The Strollers. Frederic Stewart Isham
political reasons?”
The stranger deliberately emptied his pipe and thrust it into his pocket, while the landlord impatiently awaited the response to his pointed query. When it came, however, it was not calculated to allay the curiosity of his questioner.
“Is it your practice,” said the young man coldly, in slow but excellent English, “to bark continuously at the heels of your guests?”
“Oh, no offense meant! No offense! Hope none’ll be taken,” stammered the landlord.
Then he recovered himself and his dignity by drawing forth a huge wine-colored silk handkerchief, set with white polka-dots, and ostentatiously and vigorously using it. This ear-splitting operation having once more set him up in his own esteem, he resumed his attentions to the stranger.
“I didn’t know,” he added with an outburst of honesty, “but what you might be some nobleman in disguise.”
“A nobleman!” said the other with ill-concealed contempt. “My name is Saint-Prosper; plain Ernest Saint-Prosper. I was a soldier. Now I’m an adventurer. There you have it all in a nut-shell.”
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The inn-keeper surveyed his guest’s figure with undisguised admiration.
“Well, you look like a soldier,” he remarked. “You are like one of those soldiers who came over from France to help us in the Revolution.”
This tribute being silently accepted, the landlord grew voluble as his guest continued reserved.
“We have our own troubles with lords, too, right here in New York State,” he said confidentially. “We have our land barons, descendants of the patroons and holders of thousands of acres. And we have our bolters, too, who are making a big stand against feudalism.”
Thereupon he proceeded to present the subject in all its details to the soldier; how the tenants were protesting against the enforcement of what they now deemed unjust claims and were demanding the abolition of permanent leaseholds; how they openly resisted the collection of rents and had inaugurated an aggressive anti-rent war against tyrannical landlordism. His lengthy and rambling dissertation was finally broken in upon by a rumbling on the road, as of carriage wheels drawing near, and the sound of voices. The noise sent the boniface to the window, and, looking out, he discovered a lumbering coach, drawn by two heavy horses, which came dashing up with a great semblance of animation for a vehicle of its weight, followed by a wagon, loaded with diversified and gaudy paraphernalia.
“Some troopers, I guess,” commented the landlord 17 in a tone which indicated the coming of these guests was not entirely welcome to him. “Yes,” he added, discontentedly, “they’re stage-folk, sure enough.”
The wagon, which contained several persons, was driven into the stable yard, where it was unloaded of “drops” and “wings,” representing a street, a forest, a prison, and so on, while the stage coach, with a rattle and a jerk, and a final flourish of the driver’s whip, stopped at the front door. Springing to the ground, the driver opened the door of the vehicle, and at the same time two other men, with their heads muffled against the wind and rain, leisurely descended from the top. The landlord now stood at the entrance of the inn, a sour expression on his face. Certainly, if the travelers had expected in him the traditional glowing countenance, with the apostolic injunction to “use hospitality without grudging” writ upon it, they were doomed to disappointment.
A rustle of skirts, and there emerged from the interior of the coach, first, a little, dried-up old lady whose feet were enclosed in prunella boots, with Indian embroidered moccasins for outside protection; second, a young woman who hastily made her way into the hostelry, displaying a trim pair of ankles; third, a lady resembling the second and who the landlord afterwards learned was her sister; fourth, a graceful girl above medium height, wearing one of those provoking, quilted silk hoods of the day, with cherry-colored lining, known as “Kiss-me-if-you-dare” hoods.
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Then followed a dark melancholy individual, the utility man, whose waistcoat of figured worsted was much frayed and whose “tooth-pick” collar was the worse for the journey. He preceded a more natty person in a bottle-green, “shad-belly” coat, who strove to carry himself as though he were fashionably dressed, instead of wearing clothes which no longer could conceal their shabbiness. The driver, called in theatrical parlance “the old man,” was a portly personage in a blue coat with velvet collar and gilt buttons, a few of which were missing; while the ruffles of his shirt were in sad plight, for instead of protruding elegantly a good three or even four inches, their glory had gone and they lay ignominiously flattened upon the bosom of the wearer. A white choker rivaled in hue the tooth-pick collar of the melancholy individual.
The tavern’s stable boy immediately began to remove the trunks into the main hallway. This overgrown, husky lad evidently did not share his employer’s disapproval of the guests, for he gazed in open-eyed wonder at the sisters, and then, with increasing awe, his glance strayed to the young girl. To his juvenile imagination an actress appeared in the glamour of a veritable goddess. But she had obviously that tender consideration for others which belongs to humanity, for she turned to the old man with an affectionate smile, removing from his shoulders the wet Petersham overcoat, and, placing it on a chair, regarded him with a look of filial anxiety. Yet their appearance belied the assumption of such relationship; he was hearty, 19 florid and sturdy, of English type, while she seemed a daughter of the South, a figure more fitting for groves of orange and cypress, than for this rugged northern wilderness.
The emotion of the stable boy as he gazed at her, and the forbidding mood of the landlord were broken in upon by the tiny old lady, who, in a large voice, remarked:
“A haven at last! Are you the landlord?”
“Yes, ma’am,” testily replied that person.
“I am pleased to meet you, sir,” exclaimed the melancholy individual, as he extended a hand so cold and clammy that shivers ran up and down the back of the host when he took it gingerly. “We are having fine tragedy weather, sir!”
“A fire at once, landlord!” commanded the would-be beau.
“Refreshments will be in order!” exclaimed she of the trim ankles.
“And show me the best room in the house,” remarked her sister.
Mine host, bewildered by this shower of requests, stared from one to the other in helpless confusion, but finally collected his wits sufficiently to usher the company into the tap-room with:
“Here you’ll find a fire, but as for the best room, this gentleman”––indicating the reticent guest––“already occupies it.”
The young man at the fire, thus forced prominently into notice, arose slowly.
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“You are mistaken, landlord,” he said curtly, hardly glancing at the players. “I no longer occupy it since these ladies have come.”
“Your complaisance does credit to your good nature, sir,” exclaimed the old man. “But we can not take advantage of it.”
“It is too good of you,” remarked the elder sister with a glance replete with more gratitude than the occasion demanded. “Really, though, we could not think of it.”
“Thank you; thank you,” joined in the wiry old lady, bobbing up and down like a miniature figure moved by the unseen hand of the showman. “Allow me, sir!” And she gravely tendered him a huge snuff-box of tortoise shell, which he declined; whereupon she continued:
“You do not use it? New fashions; new habits! Though whether for the better is not for me to say.”
She helped herself to a liberal portion and passed the box to the portly old gentleman. Here the landlord, in a surly tone, told the stable boy to remove the gentleman’s things and show the ladies to their rooms. Before going, the girl in the provoking hood––now unfastened, and freeing sundry rebellious brown curls