The Strollers. Isham Frederic Stewart

to the window, which he lifted, and the night air entered, fanning his hot brow. The leaves, on high, rustled like falling rain. The elms tossed their branches, striking one another in blind confusion. The long grass whispered as the breeze stirred it like the surface of an inland lake. Withering flowers gave up their last perfume, while a storm-cloud fled wildly across the heavens. Some of the restlessness of the external world disturbed that silent dark figure at the window; within him, conflicting passions jarred like the boughs of the trees and his fancies surged like the eddying leaves.

      “The roses of desire–the sanctified lilies!” he muttered.

      As he stood there the stars grew pale; the sky trembled and quivered before the advent of morn. A heavy footstep fell behind him, and, turning, he beheld the care-taker.

      “Not in bed yet, Oly-koeks?” cheerfully said the land baron.

      “I am just up.”

      “In that case, it is time for me to retire,” returned the master, with a yawn. “This is a dull place, Oly-koeks; no life; no variety. Nothing going on!”

      The servant glanced at the formidable array of bottles. “And he calls this a quiet life!” thought the care-taker, losing his impassiveness and viewing the table with round-eyed wonder.

      “Nothing going on?” he said aloud. “Mynheer, the Patroon, complained of too much life here, with people taking farms all around. But, if you are dull, a farmer told me last night there was a company of strolling players in Vanderdonkville–”

      “Strollers!” exclaimed Mauville, wheeling around. “What are they called?”

      “Lord; I don’t know, sir. They’re show-folks, and that’s all–”

      “Do many strolling players come this way?”

      “Not for weeks and months, sometimes! The old patroon ordered the schout to arrest them if they entered the wyck.”

      “Is Vanderdonkville in the wyck?” asked the land baron quickly.

      “No. It was separated from the wyck when Rickert Jacobus married–”

      “Never mind the family genealogy! Have the coach ready at nine–”

      “To-night?”

      “This morning,” replied Mauville, lightly. “And, meanwhile, put this to bed,” indicating Scroggs, who was now snoring like a bag-pipe with one arm lovingly wound around a leg of the library table.

      The care-taker hoisted the attorney on his broad shoulders, his burden still piping as they crossed the hall and mounted the stairway. Having deposited his load within the amazing depths of a Dutch feather mattress, where he lay well-nigh lost to sight, but not unheard, the wacht-meester of the steyn left him to well-earned slumber and descended to the kitchen.