It is a matter not of notoriety but of the happiest celebrity that Mrs.
Tanberry danced that night, and not only that she danced, but that she
waltzed. To the lot of Tappingham Marsh (whom she pronounced the most
wheedlmg vagabond, next to Crailey Gray, of her acquaintance) it fell to
persuade her; and, after a quadrille with the elder Chenoweth, she was
with Tappingham. More extraordinary to relate, she danced down both
her partner and music. Thereupon did Mr. Bareaud, stung with envy, dare
emulation and essay a schottische with Miss Trixie Chenoweth, performing
marvelously well for many delectable turns before he unfortunately fell
down. It was a night when a sculptured god would have danced on his
pedestal: June, but not over-warm, balm in the air and rose leaves on
the breeze; and even Minerva's great heels might have marked the time
that orchestra kept. Be sure they waltzed again to “Those Endearing
Young Charms “:
“Oh, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on
to the close: as the sunflower turns on her god when he sets, The same
look that she gave when he rose.”
Three of the volunteers were resplendent in their regimentals: Mr. Marsh
(who had been elected captain of the new company to succeed Vanrevel),
and Will Cummings and Jean Madrillon, the lieutenants. This glory was
confined to the officers, who had ordered their uniforms at home, for
the privates and non-commissioned officers were to receive theirs at the
State rendezvous. However, although this gala adornment was limited to
the three gentlemen mentioned, their appearance added “an indescribable
air of splendor and pathos to the occasion,” to quote Mr. Cummings
once more. A fourth citizen of the town who might have seized upon this
opportunity to display himself as a soldier neglected to take advantage
of it and stole in quietly, toward the last, in his ordinary attire,
leaving his major's uniform folded on a chair in his own room. The flag
was to be presented to the volunteers at the close of the evening, and
Tom came for that--so he claimed to his accusing soul.
He entered unobserved and made his way, keeping close to the wall, to
where Mrs. Bareaud sat, taking a chair at her side; but Robert Carewe,
glancing thither by chance, saw him, and changed countenance for an
instant. Mr. Carewe composed his features swiftly, excused himself with
elaborate courtesy from Miss Chenoweth, with whom he was talking, and
crossed the room to a corner near his enemy. Presently, as the music
ceased, the volunteers were bidden to come forward, whereupon Tom
left Mrs. Bareaud and began to work his way down the room. Groups were
forming and breaking up in the general movement of the crowd, and the
dissolving of one brought him face to face with Elizabeth Carewe, who
was moving slowly in the opposite direction, a small flock of suitors in
her train.
The confrontation came so suddenly and so unexpectedly that, before
either was aware, they looked squarely into each other's eyes, full and
straight, and both stopped instantly as though transfixed, Miss Betty
leaving a sentence forever half-complete. There was a fierce, short
vocal sound from the crowd behind Vanrevel; but no one noticed Mr.
Carewe; and then Tom bowed gravely, as in apology for blocking the way,
and passed on.
Miss Betty began to talk again, much at random, with a vivacity too
greatly exaggerated to be genuine, while the high color went from her
cheeks and left her pale. Nothing could have enraged her more with
herself than the consciousness, now suddenly strong within her, that the
encounter had a perceptible effect upon her. What power had this man to
make her manner strained and mechanical? What right had his eyes always
to stir her as they did? It was not he for whom she had spent an hour
over her hair; not he for whom she had driven her poor handmaiden away
in tears: that was for one who had not come, one great in heart and
goodness, one of a pure and sacrificial life who deserved all she could
give, and for whose sake she had honored herself in trying to look as
pretty as she could. He had not come; and that hurt her a little, but
she felt his generosity, believing that his motive was to spare her,
since she could not speak to him in Mr Carewe's presence without open
and public rupture with her father. Well, she was almost ready for that,
seeing how little of a father hers was! Ah! that other should have come,
if only to stand between her and this tall hypocrite whose dark glance
had such strength to disturb her. What lies that gaze contained, all
in the one flash!--the strange pretence of comprehending her gently
but completely, a sad compassion, too, and with it a look of farewell,
seeming to say: “Once more I have come for this--and just, 'Good-by!”
For she knew that he was going with the others, going perhaps forever,
only the day after tomorrow---then she would see him no more and be free
of him. Let the day after tomorrow come soon! Miss Betty hated herself
for understanding the adieu, and hated herself more because she could
not be sure that, in the startled moment of meeting before she collected
herself, she had let it go unanswered.
She had done more than that: without knowing it she had bent her head to
his bow, and Mr. Carewe had seen both the salutation and the look.
The young men were gathered near the orchestra, and, to the hilarious
strains of “Yankee Doodle,” the flag they were to receive for their
regiment was borne down the room by the sisters and sweethearts who had
made it, all of whom were there, except Fanchon Bareaud. Crailey had
persuaded her to surrender the flag for the sake of spending this
evening--next to his last in Rouen--at home alone with him.
