Daughter with Particular Care
Those angels appointed to be guardians of the merry people of Rouen,
poising one night, between earth and stars, discovered a single
brilliant and resonant spot, set in the midst of the dark, quiet town
like a jewelled music-box on a black cloth. Sounds of revelry and the
dance from the luminous spot came up through the summer stillness to the
weary guardians all night long, until, at last, when a red glow stole
into the east, and the dance still continued, nay, grew faster than
ever, the celestial watchers found the work too heavy for their
strength, and forthwith departed, leaving the dancers to their own
devices; for, as everyone knows, when a dance lasts till daylight,
guardian angels flee.
All night long the fiddles had been swinging away at their best; all
night long the candles had shone in thin rows of bright orange through
the slits of the window-blinds; but now, as the day broke over the
maples, the shutters were flung open by laughing young men, and the
drivers of the carriages, waiting in the dusty street, pressed up closer
to the hedge, or came within and stretched themselves upon the lawn,
to see the people waltzing in the daylight. The horses, having no such
desires, stood with loosened check-reins, slightly twitching their upper
lips, wistful of the tall grass which bordered the wooden sidewalk,
though now and then one would lift his head high, sniffing the morning
air and bending an earnest gaze not upon the dancers but upon the florid
east.
Over the unwearied plaint of French-horn, violin, and bassoon, rose
a silvery confusion of voices and laughter and the sound of a hundred
footfalls in unison, while, from the open windows there issued a warm
breath, heavily laden with the smell of scented fans, of rich fabrics,
of dying roses, to mingle with the spicy perfume of a wild crab-tree
in fullest blossom, which stood near enough to peer into the ball-room,
and, like a brocaded belle herself, challenge the richest to show
raiment as fine, the loveliest to look as fair and joyful in the dawn..
“Believe me, of all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so
fondly to-day, Were to fade by to-morrow and fleet from my arms, Like
fairy gifts fading away--”
So ran the violins in waltz time, so bassoon and horn to those dulcet
measures; and then, with one accord, a hundred voices joined them in the
old, sweet melody:
“Thou wouldst still be adored as this moment thou art, Let thy
loveliness fade as it will; And around the dear ruin each wish of my
heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.”
And the jealous crab-tree found but one to overmatch itself in beauty:
a lady who was the focus of the singing; for, by the time the shutters
were flung open, there was not a young man in the room, lacked he never
so greatly in music or in voice, who did not heartily desire to sing
to Miss Betty Carewe, and who did not now (craning neck over partner's
shoulder) seek to fix her with his glittering eye, while he sang “Oh,
believe me” most directly and conspicuously at her. For that night was
the beginning of Miss Betty's famous career as the belle of Rouen, and
was the date from which strangers were to hear of her as “the beautiful
Miss Carewe,” until “beautiful” was left off, visitors to the town being
supposed to have heard at least that much before they came.
There had been much discussion of her, though only one or two had caught
glimpses of her; but most of the gallants appeared to agree with Crailey
Gray, who aired his opinion--in an exceedingly casual way--at the little
club on Main Street. Mr. Gray held that when the daughter of a man as
rich as Bob Carewe was heralded as a beauty the chances were that she
would prove disappointing, and, for his part, he was not even interested
enough to attend and investigate. So he was going down the river in a
canoe and preferred the shyness of bass to that of a girl of eighteen
just from the convent, he said. Tom Vanrevel was not present on the
occasion of these remarks; and the general concurrence with Crailey may
be suspected as a purely verbal one, since, when the evening came,
two of the most enthusiastic dancers and love-makers of the town,
the handsome Tappingham Marsh and that doughty ex-dragoon and Indian
fighter, stout old General Trumble, were upon the field before the enemy
appeared; that is to say, they were in the new ball-room before their
host; indeed, the musicians had not arrived, and Nelson, an aged negro
servitor, was engaged in lighting the house.
