Will Cummings had abandoned the pen for the sword until such time as
Santa Anna should cry for quarter, and had left the office in charge
of an imported substitute; but late that night he came to his desk once
more, to write the story of the accident to Corporal Gray; and the tale
that he wrote had been already put into writing by Tom Vanrevel as it
fell from Crailey's lips, after the doctor had, come, so that none might
doubt it. No one did doubt it. What reason had Mr. Carewe to injure
Crailey Gray? Only five in Rouen knew the truth; for Nelson had gone
with his master, and, except Mamie, the other servants of the Carewe
household had been among the crowd in front of the Rouen House when the
shot was fired.
So the story went over the town: how Crailey had called to say good-by
to Mrs. Tanberry; how Mr. Carewe happened to be examining the musket his
father had carried in 1812, when the weapon was accidentally discharged,
the ball entering Crailey's breast; how Mr. Carewe, stricken with
remorse and horror over this frightful misfortune, and suffering too
severe anguish of mind to remain upon the scene, of the tragedy which
his carelessness had made, had fled, attended by his servant; and how
they had leaped aboard the evening boat as it was pulling out, and were
now on their way down the river.
And this was the story, too, that Tom told Fanchon; for it was he who
brought her to Crailey. Through the long night she knelt at Crailey's
side, his hand always pressed to her breast or cheek, her eyes always
upward, and her lips moving with her prayers, not for Crailey to be
spared, but that the Father would take good care of him in heaven till
she came. “I had already given him up,” she said to Tom, meekly, in a
small voice. “I knew it was to come, and perhaps this way is better than
that--I thought it would be far away from me. Now I can be with him, and
perhaps I shall have him a little longer, for he was to have gone away
before noon.”
The morning sun rose upon a fair world, gay with bird-chatterings from
the big trees of the Carewe place, and pleasant with the odors of Miss
Betty's garden, and Crailey, lying upon the bed of the man who had shot
him, hearkened and smiled good-by to the summer he loved; and, when the
day broke, asked that the bed be moved so that he might lie close by the
window. It was Tom who had borne him to that room. “I have carried him
before this,” he said, waving the others aside.
Not long after sunrise, when the bed had been moved near the window,
Crailey begged Fanchon to bring him a miniature of his mother which he
had given her, and urged her to go for it herself; he wanted no hands
but hers to touch it, he said. And when she had gone he asked to be left
alone with Tom.
“Give me your hand, Tom,” he said, faintly. “I'd like to keep hold of
it a minute or so. I couldn't have said that yesterday, could I, without
causing us both horrible embarrassment? But I fancy I can now, because
I'm done for. That's too bad, isn't it? I'm very young, after all.
Do you remember what poor Andre Chenier said as he went up to be
guillotined?--' There were things in this head of mine!' But I want to
tell you what's been the matter with me. It was just my being a bad sort
of poet. I suppose that I've never loved anyone; yet I've cared more
deeply than other men for every lovely thing I ever saw, and there's so
little that hasn't loveliness in it. I'd be ashamed not to have cared
for the beauty in all the women I've made love to--but about this
one--the most beautiful of all--I--------”
“She will understand!” said Tom, quickly.
“She will--yes--she's wise and good. If Fanchon knew, there wouldn't
be even a memory left to her--and I don't think she'd live. And do you
know, I believe I've done a favor for Miss Betty in getting myself shot;
Carewe will never come back. Tom, was ever a man's knavery so exactly
the architect of his own destruction as mine? And for what gain? Just
the excitement of the comedy from day to day!--for she was sure to
despise me as soon as she knew--and the desire to hear her voice say
another kindly thing to me--and the everlasting perhaps in every woman,
and this one the Heart's Desire of all the world! Ah, well! Tell me--I
want to hear it from you--how many hours does the doctor say?”
“Hours, Crailey?” Tom's hand twitched pitifully in the other's feeble
grasp.
“I know it's only a few.”
“They're all fools, doctors!” exclaimed Vanrevel, fiercely.
“No, no. And I know that nothing can be done. You all see it, and you
want me to go easily--or you wouldn't let me have my own way so much!
It frightens me, I own up, to think that so soon I'll be wiser than the
wisest in the world. Yet I always wanted to know. I've sought and I've
sought--but now to go out alone on the search--it must be the search,
for the Holy Grail--I----”
“Please don't talk,” begged Tom, in a broken whisper. “For mercy's sake,
lad. It wears on you so.”