The elder Chenoweth made the speech of presentation, that is, he made
part of it before he broke down, for his son stood in the ranks of the
devoted band. Until this incident occurred, all had gone trippingly, for
everyone had tried to put the day after to-morrow from his mind. Perhaps
there might not have been so many tears even now, if the young men had
not stood together so smilingly to receive their gift; it was seeing
them so gay and confident, so strong in their youth and so unselfish of
purpose; it was this, and the feeling that all of them must suffer and
some of them die before they came back. So that when Mr. Chenoweth,
choking in his loftiest flight, came to a full stop, and without
disguise buried his face in his handkerchief, Mrs. Tanberry, the apostle
of gayety, openly sobbed. Chenoweth, without more ado, carried the flag
over to Tappingham Marsh, whom Vanrevel directed to receive it, and
Tappingham thanked the donors without many words, because there were not
then many at his command. .
Miss Carewe bad been chosen to sing “The Star Spangled Banner,” and
she stepped out a little from the crowd to face the young men as the
orchestra sounded the first chord. She sang in a full, clear voice, but
when the volunteers saw that, as she sang, the tears were streaming down
her cheeks in spite of the brave voice, they began to choke with the
others. If Miss Betty found them worth weeping for, they could afford
to cry a little for themselves. Yet they joined the chorus nobly, and
raised the roof with the ringing song, sending the flamboyant, proud old
words thunderously to heaven.
That was not the last song of the night. General Trumble and Mr.
Chenoweth had invited their young friends to attend, after the ball, a
collation which they chose to call a supper, but which, to accord with
the hour, might more aptly have been designated a breakfast. To afford a
private retreat for the scene of this celebration, they had borrowed the
offices of Gray and Vanrevel, and Crailey hospitably announced that any
guest was welcome to stay for a year or two, since, probably, neither of
the firm would have need of an office for at least that length of time.
Nine men gathered about the table which replaced Tom's work-a-day old
desk: the two Chenoweths, Eugene Madrillon, Marsh, Jefferson Bareaud,
the stout General, Tom Vanrevel, Crailey, and Will Cummings, the editor
coming in a little late, but rubbing his hands cheerfully over what he
declared was to be the last column from his pen to rear its length
on the Journal's front page for many a long day--a description of the
presentation of the flag, a bit of prose which he considered almost
equal to his report of the warehouse fire.
This convivial party made merry and tried to forget that most of them
had “been mighty teary,” as Marsh said, an hour earlier; while Mr.
Chenoweth sat with his hand on his son's shoulder, unconsciously most of
the time, apologetically removing, it when he observed it. Many were the
witticisms concerning the difference in rank hence forth to be observed
between the young men, as Tom was now a major, Marsh a captain, Will
Cummings a second lieutenant, and the rest mere privates, except
Crailey, who was a corporal. Nevertheless, though the board was festive,
it was somewhat subdued and absent until they came to the toasts.
It was Tappingham who proposed Miss Betty Carewe. “I know Tom Vanrevel
will understand--nay, I know he's man enough to join us,” said Marsh as
he rose. “Why shouldn't I say that we may hail ourselves as patriots,
indeed, since at the call of our country we depart from the town which
is this lady's home, and at the trumpet's sound resign the gracious
blessing of seeing her day by day, and why shouldn't we admit loyally
and openly that it is her image alone which shines in the hearts of most
of us here?”
And no man arose to contradict that speech, which appears to have rung
true, seeing that four of those present had proposed to her (again) that
same evening. “So I give you,” cried Tappingham, gallantly, “the
health of Miss Betty Carewe, the loveliest rose of our bouquet! May she
remember us when we come home!”
They rose and drank it with a shout. But Tom Vanrevel, not setting down
his cup, went to the window and threw wide the shutters, letting in a
ruddy shaft of the morning sun, so that as he stood in the strong glow
he looked like a man carved out of red gold. He lifted his glass,
not toward the table and his companions, while they stared at him,
surprised, but toward the locusts of Carewe Street.
“To Miss Betty Carewe,” he said, “the finest flower of them all! May she
remember those who never come home!”
And, without pausing, he lifted his rich baritone in an old song that
had been vastly popular with the young men of Rouen ever since the night
of Miss Betty's debut; they had hummed it as they went about their daily
work, they had whistled it on the streets; they had drifted, into dreams
at night with the sound of it still chiming in their ears; and now, with
one accord, as they stood gathered together for the last time in Rouen,
they joined Tom Vanrevel and sang it again. And the eyes of Crailey Gray
rested very gently upon his best friend as they sang:
“Believe me, If all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so
fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow and fleet from my arms, Like
fairy gifts fading away, 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.”