The crafty pair had planned this early descent with a view to monopoly
by right of priority, in case the game proved worth the candle, and they
were leaning effectively against the little railing about the musicians'
platform when Mr. Carewe entered the room with his daughter on his arm.
She was in white, touched with countless small lavender flowers; there
were rows and rows of wonderful silk and lace flounces on her skirt, and
her fan hung from a rope of great pearls. Ah, hideous, blue, rough cloth
of the convent, unforgotten, but laid aside forever, what a chrysalis
you were!
Tappingham twitched his companion's sleeve, but the General was already
posing; and neither heard the words of presentation, because Miss Betty
gave each of them a quick look, then smiled upon them as they bowed; the
slayers were prostrated before their prey. Never were lady-killers more
instantaneously tamed and subjugated by the power of the feminine eye.
Will Cummings came in soon, and, almost upon his heels, Eugene Madrillon
and young Frank Chenoweth. No others appeared for half an hour, and
the five gentlemen looked at one another aside, each divining his own
diplomacy in his fellow's eye, and each laboriously explaining to
the others his own mistake in regard to the hour designated upon Mr.
Carewe's cards of invitation. This small embarrassment, however, did
not prevent General Trumble and young Mr. Chenoweth from coming to high
words over Miss Carewe's little, gilt-filigree “programme” of dances.
It may be not untimely to remark, also, of these five redoubtable beaux,
that, during the evening, it occurred to every one of them to be glad
that Crailey Gray was betrothed to Fanchon Bareaud, and that he was down
on the Rouen River with a canoe, a rod and a tent. Nay, without more
words, to declare the truth in regard to Crailey, they felt greater
security in his absence from the field than in his betrothal. As Mr.
Chenoweth, a youth as open as out-of-doors, both in countenance and
mind, observed plaintively to Tappingham Marsh in a corner, while they
watched Miss Betty's lavender flowers miraculously swirling through a
quadrille: “Crailey, you know, well, Crailey's been engaged before!” It
was not Mr. Chenoweth's habit to disguise his apprehensions, and Crailey
Gray would not fish for bass forever.
The same Chenoweth was he, who, maddened by the General's triumphantly
familiar way of toying with Miss Betty's fan between two dances,
attempted to propose to her during the sunrise waltz. Having sung
“Oh, believe me” in her ear as loudly as he could, he expressed the
wish--quite as loudly--“That this waltz might last for always!”
That was the seventh time it had been said to Betty during the night,
and though Mr. Chenoweth's predecessors had revealed their desires in
a guise lacking this prodigious artlessness, she already possessed no
novel acquaintance with the exclamation. But she made no comment; her
partner's style was not a stimulant to repartee. “It would be
heaven,” he amplified earnestly, “it would be heaven to dance with you
forever--on a desert isle where the others couldn't come!” he finished
with sudden acerbity as his eye caught the General's.
He proceeded, and only the cessation of the music aided Miss Carewe in
stopping the declaration before it was altogether out; and at that point
Frank's own father came to her rescue, though in a fashion little saving
of her confusion. The elder Chenoweth was one of the gallant and kindly
Southern colony that made it natural for Rouen always to speak of Miss
Carewe as “Miss Betty”. He was a handsome old fellow, whose hair,
long moustache and imperial were as white as he was proud of them, a
Virginian with the admirable Southern fearlessness of being thought
sentimental. Mounting a chair with complete dignity, he lifted a glass
of wine high in the air, and, when all the other glasses had been
filled, proposed the health of his young hostess. He made a speech of
some length, pronouncing himself quite as hopelessly in love with his
old friend's daughter as all could see his own son was; and wishing her
long life and prosperity, with many allusions to fragrant bowers and the
Muses.
