The Strollers. Isham Frederic Stewart

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СКАЧАТЬ she got up early to meet him.” But Kate only yawned lazily.

      Retracing his steps from the barn, the soldier crossed the back-yard, where already on the clothes’ line evidences of early matutinal industry, a pair of blue over-alls, with sundry white and red stockings, were dancing in the breeze. First the over-alls performed wildly, then the white stockings responded with vim, while the red ones outdid themselves by their shocking abandonment, vaunting skyward as though impelled by the phantom limbs of some Parisian danseuse.

      Making his way by this dizzy saturnalia and avoiding the pranks of animated hosiery and the more ponderous frolics of over-alls, sheets and tablecloths, Saint-Prosper entered the kitchen. Here the farm hand and maid of all work were eating, and the landlord’s rotund and energetic wife was bustling before the fireplace. An old iron crane, with various sized pothooks and links of chain, swung from the jambs at the will of the housewife. Boneset, wormwood and catnip had their places on the wall, together with ears of corn and strings of dried apples.

      Bustling and active, with arms bared to the elbow and white with flour, the spouse of mine host realized the scriptural injunction: “She looketh well to the ways of her household.” Deftly she spread the dough in the baking pan; smoothly leveled it with her palm; with nice mathematical precision distributed bits of apple on top in parallel rows; lightly sprinkled it with sugar, and, lo and behold, was fashioned an honest, wholesome, Dutch apple cake, ready for the baking!

      In the tap-room the soldier encountered the newcomer, seated not far from the fire as though his blood flowed sluggishly after his long ride in the chill morning air. Upon the table lay his hat, and he was playing with the seals on his watch ribbon, his legs indolently stretched out straight before him. Occasionally he coughed when the smoke, exuding from the damp wood, was not entirely expelled up the chimney, but curled around the top of the fireplace and diffused itself into the atmosphere. Well-built, although somewhat slender of figure, this latest arrival had a complexion of tawny brown, a living russet, as warm and glowing as the most vivid of Vandyke pigments.

      He raised his eyes slowly as the soldier entered and surveyed him deliberately. From a scrutiny of mere physical attributes he passed on to the more important details of clothes, noting that his sack coat was properly loose at the waist and that the buttons were sufficiently large to pass muster, but also detecting that the trousers lacked breadth at the ankles and that the hat had a high crown and a broad brim, from which he complacently concluded the other was somewhat behind the shifting changes of fashion.

      “Curse me, if this isn’t a beastly fire!” he exclaimed, stretching himself still more, yawning and passing a hand through his black hair. “Hang them, they might as well shut up their guests in the smoke-house with the bacons and hams! I feel as cured as a side of pig, ready to be hung to a dirty rafter.”

      With which he pulled himself together, went to the window, raised it and placed a stick under the frame.

      “They tell me there’s a theatrical troupe here,” he resumed, returning to his chair and relapsing into its depths. “Perhaps you are one of them?”

      “I have not that honor.”

      “Honor!” repeated the new arrival with a laugh. “That’s good! That was one of them on the road with you, I’ll be bound. You have good taste! Heigho!” he yawned again. “I’m anchored here awhile on account of a lame horse. Perhaps though”–brightening–“it may not be so bad after all. These players promise some diversion.” At that moment his face wore an expression of airy, jocund assurance which faded to visible annoyance as he continued: “Where can that landlord be? He placed me in this kennel, vanished, and left me to my fate. Ah, here he is at last!” As the host approached, respectfully inquiring:

      “Is there anything more I can do for you?”

      “More?” exclaimed this latest guest, ironically. “Well, better late than never! See that my servant has help with the trunks.”

      “Very well, sir; I’ll have Sandy look after them. You are going to stay then?” Shifting several bottles on the bar with apparent industry.

      “How can I tell?” returned the newcomer lightly. “Fate is a Sphynx, and I am not Œdipus to answer her questions!”

      The landlord looked startled, paused in his feigned employment, but slowly recovering himself, began to dust a jar of peppermint candy.

      “How far is it to Meadtown?” continued the guest.

      “Forty odd miles! Perhaps you are seeking the old patroon manor there? They say the heir is expected any day”–gazing fixedly at the young man–“at least, the anti-renters have received information he is coming and are preparing–”

      The sprightly guest threw up his hands.

      “The trunks! the trunks!” he exclaimed in accents of despair. “Look at the disorder of my attire! The pride of these ruffles leveled by the dew; my wristbands in disarray; the odor of the road pervading my person! The trunks, I pray you!”

      “Yes, sir; at once, sir! But first let me introduce you to Mr. Saint-Prosper, of Paris, France. Make yourselves at home, gentlemen!”

      With which the speaker hurriedly vanished and soon the bumping and thumping in the hall gave cheering assurance of instructions fulfilled.

      “That porter is a prince among his kind,” observed the guest satirically, wincing as an unusual bang overhead shook the ceiling. “But I’ll warrant my man won’t have to open my luggage after he gets through.”

      Then as quiet followed the racket above–“So you’re from Paris, France?” he asked half-quizzically. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet somebody from somewhere. As I, too, have lived–not in vain!–in Paris, France, we may have mutual friends?”

      “It is unlikely,” said the soldier, who meanwhile had drawn off his riding gloves, placed them on the mantel, and stood facing the fire, with his back to the other guest. As he spoke he turned deliberately and bent his penetrating glance on his questioner.

      “Really? Allow me to be skeptical, as I have considerable acquaintance there. In the army there’s that fire-eating conqueror of the ladies, Gen–”

      “My rank was not so important,” interrupted the other, “that I numbered commanders among my personal friends.”

      “As you please,” said the last guest carelessly. “I had thought to exchange a little gossip with you, but–n’importe! In my own veins flows some of the blood of your country.”

      For the time his light manner forsook him.

      “Her tumults have, in a measure, been mine,” he continued. “Now she is without a king, I am well-nigh without a mother-land. True; I was not born there–but it is the nurse the child turns to. Paris was my bonne– a merry abigail! Alas, her vicious brood have turned on her and cast her ribbons in the mire! Untroubled by her own brats, she could extend her estates to the Eldorado of the southwestern seas.” He had arisen and, with hands behind his back, was striding to and fro. Coming suddenly to a pause, he asked abruptly:

      “Do you know the Abbé Moneau?”

      At the mention of that one-time subtle confidant of the deposed king, now the patron of republicanism, Saint-Prosper once more regarded his companion attentively.

      “By reputation, certainly,” he answered, slowly.

      “He was my tutor and is now my frequent correspondent. Not a bad sort СКАЧАТЬ