Betty never forgot her first sight of the old friend of her family.
Returning with a sad heart, she was walking the colt slowly through
the carriage-gates, when an extravagantly stout lady, in green muslin
illustrated with huge red flowers, came out upon the porch and waved a
fat arm to the girl. The visitor wore a dark-green turban and a Cashmere
shawl, while the expanse of her skirts was nothing short of magnificent:
some cathedral-dome seemed to have been misplaced and the lady dropped
into it. Her outstretched hand terrified Betty: how was she to approach
near enough to take it?
Mrs. Tanberry was about sixty, looked forty, and at first you might have
guessed she weighed nearly three hundred, but the lightness of her smile
and the actual buoyancy which she somehow imparted to her whole dominion
lessened that by at least a hundred-weight. She ballooned out to the
horse-block with a billowy rush somewhere between bounding and soaring;
and Miss Betty slid down from the colt, who shied violently, to find
herself enveloped, in spite of the dome, in a vast surf of green and red
muslin.
“My charming girl!” exclaimed the lady vehemently, in a voice of such
husky richness, of such merriment and unction of delight, that it fell
upon Miss Betty's ear with more of the quality of sheer gayety than any
she had ever heard. “Beautiful child! What a beautiful child you are!”
She kissed the girl resoundingly on both cheeks; stepped back from her
and laughed, and clapped her fat hands, which were covered with flashing
rings. “Oh, but you are a true blue Beauty! You're a Princess! I am Mrs.
Tanberry, Jane Tanberry, young Janie Tanberry. I haven't seen you since
you were a baby and your pretty mother was a girl like us!”
“You are so kind to come,” said Betty hesitatingly. “I shall try to be
very obedient.”
“Obedient!” Mrs. Tanberry uttered the word with a shriek. “You'll be
nothing of the kind. I am the light-mindedest woman in the universe,
and anyone who obeyed me would be embroiled in everlasting trouble every
second in the day. You'll find that I am the one that needs looking
after, my charmer!”
She tapped Miss Betty's cheek with her jeweled fingers as the two
mounted the veranda steps. “It will be worry enough for you to obey
yourself; a body sees that at the first blush. You have conscience
in your forehead and rebellion in your chin. Ha, ha, ha!” Here Mrs.
Tanberry sat upon, and obliterated, a large chair, Miss Carewe taking a
stool at her knee.
“People of our age oughtn't to be bothered with obeying; there'll be
time enough for that when we get old and can't enjoy anything. Ha, ha!”
Mrs. Tanberry punctuated her observations with short volleys of husky
laughter, so abrupt in both discharge and cessation that, until Miss
Betty became accustomed to the habit, she was apt to start slightly at
each salvo. “I had a husband--once,” the lady resumed, “but only once,
my friend! He had ideas like your father's--your father is such an
imbecile!--and he thought that wives, sisters, daughters, and such like
ought to be obedient: that is, the rest of the world was wrong unless it
was right; and right was just his own little, teeny-squeeny prejudices
and emotions dressed up for a crazy masquerade as Facts. Poor man! He
only lasted about a year!” And Mrs. Tanberry laughed heartily.
“They've been at me time and again to take another.” She lowered her
voice and leaned toward Betty confidentially. “Not I! I'd be willing
to engage myself to Crailey Gray (though Crailey hasn't got round to me
yet) for I don't mind just being engaged, my dear; but they'll have to
invent something better than a man before I marry any one of 'em again!
But I love 'em, I do, the Charming Billies! And you'll see how they
follow me!” She patted the girl's shoulder, her small eyes beaming
quizzically. “We'll have the gayest house in Rouen, ladybird! The young
men all go to the Bareauds', but they'll come here now, and we'll have
the Bareauds along with 'em. I've been away a long time, just finished
unpacking yesterday night when your father came in after the fire--Whoo!
what a state he was in with that devilish temper of his! Didn't I snap
him up when he asked me to come and stay with you? Ha, ha! I'd have
come, even if you hadn't been beautiful; but I was wild to be your
playmate, for I'd heard nothing but 'Miss Betty Carewe, Miss Betty
Carewe' from everybody I saw, since the minute my stage came in. You set
'em all mad at your ball, and I knew we'd make a glorious house-full,
you and I! Some of the vagabonds will turn up this very evening, you'll
see if they don't. Ha, ha! The way they follow me!”
Mrs. Tanberry was irresistible: she filled the whole place otherwise
than by the mere material voluminousness of her; bubbling over with
froth of nonsense which flew through the house, driven by her energy,
like sea-foam on a spring gale; and the day, so discordantly begun for
Miss Betty, grew musical with her own laughter, answering the husky
staccato of the vivacious newcomer. Nelson waited upon them at table,
radiant, his smile like the keyboard of an ebony piano, and his
disappearances into the kitchen were accomplished by means of a
surreptitious double-shuffle, and followed by the cachinnating echoes
of the vain Mamie's reception of the visitor's sallies, which Nelson
hastily retailed in passing.