It made Miss Betty happy, but it was rather trying, too, for she could
only stand with downcast eyes before them all, trembling a little,
and receiving a mixed impression of Mr. Chenoweth's remarks, catching
fragments here and there: “And may the blush upon that gentle cheek,
lovelier than the radiant clouds at set of sun,” and “Yet the sands of
the hour-glass must fall, and in the calm and beauteous old age some
day to be her lot, when fond mem'ry leads her back to view again the
brilliant scene about her now, where stand 'fair women and brave men,'
winecup in hand to do her honor, oh, may she wipe the silent tear”, and
the like. As the old gentleman finished, and before the toast was drunk,
Fanchon Bareaud, kissing her hand to Betty, took up the song again; and
they all joined in, lifting their glasses to the blushing and happy girl
clinging to her father's arm:
“Thou wouldst still be adored as this moment thou art, Let thy
loveliness fade as it will; And around the dear ruin, each wish of my
heart, Would entwine itself verdantly still.”
They were happy people who had not learned to be self-conscious enough
to fear doing a pretty thing openly without mocking themselves for it;
and it was a brave circle they made about Betty Carewe, the charming
faces of the women and their fine furbelows, handsome men and tall, all
so gay, so cheerily smiling, and yet so earnest in their welcome to
her. No one was afraid to “let out” his voice; their song went full and
strong over the waking town, and when it was finished the ball was over,
too.
The veranda and the path to the gate became like tropic gardens, the
fair colors of the women's dresses, ballooning in the early breeze,
making the place seem strewn with giant blossoms. They all went away at
the same time, those in carriages calling farewells to each other and
to the little processions departing on foot in different directions to
homes near by. The sound of the voices and laughter drew away, slowly
died out altogether, and the silence of the street was strange and
unfamiliar to Betty. She went to the hedge and watched the musicians,
who were the last to go, until they passed from sight: little black
toilsome figures, carrying grotesque black boxes. While she could still
see them, it seemed to her that her ball was not quite over, and she
wished to hold the least speck of it as long as she could; but when
they had disappeared, she faced the truth with a deep sigh: the long,
glorious night was finished indeed.
What she needed now was another girl: the two would have gone to Betty's
room and danced it all over again until noon; but she had only her
father. She found him smoking a Principe cigar upon the veranda, so she
seated herself timidly, nevertheless with a hopeful glance at him, on
the steps at his feet; and, as she did so, he looked down upon her with
something more akin to geniality than anything she had ever seen in his
eye before. It was not geniality itself, but might be third cousin to
it. Indeed, in his way, he was almost proud of her, though he had no
wish to show it. Since one was compelled to display the fact that one
possessed a grown daughter, it was well that she be like this one.
They did not know each other very well, and she often doubted that they
would ever become intimate. There was no sense of companionship
for either in the other; she had been unable to break through his
perfunctory, almost formal, manner with her; therefore, because he
encouraged no af-fection in her, she felt none, and wondered why, since
he was her father. She was more curious about him than interested,
and, though she did not know it, she was prepared to judge him--should
occasion arise--precisely as she would judge any other mere
acquaintance. This morning, for the first time, she was conscious of a
sense of warmth and gratitude toward him: the elaborate fashion in which
he had introduced her to his friends made it appear possible that he
liked her; for he had forgotten nothing, and to remember everything
in this case was to be lavish, which has often the appearance of
generosity.
And yet there had been a lack: some small thing she had missed, though
she was not entirely sure that she identified it; but the lack had not
been in her father or in anything he had done. Then, too, there was
something so unexpectedly human and pleasant in his not going to bed at
once, but remaining to smoke on the veranda at this hour, that she gave
him credit for a little of her own excitement, innocently fancying that
he, also, might feel the need of a companion with whom to talk over the
brilliant passages of the night. And a moment ensued when she debated
taking his hand. She was too soon glad that her intuition forbade the
demonstration.
“It was all so beautiful, papa,” she said, timidly. “I have no way to
tell you how I thank you.”
“You may do that,” he replied, evenly, with no unkindness, with no
kindness, either, in the level of his tone, “by never dancing again more
than twice with one man in one evening.”
