattered about the stones like one of nature’s busiest gossips; it whispered to the flowers, murmured to the rushes and was voluble to the overhanging branch that dragged upon the surface of the water. The flowers on its brim nodded, the rushes waved and the branch bent as if in assent to the mad gossip of the blithesome brook. And it seemed as though all this animated conversation was caused by the encampment of the band of players by the wayside.
The repast finished, they turned their attention to the injured chariot, but fortunately the damage was not beyond repair, and Barnes, actor, manager, bill-poster, license-procurer, added to his already extensive repertoire the part of joiner and wheelwright. The skilled artisans in coachmaking and coach-repairing might not have regarded the manager as a master-workman, but the fractured parts were finally set after a fashion. By that time, however, the sun had sunk to rest upon a pillow of clouds; the squirrels, law-abiding citizens, had sought their homes; the woodpecker had vanished in his snug chamber, and only forest dwellers of nocturnal habits were now abroad, their name legion like the gad-abouts of a populous city.
“There!” exclaimed the manager, surveying his handiwork. “The ’bus is ready! But there is little use going on to-night. I am not sure of the road and here is a likely spot to pass the night.”
“Likely to be devoured by wild beasts,” said Kate, with a shudder.
“I am sure I see two glistening eyes!” exclaimed Susan.
“Fudge!” observed the elastic old lady. “That’s the first time you have been afraid of two-glistening eyes.”
“There’s a vast difference between wolves and men,” murmured Susan.
“I’m not so sure of that,” returned the aged cynic.
But as the light of day was withdrawn a great fire sprang up, illumining the immediate foreground. The flames were cheering, drawing the party more closely together. Even Hawkes partly discarded his tragedy face; the old lady threw a bundle of fifty odd years from her shoulders as easily as a wood-carrier would cast aside his miserable stack of fagots, while Barnes forgot his troubles in narrating the harrowing experience of a company which had penetrated the west at a period antedating the settlement of the Michigan and Ohio boundary dispute.
The soldier alone was silent, curiously watching the play of light and shade on the faces of the strollers, his gaze resting longest, perhaps, on the features of the young girl. Leaning against an ancient oak, so old the heart of it was gone and it towered but a mighty shell, the slender figure of the actress was clearly outlined, but against that dark and roughly-furrowed background she seemed too slight and delicate to buffet with storms and hardships. That day’s experience was a forerunner of the unexpected in this wandering life, but another time the mishap might not be turned to diversion. The coach would not always traverse sunny byways; the dry leaf floating from the majestic arm of the oak, the sound of an acorn as it struck the earth presaged days less halcyon to come.
“How do you enjoy being a stroller?” asked a voice, interrupting the soldier’s reverie. “It has its bitters and its sweets, hasn’t it? Especially its sweets!” Susan added, glancing meaningly at the young girl. “But after all, it doesn’t much matter what happens to you if you are in good company.” The semi-gloom permitted her to gaze steadfastly into his eyes. He ignored the opportunity for a compliment, and Susan stifled a little yawn, real or imaginary.
“Positively one could die of ennui in this wilderness,” she continued. “Do you know you are a welcome addition to our band? But you will have to make yourself very agreeable. I suppose”–archly–“you were very agreeable in the property wagon?”
“Miss Carew had a part to study,” he returned, coldly.
“A part to study!” In mock consternation. “How I hate studying parts! They say what you wouldn’t, and don’t say what you would! But I’m off to bed,” rising impatiently. “I’m getting sleepy!”
“Sleepy!” echoed Barnes. “Take your choice! The Hotel du Omnibus”–indicating the chariot–“or the Villa Italienne?”–with a gesture toward a tent made of the drop curtain upon the walls of which was the picture of an Italian scene.
“The chariot for me,” answered Susan. “It is more high and dry and does not suggest spiders and other crawling things.”
“Good-night, then, and remember a good conscience makes a hard bed soft.”
“Then I shall sleep on down. I haven’t had a chance”–with a sigh–“to damage my conscience lately. But when I strike civilization again”–and Susan shook her head eloquently to conclude her sentence. “Oh, yes; if beds depend on conscience, boughs would be feathers for me to-night.” With which half-laughing, half-defiant conclusion, Susan tripped to the chariot, pausing a moment, however, to cast a reproachful glance over her shoulder at Saint-Prosper before vanishing in the cavernous depths of the vehicle of the muses.
Her departure was the signal for the dispersing of the party to their respective couches. Now the fire sank lower, the stars came out brighter and the moon arose and traveled majestically up the heavens, taking a brief but comprehensive survey of the habitations of mortals, and then, as if satisfied with her scrutiny, sailed back to the horizon and dropped out of sight.
CHAPTER VIII
FLIPPING THE SHILLING
Shortly after the departure of the strolling players from the tavern, Mauville summoned his servant and ordered his equipage. While waiting he strode impatiently to and fro in the dining-room, which, dismantled of the stage, by very contrast to the temporary temple of art, turned his thoughts to the players. The barrenness of the room smote him acutely with the memory of those performances, and he laughed ironically to himself that he should thus revert to them. But as he scoffed inwardly, his eyes gleamed with vivacity, and the sensations with which he had viewed the young girl night after night were reawakened. What was one woman lost to him, his egotism whispered; he had parted from many, as a gourmand leaves one meal for another. Yes; but she had not been his, insinuated vanity; another had whipped her off before his eyes.
“Why the devil didn’t you tell me he was going with them?” he demanded of the landlord while settling his account.
“He–who?” asked the surprised inn-keeper.
“That adventurer you have been harboring here. How far’s he going with them?”
“I don’t know. The night after the performance I heard the manager ask him to join the company; to write a temperance play.”
“Temperance play!” sneered Mauville. “The fool’s gone with them on account of a woman.”
“I did think he was mighty attentive to one of the actresses,” said the landlord, reflectively. “The one with them melting eyes. Purty good-looking! Quiet and lady-like, too! So he’s gallivanting after her? Well, well, I guess actresses be all alike.”
“I guess they are,” added the heir savagely. “And this one took me in,” he thought to himself. “Holding me off and playing with him, the jade!” Then he continued aloud: “Where are they going?”
“Didn’t hear ’em say,” answered the other, “and I didn’t like to appear too curious.”
“You didn’t?” returned Mauville, ironically. “You must have changed lately.”
“I don’t know as I understand you quite,” replied the landlord with sudden