“Your notices, Scroggs, were wasted on the desert air,” said the patroon, grimly, to that disappointed worthy. “What’s the use of tenants who don’t pay? Playing at feudal lord in modern times is a farce, Scroggs. I wish we had lived about four hundred years ago.”
“Yes, if four hundred years ago were now,” assented the parasite, “I’d begin with Dick, the tollman! He’s a regular Goliath and,”–his face becoming purple–“when I threatened him with the law, threw me out of the barn on an obnoxious heap of refuse.”
“You weren’t exactly a David, then?” laughed the patroon, in spite of his bad humor.
“I’ll throw the stone yet,” said the little man, viciously showing his yellow teeth. “The law’s the sling.”
That evening, when the broad meadows were inundated by the shadow of the forest that crept over it like an incoming tide, the land baron ordered lights for every room. The manor shone in isolated grandeur amid the gloomy fields, with the forest-wall around it; radiant as of old, when strains of music had been heard within and many figures passed the windows. But now there was light, and not life, and a solitary anti-renter on the lonely road regarded with surprise the unusual illumination.
“What does it mean?” asked Little Thunder–for it was he–waiting and watching, as without the gates of Paradise.
Well might he ask, for the late Mynheer, the Patroon, had been a veritable bat for darkness; a few candles answered his purpose in the spacious rooms; he played the prowler, not the grand lord; a recluse who hovered over his wine butts in the cellar and gloated over them, while he touched them not; a hermit who lived half his time in the kitchen, bending over the smoky fireplace, and not a lavender-scented gentleman who aired himself in the drawing-room, a fine fop with nothing but the mirrors to pay him homage. Little Thunder, standing with folded arms in the dark road, gloomy as Lucifer, almost expected to see the brilliant fabric vanish like one of those palaces of joy built by the poets.
Hour after hour passed, midnight had come and gone, and still the lights glowed. Seated in the library, with the curtains drawn, were the land baron and Scroggs, a surveyor’s map between them and a dozen bottles around them. Before Mauville stood several glasses, containing wines of various vintages which the land baron compared and sipped, held to the light and inhaled after the manner of a connoisseur sampling a cellar. He was unduly dignified and stately, but the attorney appeared decidedly groggy. The latter’s ideas clashed against one another like pebbles in a child’s rattle, and, if the round table may be supposed to represent the earth, as the ancient geographers imagined it, Scrogg’s face was surely the glowing moon shining upon it.
Readily had the attorney lent himself to the new order of procedure. With him it was: “The king is dead! Long live the king!” He, who had found but poor pickings under the former master–dry crust fees for pleadings, demurrers or rejoinders–now anticipated generous booty and spoil. Alert for such crumbs as might fall from a bountiful table; keen of scent for scraps and bits, but capable of a mighty mouthful, he paid a courtier’s price for it all; wheedling, pandering, ready for any service, ripe for any revelry. With an adulator’s tact, he still strove strenuously to hold the thread of his companion’s conversation, as Mauville said:
“Too old, Scroggs; too old!” Setting down a glass of burgundy in which fine particles floated through the magenta-hued liquid. “It has lost its luster, like a woman’s eyes when she has passed the meridian. Good wine, like a woman, has its life. First, sweetly innocent, delicately palatable, its blush like a maiden of sixteen; then glowing with a riper development, more passionate in hue, a siren vintage; finally, thin, waning and watery, with only memories of the deeper, rosy-hued days. Now here, my good, but muddled friend, is your youthful maiden!” Holding toward the lamp a glass, clear as crystal, with luster like a gem. “Dancing eyes; a figure upright as a reed; the bearing of a nymph; the soul of a water lily before it has opened its leaves to the wooing moonlight!”
“Lord! How you go on!” exclaimed Scroggs. “What with a sampling this and sampling that, my head’s going round like a top. If there’s anything in the cellar the old patroons put down we haven’t tried, sir, I beg to defer the sampling. I am of the sage’s mind–‘Of all men who take wine, the moderate only enjoy it,’ says Master Bacon, or some one else.”
“Pass the bottle!” answered the other. “Gently, man! Don’t disturb its repose, and remember it disdains the perpendicular.”
“So will I soon,” muttered Scroggs. “I hope you’ll excuse me, sir, but that last drop of Veuve Cliquot was the whip-cord that started the top going, and, on my word”–raising his hands to his head–“I feel like holding it on to keep it from spinning off.”
“Spinning or not, you shall try this vintage”–the young man’s eyes gleamed with such fire as shone in the glass–“and drink to Constance Carew!”
“Constance Carew!” stammered the other, desperately swallowing the toast.
Mauville slowly emptied the glass. “A balsamic taste, slightly piquant but agreeable,” he observed. “A dangerous wine, Scroggs! It carries no warning; your older kind is like a world-worn coquette whose glances at once place you on the defensive. This maiden vintage, just springing into glorious womanhood, comes over you like a springtime dream.”
“Who–who is she?” muttered Scroggs.
“She is not in the scroll you prepared for my lamented kinsman, eh? They are, for the most part, deep red, dark scarlet–that list of fair dames! She doesn’t belong to them–yet! No title, man; not even a society lady. A stroller, which is next door to a vagrant.”
“Well, sir, she’s a woman and that’s enough,” replied the lawyer. “And my opinion is, it’s better to have nothing to do with ’em.”
This sententious remark seemed to arouse Scroggs to momentary vivacity.
“Now there was my Lord Hamerton, whose picture is upstairs,” he went on quickly, like a man who is bent on grasping certain ideas before they escape him. “He brought a beautiful woman here–carried her off, they say from England–and installed her as mistress of the manor. I have heard my father say that his great-grandfather, who was my lord’s solicitor, said that before his death my lord desired to make her his wife, having been brought to a sense of the sinful life he had led by a Puritan preacher. But at that, this woman straightened herself up, surveyed him with scorn, and, laughing like a witch, answered: ‘They say marriages are made in heaven, my lord–and you are the devil!’ So my lord died without having atoned, and, as for my lady who refused to become an honest woman, I am sure she was damned!” concluded Scroggs triumphantly.
“No doubt! So this wicked lord abducted her, Scroggs?” he added thoughtfully. “A man of spirit, until the Puritans got after him and showed him the burning pit and frightened him to that virtue which was foreign to his inclinations. My lady was right in refusing to honor such a paltry scoundrel with her hand. But it takes courage, Scroggs, to face everlasting damnation.”
“They say, too, there was a spice of revenge about her unwillingness to give her hand to my lord,” resumed the narrator, unmindful of the interruption. “This Puritan father said nothing but marriage with her would save Hamerton from the sulphurous flames and so my lady refused to sanctify their relations and rescue her lord from perdition!”
“A pleasant revenge!” laughed the land baron. “He made life a hell for her and she gave him an eternity of it. But take a little of this white wine, man. We’ve drunk to the roses of desire, and now should drink to the sanctified lilies. Her neck, Scroggs, is like a lily, and her hand and her brow! Beneath that whiteness, her eyes shine with a tenderness inviting rays of passion to kindle them. Drink!”
But the other gave a sudden lurch forward. “My lady–refused–perdition!” he muttered, and his head dropped to the board.
“Wake