Nor was Mrs. Tanberry's prediction allowed to go unfulfilled regarding
the advent of those persons whom she had designated as vagabonds. It may
have been out of deference to Mr. Carewe's sense of decorum (or from
a cautious regard of what he was liable to do when he considered that
sense outraged) that the gallants of Rouen had placed themselves under
the severe restraint of allowing three days to elapse after their
introduction to Miss Carewe before they “paid their respects at the
house;” but, be that as it may, the dictator was now safely under way
down the Rouen River, and Mrs. Tanberry reigned in his stead. Thus,
at about eight o'clock that evening, the two ladies sat in the library
engaged in conversation--though, for the sake of accuracy, it should
be said that Mrs. Tanberry was engaged in conversation, Miss Betty in
giving ear--when their attention was arrested by sounds of a somewhat
musical nature from the lawn, which sounds were immediately identified
as emanating from a flute and violin.
Mrs. Tanberry bounded across the room like a public building caught by a
cyclone, and, dashing at the candles, “Blow 'em out, blow 'em out!” she
exclaimed, suiting the action to the word in a fluster of excitement.
“Why?” asked Miss Carewe, startled, as she rose to her feet. The candles
were out before the question.
“'Why!” repeated the merry, husky voice in the darkness. “My goodness,
child precious, those vagabonds are here! To think of your never having
been serenaded before!”
She drew the girl to the window and pointed to a group of dim figures
near the iliac bushes. “The dear, delightful vagabonds!” she chuckled.
“I knew they'd come! It's the beautiful Tappingham Marsh with his
fiddle, and young Jeff Bareaud with his flute, and 'Gene Madrillon
and little Frank Chenowith and thin Will Cummings to sing. Hark to the
rascals!”
It is perfectly truthful to say that the violin and flute executed the
prelude, and then the trio sounded full on the evening air, the more
effective chords obligingly drawn out as long as the breath in the
singers could hold them, in order to allow the two fair auditors
complete benefit of the harmony. They sang “The Harp that Once Thro'
Tara's Halls,” and followed it with “Long, Long Ago.”
“That,” Mrs. Tanberry whispered, between stifled gusts of almost
uncontrollable laughter, “is meant for just me!”
“Tell me the tales that to me were so dear,” entreated the trio.
“I told 'em plenty!” gurgled the enlivening widow. “And I expect between
us we can get up some more.” “Now you are come my grief is removed,”
they sang.
“They mean your father is on his way to St. Louis,” remarked Mrs.
Tanberry.
“Let me forget that so long you have roved, Let me believe that you love
as you loved, Long, long ago, long ago.”
“Applaud, applaud!” whispered Mrs. Tanberry, encouraging the minstrels
by a hearty clapping of hands.
Hereupon dissension arose among the quintet, evidently a dispute in
regard to their next selection; one of the gentlemen appearing more
than merely to suggest a solo by himself, while the others too frankly
expressed adverse opinions upon the value of the offering. The argument
became heated, and in spite of many a “Sh!” and “Not so loud!” the
ill-suppressed voice of the intending soloist, Mr. Chenoweth, could be
heard vehemently to exclaim: “I will! I learned it especially for this
occasion. I will sing it!”
His determination, patently, was not to be balked without physical
encounter, consequently he was permitted to advance some paces from the
lilac bushes, where he delivered himself, in an earnest and plaintive
tenor, of the following morbid instructions, to which the violin played
an obligato in tremulo, so execrable, and so excruciatingly discordant,
that Mr. Chenoweth's subsequent charge that it was done with a
deliberately evil intention could never be successfully opposed:
“Go! Forget me!
Why should Sorrow
O'er that brow a shadow fling?
Go! Forget me, and, to-morrow,
Brightly smile and sweetly sing!
“Smile! tho' I may not be near thee;
Smile! tho' I may never see thee;
May thy soul with pleasure shine
Lasting as this gloom of mine!”
Miss Carewe complied at once with the request; while her companion,
unable to stop with the slight expression of pleasure demanded by the
songster, threw herself upon a sofa and gave way to the mirth that
consumed her.
Then the candles were relit, the serenaders invited within; Nelson came
bearing cake and wine, and the house was made merry. Presently, the
romp, Virginia Bareaud, making her appearance on the arm of General
Trumble, Mrs. Tanberry led them all in a hearty game of Blind-man's
Buff, followed by as hearty a dancing of Dan Tucker. After that, a
quadrille being proposed, Mrs. Tanberry suggested that Jefferson should
run home and bring Fanchon for the fourth lady. However, Virginia
explained that she had endeavored to persuade both her sister and
Mr. Gray to accompany the General and herself, but that Mr. Gray had
complained of indisposition, having suffered greatly from headache, on
account of inhaling so much smoke at the warehouse fire; and, of
course, Fanchon would not leave him. (Miss Carewe permitted herself the
slightest shrug of the shoulders.)
