The Strollers. Isham Frederic Stewart
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Название: The Strollers
Автор: Isham Frederic Stewart
Издательство: Public Domain
Жанр: Зарубежная классика
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“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 up, man, and drink!” commanded the master.
“Jush same–they ought to have been married,” said his companion drowsily. “They lived together so–so ill!” And then to place himself beyond reach of further temptation from the bottle, he quietly and naturally slid under the table.
The patroon arose, strode 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.
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