The Strollers Part 15

At dawn, when he opened his eyes, the morning star yet gleamed with a last pale l.u.s.ter. Raising himself on his elbow and looking out over the country to learn his whereabouts, his eye fell upon a tree, blood-red, a maple amid evergreens. Behind this somber community of pines, stiff as a band of Puritan elders, surrounding the bright-hued maple, a Hester in that austere congregation, appeared the glazed tile roof of Little Thunder's habitation, a two-story abode of modest proportions and olden type. As the land baron pa.s.sed, a brindle cow in the side yard saluted the morn, calling the sluggard from his couch, but at the manor, which the patroon shortly reached, the ever wakeful Oly-koeks was already engaged in chopping wood near the kitchen door.

The growling of the hound at his feet called the care-taker's attention to the master's coming, and, driving the ax into an obstinate stick of hickory, he donned his coat, drawing near the vehicle, where he stood in stupid wonderment as the land baron alighted.

"Any callers, Oly-koeks?" carelessly asked the master.

"A committee of barn-burners, Mynheer, to ask you not to serve any more writs."

"And so give them time to fight me with the lawmakers! But there; carry my portmanteau into the library and"--as Oloffe's upper lip drew back--"teach your dog to know me."

"He belonged to the old master, Mynheer. When he died, the dog lay near his grave day and night."

"I dare say; like master, like dog! But fetch the portmanteau, you Dutch varlet!" Entering the house, while the coachman drove the tired horses toward the barn. "There's something in it I want. Bring it here." As he pa.s.sed into the library. "Yes; I put it in there, I am sure. Ah, here we have it!" And unpacking the valise, he took therefrom a handsome French writing case.

"Thou Wily Limb of the Law," wrote the patroon, "be it known by these presents, thou art summoned to appear before me! I have work for you--not to serve any one with a writ; a.s.sign; bring an action, or any of your rascally, pettifogging tricks! Send me no demurrer, but your own intemperate self."

Which epistle the patroon addressed to his legal satellite and despatched by messenger.

CHAPTER XI

THE QUEST OF THE SOLDIER

Several bleak days were followed by a little June weather in October.

A somnolent influence rested everywhere. Above the undulation of land on the horizon were the clouds, like heavenly hills, reflecting their radiance on those earthly elevations. The celestial mountains and valleys gave wondrous perspective to the outlook, and around them lay an atmosphere, unreal and idyllic.

On such a morning Susan stood at a turn in the road, gazing after a departing vehicle with ill-concealed satisfaction and yet withal some dubiousness. Now that the plan, suggested by Mauville, had not miscarried, certain misgivings arose, for there is a conscience in the culmination wanting in the conception of an act. As the partial realization of the situation swept over her, she gave a gasp, and then, the vehicle having meanwhile vanished, a desperate spirit of bravado replaced her momentary apprehension. She even laughed nervously as she waved her handkerchief in the direction the coach had taken: "_Bon voyage!_"

But as the words fell from the smiling lips, her eyes became thoughtful and her hand fell to her side; it occurred to Susan she would be obliged to divert suspicion from herself. The curling lips straightened; she turned abruptly and hastened toward the town. But her footsteps soon lagged and she paused thoughtfully.

"If I reach the hotel too soon," she murmured, "they may overtake him."

So she stopped at the wayside, attracted by the brilliant cardinal flowers, humming as she plucked them, but ever and anon glancing around guiltily. The absurd thought came to her that the bright autumn blossoms were red, the hue of sin, and she threw them on the sward, and unconsciously rubbed her hands on her dress.

Still she lingered, however, vaguely mindful she was adding to her burden of ill-doing, but finally again started slowly toward the village, hurrying as she approached the hotel, where she encountered the soldier on the veranda. Her distressed countenance and haste proclaimed her a messenger of disaster.

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" she exclaimed excitedly. "Where is Mr. Barnes?"

"What is the matter, Miss Duran?" Suspecting very little was the matter, for Susan was nothing, if not all of a twitter.

"Constance has been carried off!"

"Carried off!" He regarded her as if he thought she had lost her senses.

"Yes; abducted!"