Crailey laughed weakly. “Do you think I could die peacefully without
talking a great deal? There's one thing I want, Tom. I want to see all
of them once more, all the old friends that are going down the river at
noon. What harm could it do? I want them to come by here on their way
to the boat, with the band and the new flag. But I want the band to
play cheerfully! Ask 'em to play 'Rosin the Bow,' will you? I've never
believed in mournfulness, and I don't want to see any of it now. It's
the rankest impiety of all! And besides, I want to see them as they'll
be when they come marching home--they must look gay!”
“Ah, don't, lad, don't!” Tom flung one arm about the other's shoulder
and Crailey was silent, but rested his hand gently on his friend's head.
In that attitude Fanchon found them when she came.
The volunteers gathered at the court-house two hours before noon. They
met each other dismally, speaking in undertones as they formed in lines
of four, while their dispirited faces showed that the heart was out of
them. Not so with the crowds of country folk and townspeople who lined
the streets to see the last of them. For these, when the band came
marching down the street and took its place, set up a royal cheering
that grew louder as Jefferson Bareaud, the color-bearer, carried the
flag to the head of the procession. With the recruits marched the
veterans of 1812 and the Indian wars, the one-legged cobbler stumping
along beside General Trumble, who looked very dejected and old. The
lines stood in silence, and responded to the cheering by quietly
removing their hats; so that the people whispered that it was more
like an Odd Fellows' Sunday funeral than the departure of enthusiastic
patriots for the seat of war. General Trumble's was not the only sad
face in the ranks; all were downcast and nervous, even those of the
lads from the country, who had not known the comrade they were to leave
behind.
Jefferson unfurled the flag; Marsh gave the word of command, the band
began to play a quick-step, and the procession moved forward down the
cheering lane of people, who waved little flags and handkerchiefs
and threw their hats in the air as they shouted. But, contrary to
expectation, the parade was not directly along Main Street to the river.
“Right wheel! March!” commanded Tappingham, hoarsely, waving his sword,
and Jefferson led the way into Carewe Street.
“For God's sake, don't cry now!” and Tappingham, with a large drop
streaking down his own cheek, turned savagely upon Lieutenant Cummings.
“That isn't what he wants. He wants to see us looking cheery and
smiling. We can do it for him this once, I guess! I never saw him any
other way.”
“You look damn smiling yourself!” snuffled Will.
“I will when we turn in at the gates,” retorted his Captain. “On my
soul, I swear I'll kill every sniffling idiot that doesn't!--In line,
there!” he stormed ferociously at a big recruit.
The lively strains of the band and the shouting of the people grew
louder and louder in the room where Crailey lay. His eyes glistened as
he heard, and he smiled, not the old smile of the worldly prelate, but
merrily, like a child when music is heard. The room was darkened, save
for the light of the one window which fell softly upon his head and
breast and upon another fair head close to his, where Fanchon knelt. In
the shadows at one end of the room were Miss Betty and Mrs. Tanberry and
Mrs. Bareaud and the white-haired doctor who had said, “Let him have
his own way in all he asks.” Tom stood alone, close by the head of the
couch.
“Hail to the band!” Crailey chuckled, softly. “How the rogues keep the
time! It's 'Rosin the Bow,' all right! Ah, that is as it should be. Mrs.
Tanberry, you and I have one thing in common, if you'll let me flatter
myself so far: we've always believed in good cheer in spite of the devil
and all, you and I, eh? The best of things, even if things are bad, dear
lady, eh?”
“You darling vagabond!” Mrs. Tanberry murmured, trying to smile back to
him.
“Hark to 'em!” said Crailey. “They're very near! Only hear the people
cheer them! They'll 'march away so gaily,' won't they?--and how right
that is!” The vanguard appeared in the street, and over the hedge
gleamed the oncoming banner, the fresh colors flying out on a strong
breeze. Crailey greeted it with a breathless cry. “There's the
flag--look, Fanchon, your flag!--. waving above the hedge; and it's Jeff
who carries it. Doesn't it always make you want to dance! Bravo, bravo!”
The procession halted for a moment in the street and the music ceased.
Then, with a jubilant flourish of brass and the roll of drums, the band
struck up “The Star Spangled Banner,” and Jefferson Bareaud proudly
led the way through the gates and down the driveway, the bright silk
streaming overhead. Behind him briskly marched the volunteers, with
heads erect and cheerful faces, as they knew Corporal Gray wished to see
them, their Captain flourishing his sword in the air.