“I think I should much prefer not, myself,” she returned, lifting her
head to face him gravely. “I believe if I cared to dance more than once
with one, I should like to dance all of them with him.”
Mr. Carewe frowned. “I trust that you discovered none last night whom
you wished to honor with your entire programme?”
“No,” she laughed, “not last night.”
Her father tossed away his cigar abruptly “Is it too much to hope,” he
inquired, “that when you discover a gentleman with whom you desire to
waltz all night, you will omit to mention the fact to him?”
There was a brief flash of her eye as she recalled her impulse to
take his hand, but she immediately looked at him with such complete
seriousness that he feared his irony had been thrown away.
“I'll remember not to mention it,” she answered. “I'll tell him you told
me not too.”
“I think you may retire now,” said Mr. Carewe, sharply.
She rose from the steps, went to the door, then turned at the threshold.
“Were all your friends here, papa?”
“Do you think that every ninny who gabbled in my house last night was my
friend?” he said, angrily. “There was one friend of mine, Mrs. Tanberry,
who wasn't here, because she is out of town; but I do not imagine that
you are inquiring about women. You mean: Was every unmarried male
idiot who could afford a swallow-tailed coat and a clean pair of gloves
cavorting about the place? Yes, miss, they were all here except two, and
one of those is a fool, the other a knave.”
“Can't I know the fool?” she asked, eagerly.
“I rejoice to find them so rare in your experience!” he retorted. “This
one is out of town, though I have no doubt you will see him sufficiently
often when he returns. His name is Crailey Gray, and he is to marry
Fanchon Bareaud--if he remembers!”
“And the knave?”
“Is one!” Carewe shut his teeth with a venomous snap, and his whole
face reddened suddenly. “I'll mention this fellow once--now,” he said,
speaking each word with emphasis. “His name is Vanrevel. You see that
gate; you see the line of my property there: the man himself, as well
as every other person in the town, remembers well that the last time I
spoke to him, it was to tell him that if he ever set foot on ground of
mine I'd shoot him down, and he knows, and they all know, I shall keep
my word! Elsewhere, I told him that for the sake of public peace, I
should ignore him. I do. You will see him everywhere; but it will not be
difficult; no one will have the hardihood to present him to my daughter.
The quarrel between us--” Mr. Carewe broke off for a moment, his hands
clinching the arms of his chair, while he swallowed with difficulty, as
though he choked upon some acrid bolus, and he was so strongly agitated
by his own mention of his enemy that he controlled himself by a painful
effort of his will. “The quarrel between us is political--and personal.
You will remember.”
“I shall remember,” she answered in a rather frightened voice.
... It was long before she fell asleep. “I alone must hover about the
gates or steal into your garden like a thief,” the Incroyable had said.
“The last time I spoke to him it was to tell him that if he ever set
foot on ground of mine, I'd shoot him down!” had been her father's
declaration. And Mr. Carewe had spoken with the most undeniable air of
meaning what he said. Yet she knew that the Incroyable would come again.
Also, with hot cheeks pressed into her pillow, Miss Betty had identified
the young man in the white hat, that dark person whose hand she had far
too impetuously seized in both of hers. Aha! It was this gentleman
who looked into people's eyes and stammered so sincerely over a pretty
speech that you almost believed him, it was he who was to marry Fanchon
Bareaud--“if he remembers!” No wonder Fanchon had been in such a
hurry to get him away.... “If he remembers!” Such was that young man's
character, was it? Miss Carewe laughed aloud to her pillow: for, was one
to guess the reason, also, of his not having come to her ball? Had the
poor man been commanded to be “out of town?”
Then, remembering the piquant and generous face of Fanchon, Betty
clinched her fingers tightly and crushed the imp who had suggested the
unworthy thought, crushed him to a wretched pulp and threw him out of
the open window. He immediately sneaked in by the back way, for, in
spite of her victory, she still felt a little sorry for poor Fanchon.