"Abducted! By whom?"

"I--I did not see his face!" she gasped. "And it is all my fault!

I asked her to take a walk! Oh, what shall I do?" Wringing her hands in anguish that was half real. "We kept on and on--it was so pleasant!--until we had pa.s.sed far beyond the outskirts of the village. At a turn in the road stood a coach--a cloak was thrown over my head by some one behind--I must have fainted, and, when I recovered, she was gone. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"

"When did it happen?" As he spoke the young man left the veranda.

Grazing contentedly near the porch was his horse and Saint-Prosper's hand now rested on the bridle.

"I can't tell how long I was unconscious," said the seemingly hysterical young woman, "but I hurried here as soon as I recovered myself."

"Where did it occur? Down the road you came?"

"Ye-es."

Saint-Prosper vaulted into the saddle. "Tell the manager to see a magistrate," he said.

"But you're not going to follow them alone?" began Susan. "Oh dear, I feel quite faint again! If you would please help me into the--"

By way of answer, the other touched his horse deeply with the spur and the mettlesome animal reared and plunged, then, recalled by the sharp voice of the rider, galloped wildly down the road. Susan observed the sudden departure with mingled emotions.

"How quixotic!" she thought discontentedly. "But he won't catch them,"

came the consoling afterthought, as she turned to seek the manager.

Soon the soldier, whose spirited dash down the main thoroughfare had awakened some misgivings in the little town, was beyond the precincts of village scrutiny. The country road was hard, although marked by deep cuts from traffic during a rainy spell, and the horse's hoofs rang out with exhilarating rhythm. Regardless of all save the distance traversed, the rider yet forbore to press the pace, relaxing only when, after a considerable interval, he came to another road and drew rein at the fork. One way to the right ran gently through the valley, apparently terminating in the luxuriant foliage, while the other, like a winding, murky stream, stretched out over a more level tract of land.

Which thoroughfare had the coach taken? Dismounting, the young man hastily examined the ground, but the earth was so dry and firm, and the tracks of wheels so many, it was impossible to distinguish the old marks from the new. Even sign-post there was none; the roads diverged, and the soldier could but blindly surmise their destination, selecting after some hesitation the thoroughfare running into the gorgeous, autumnal painted forest.

He had gone no inconsiderable distance when his doubts were abruptly confirmed. Reaching an opening, bright as the chapel of a darkened monastery, he discerned a farmer in a buckboard approaching from the opposite direction. The swift pace of the rider and the leisurely jog of the team soon brought them together.

"Did you pa.s.s a coach down the road?" asked the soldier.

"No-a," said the farmer, deliberately, as his fat horses instinctively stood stock still; "didn't pa.s.s n.o.body."

"Have you come far?"

"A good ways."

"You would have met a coach, if it had pa.s.sed here an hour ago?"

"I guess I would," said the man. "This road leads straight across the country."

"Where does the other road at the fork go?"

"To the patroon village. There's a reform orator there to-day and a barn-burners' camp-fire."

Without waiting to thank his informant, Saint-Prosper pulled his horse quickly around, while the man in the buckboard gradually got under way, until he had once more attained a comfortable, slow gait. Indeed, by the time his team had settled down to a sleepy jog, in keeping with the dreamy haze, hanging upon the upland, his questioner was far down the road.

When, however, the soldier once more reached the fork, and took the winding way across a more level country, he moderated his pace, realizing the need of husbanding his horse's powers of endurance.

The country seemed at peace, as though no dissension nor heated pa.s.sions could exist within that pastoral province. And yet, not far distant, lay the domains of the patroons, the hot-bed of the two opposing branches of the Democratic party: The "hunkers," or conservative-minded men, and the "barn-burners," or progressive reformers, who sympathized with the anti-renters.

After impatiently riding an hour or more through this delectable region, the horseman drew near the patroon village, a cl.u.s.ter of houses amid the hills and meadows. Here the land barons had originally built for the tenants comfortable houses and ample barns, saw and grist mills. But the old homes had crumbled away, and that rugged ancestry of dwellings had been replaced by a new generation of houses, with clapboards, staring green blinds and flimsy verandas.