“Here they come! Do you see, Fanchon?” cried Crailey, excitedly. “They
are all there, Jeff and Tappingham, and the two Madrillons and Will,
the dear old fellow--he'll never write a decent paragraph as long as he
lives, God bless him!--and young Frank--what deviltries I've led the boy
into!--and there's the old General, forgetting all the tiffs we've had.
God bless them all and grant them all a safe return! What on earth are
they taking off their hats for?--Ah, good-by, boys, good-by!”
They saw the white face at the window, and the slender hand fluttering
its farewell, and Tappingham halted his men.
“Three times three for Corporal Gray!” he shouted, managing, somehow, to
keep the smile upon his lips. “Three times three, and may he rejoin his
company before we enter the Mexican capital!”
He beat the time for the thunderous cheers that they gave; the
procession described a circle on the lawn, and then, with the band
playing and colors flying, passed out of the gates and took up the march
to the wharf.
“The flag, the flag!” whispered Crailey, following it with his eyes.
“It shows that you helped make it, Fanchon, it's so beautiful. Ah, Tom,
they've said we abused it, sometimes--it was only that we loved it so
well we didn't like to see anyone make it look silly or mean. But, after
all, no man can do that--no, nor no group of men, nor party!” His voice
grew louder as the last strains of the music came more faintly from the
street. “They'll take your banner across the Rio Grande, Fanchon, but
that is not all--some day its stars must spread over the world! Don't
you all see that they will?”
After a little while, he closed his eyes with a sigh; the doctor bent
over him quickly, and Miss Betty started forward unconsciously and cried
out.
But the bright eyes opened again and fixed themselves upon her with all
their old, gay inscrutability.
“Not yet,” said Crailey. “Miss Carewe, may I tell you that I am sorry
I could not have known you sooner? Perhaps you might have liked me for
Fanchon's sake--I know you care for her.”
“I do--I do!” she faltered. “I love her, and--ah!--I do like you, Mr.
Gray, for I know you, though I never--met you until--last night. God
bless you--God bless you!”
She wavered a moment, like a lily in the wind, and put out a hand
blindly. “Not you!” she said sharply, as Tom Vanrevel started toward
her. Mrs. Tanberry came quickly and put an arm about her, and together
they went out of the room.
“You must be good to her, Tom,” said Crailey then, in a very low voice.
“I!” answered Tom, gently. “There was never a chance of that, lad.”
“Listen,” whispered Crailey. “Lean down--no--closer.” He cast a quick
glance at Fanchon, kneeling at the other side of the bed, her golden
head on the white coverlet, her outstretched hand clutching his; and
he spoke so close to Tom's ear and in so low a tone that only Tom could
hear. “She never cared for me. She felt that she ought to--but that was
only because I masqueraded in your history. She wanted to tell me before
I went away that there was no chance for me. She was telling me that,
when he called from the window. It was at the dance, the night before,
that she knew. I think there has been someone else from the first--God
send it's you! Did you speak to her that night or she to you?”
“Ah, no,” said Tom Vanrevel. “All the others.”
Mrs. Tanberry and Betty and Mr. Bareaud waited in the library, the two
women huddled together on a sofa, with their arms round each other,
and all the house was very still. By and by, they heard a prolonged,
far-away cheering and the steamer's whistle, and knew that the boat was
off. Half an hour later, Will Cummings came back alone, entered the room
on tip-toe, and silently sank into a chair near Mr. Bareaud, with his
face away from Miss Betty. He was to remain in Rouen another week, and
join his regiment with Tom. None of the three appeared to notice his
coming more than dimly, and he sat with his face bowed in his hands, and
did not move.
Thus perhaps an hour passed, with only a sound of footsteps on the
gravel of the driveway, now and then, and a low murmur of voices in the
rear of the house where people came to ask after Crailey; and when the
door of the room where he lay was opened, the four watchers started as
at a loud explosion. It was Mrs. Bareaud and the old doctor, and they
closed the door again, softly, and came in to the others. They had left
Crailey alone with Fanchon and Tom Vanrevel, the two who loved him best.