So they danced the quadrille with Jefferson at the piano and Mr. Marsh
performing in the character of a lady, a proceeding most unacceptable to
the General, whom Mrs. Tanberry forced to be his partner. And thus the
evening passed gayly away, and but too quickly, to join the ghosts of
all the other evenings since time began; and each of the little company
had added a cheerful sprite to the long rows of those varied shades that
the after years bring to revisit us, so many with pathetic reproach, so
many bearing a tragic burden of faces that we cannot make even to weep
again, and so few with simple merriment and lightheartedness. Tappingham
Marsh spoke the truth, indeed, when he exclaimed in parting, “O rare
Mrs. Tanberry!”
But the house had not done with serenades that night. The guests had
long since departed; the windows were still and dark under the wan old
moon, which had risen lamely, looking unfamiliar and not half itself;
the air bore an odor of lateness, and nothing moved; when a delicate
harmony stole out of the shadows beyond the misty garden. Low but
resonant chords sounded on the heavier strings of a guitar, while above
them, upon the lighter wires, rippled a slender, tinkling melody that
wooed the slumberer to a delicious half-wakefulness, as dreamily, as
tenderly, as the croon of rain on the roof soothes a child to
sleep. Under the artist's cunning touch the instrument was both the
accompaniment and the song; and Miss Betty, at first taking the music
to be a wandering thread in the fabric of her own bright dreams, drifted
gradually to consciousness to find herself smiling. Her eyes opened
wide, but half closed again with the ineffable sweetness of the sound.
Then a voice was heard, eerily low, yet gallant and clear, a vibrant
baritone, singing to the guitar.
“My lady's hair, That dark delight, Is both as fair And dusk as night.
I know some lovelorn hearts that beat In time to moonbeam twinklings
fleet, That dance and glance like jewels there, Emblazoning the raven
hair!
“Ah, raven hair! So dark and bright, What loves lie there Enmeshed,
to-night? I know some sighing lads that say Their hearts were snared and
torn away; And now as pearls one fate they share, Entangled in the raven
hair.
“Ah, raven hair, From such a plight Could you not spare One acolyte? I
know a broken heart that went To serve you but as ornament. Alas! a ruby
now you wear, Ensanguining the raven hair!”
The song had grown fainter and fainter, the singer moving away as he
sang, and the last lines were almost inaudible in the distance The
guitar could be heard for a moment or two more, then silence came again.
It was broken by a rustling in the room next to Miss Betty's, and Mrs.
Tanberry called softly through the open door:
“Princess, are you awake? Did you hear that serenade?”
After a pause the answer came hesitatingly in a small, faltering voice:
“Yes--if it was one. I thought perhaps he was only singing as he passed
along the street.”
“Aha!” ejaculated Mrs. Tanberry, abruptly, as though she had made an
unexpected discovery. “You knew better; and this was a serenade that
you did not laugh at. Beautiful, I wouldn't let it go any farther, even
while your father is gone. Something might occur that would bring him
home without warning--such things have happened. Tom Vanrevel ought to
be kept far away from this house.”
“Oh, it was not he,” returned Miss Betty, quickly. “It was Mr. Gray.
Didn't you--”
“My dear,” interrupted the other, “Crailey Gray's specialty is talking.
Most of the vagabonds can sing and play a bit, and so can Crailey,
particularly when he's had a few bowls of punch; but when Tom Vanrevel
touches the guitar and lifts up his voice to sing, there isn't an angel
in heaven that wouldn't quit the place and come to hear him! Crailey
wrote those words to Virginia Bareaud. (Her hair is even darker than
yours, you know.) That was when he was being engaged to her; and Tom
must have set the music to 'em lately, and now comes here to sing 'em
to you; and well enough they fit you! But you must keep him away,
Princess.”
Nevertheless, Betty knew the voice was not that which had bid her look
to the stars, and she remained convinced that it belonged to Mr. Crailey
Gray, who had been too ill, a few hours earlier, to leave the Bareaud
house, and now, with Fanchon's kisses on his lips, came stealing into
her garden and sang to her a song he had made for another girl!
And the angels would leave heaven to listen when he sang, would they?
Poor Fanchon! No wonder she held him so tightly in leading strings!
He might risk his life all he wished at the end of a grappling-ladder,
dangling in a fiery cloud above nothing; but when it came to--ah, well,
poor Fanchon! Did she invent the headaches for him, or did she make him
invent them for himself?
If there was one person in the world whom Miss Betty held in bitter
contempt and scorn, it was the owner of that voice and that guitar.