The warm day beyond the windows became like Sunday, no voices sounded
from without in the noon hush, though sometimes a little group of people
would gather across the street to eye the house curiously and nod and
whisper. The strong, blue shadows of the veranda pillars stole slowly
across the white floor of the porch in a lessening slant, and finally
lay all in a line, as the tall clock in a corner of the library
asthmatically coughed the hour of noon. In this jarring discordance
there was something frightful to Miss Betty. She rose abruptly, and,
imperiously waving back Mrs. Tanberry, who would have detained her--for
there was in her face and manner the incipient wildness of control
overstrained to the breaking-point--she went hurriedly out of the room
and out of the house, to the old bench in the garden. There she sank
down, her face hidden in her arms; there on the spot where she had first
seen Crailey Gray.
From there, too, had risen the serenade of the man she had spurned and
insulted; and there she had come to worship the stars when Crailey
bade her look to them. And now the strange young teacher was paying the
bitter price for his fooleries--and who could doubt that the price was
a bitter one? To have the spirit so suddenly, cruelly riven from the
sprightly body that was, but a few hours ago, hale and alert, obedient
to every petty wish, could dance, run, and leap; to be forced with such
hideous precipitation to leave the warm breath of June and undergo the
lonely change, merging with the shadow; to be flung from the exquisite
and commonplace day of sunshine into the appalling adventure that should
not have been his for years--and hurled into it by what hand!--ah,
bitter, bitter price for a harlequinade! And, alas, alas! for the brave
harlequin!
A gentle touch fell upon her shoulder, and Miss Betty sprang to her feet
and screamed. It was Nelson who stood before her, hat in hand, his head
deeply bowed.
“Is he with you?” she cried, clutching at the bench for support.
“No'm,” answered the old man, humbly. “I reckon we all ain' goin' see
dat man no mo'.”
“Where is he?”
“On de way, honey, on de way.”
“The way--to Rouen!” she gasped.
“No'm; he goin' cross de big water.” He stretched out his hand and
pointed solemnly to the east. “Him an' me we cotch de boat, an' yo' pa
mek 'em taken de hosses on bode. Den we git off at Leeville, five mile'
down de rivuh, an' yo' pa hol' de boat whiles I rid back alone an' git
de news, an' what de tale is you all is tole, f'um ole Mist' Chen'eth;
an' Mist' Chen'eth, he rid back wid me an' see yo' pa at Leeville, an'
dey talk in de shed by de landin', an' yo' pa tell Mist' Chen'eth what
'rangements he goin' make wid de proprety. 'Den he git on de boat ag'in
an' dey sto't her agoin'; an' he ain' wave no good-by, ner say no mo'
wu'ds. Mist' Chen'eth rid back whens de light come; but I res' de hosses
an' come back slow, 'case I ponduh on de worl', an' I mighty sorry fer
yo' pa, Missy. He am' comin' back no mo', honey, an' Miz Tanberry an'
me an' Mamie, we goin' take keer er you. Yo' pa gone back dah to de
F'enchmun, whuh he 'uz a young man. He mighty sick, an' he scairt,
honey; an' he ain' goin' git ovah dat, neider. 'Peah to me, Missy, like
he done had a vizhum er he own soul, when he come an' look down at dat
young man layin' on de grass, las' night!”
The old fellow bent his back before her in a solemn bow, as a feudal
retainer in allegiance to the heir, but more in deference to the
sorrow written upon her, and respecting its magnitude. With no words of
comfort, for he knew she wanted only to be alone, he moved away, with
infirm steps and shaking head, toward the rear of the house.
Miss Betty threw herself upon the bench again, face downward in her
arms. And still the house lay in silence under the sunshine.
An hour had passed, and the shadows slanted strongly to the east, when
the stillness was broken by a sound, low and small at first, then rising
fearfully, a long, quavering wail of supreme anguish, that clutched and
shook the listener's heart. No one could have recognized the voice as
Fanchon's, yet everyone who heard it knew that it was hers; and that the
soul of Crailey Gray had gone out upon the quest for the Holy Grail.
Miss Betty's hands clenched convulsively round the arm of the bench and
a fit of shuddering seized her as if with the grip of a violent chill,
though her eyes were dry. Then she lay quiet.
A long time afterward, she became aware of a step that paced the garden
path behind her, and turned her face upon her arm so that she saw, but
made no other motion. It was Tom Vanrevel, walking slowly up and down,
his hands behind his back and his hat pulled far down over his eyes. He
had not seen her.
She rose and spoke his name.
He turned and came to her. “Almost at the very last,” he said, “Crailey
whispered to me that he knew you thought him a great scamp, but to tell
you to be sure to remember that it was all true about the stars.”