SAN JACINTO DAY.
IT was the twentieth of April when Phil returned to Bauer, and for the
second time his visit was cut disappointingly short. The reason was that
he had promised Major Melville the night he dined with him, to be back
in San Antonio in time for the Carnival. The Major wanted to take him to
a Mexican restaurant for a typical Mexican supper the night of the
twenty-first. On the twenty-second there would be an entertainment for
the Queen of the Carnival at her Court of the Roses; something too
unique and beautiful for him to miss, they all said. Then, on the
twenty-third, San Jacinto Day, which all loyal Texans keep as a state
holiday, the annual Battle of Flowers would take place in the plaza in
front of the Alamo, which they call their "Cradle of Liberty."
The Flower Battle was an old institution, the Major explained. But this
was only the second year for the Queen's Court, and it was something so
surpassingly beautiful that he thought it ought to become a regular
feature of every carnival.
Roberta, who was also at the dinner, added her persuasions.
"You'll think you're back in the time 'when knighthood was in flower,'"
she insisted. "I wish every Easterner accustomed to poking fun at our
state could see it. Nobody knows what I suffered at school from having
people talk as if all Texans are 'long-horns.'"
"Roberta was one of the duchesses last year," explained Lieutenant
Boglin. "You should have seen her sweep up to the throne when they
announced, 'Her Grace, the Lady Roberta of the House of Mayrell!' She
certainly looked the real article, and was a far cry from a long-horn
then."
"Don't emphasize the _then_ so pointedly, Bogey," ordered Roberta.
When Phil hesitated to accept because his time in Bauer would be
shortened so much thereby, Gay insisted that she was going to invite
Mary down for the Queen's entertainment and the Flower Battle anyhow,
and that if he refused to come Mary would be cut out of the pleasure of
coming, for, of course, she couldn't leave a guest behind, under the
circumstances.
So presently the Major's programme was arranged to his partial
satisfaction. It was not complete, because he could not persuade the old
doctor, who intended spending several months in California, to return
also.
Gay went up to Bauer that same week, directly after Alex Shelby's
departure. She wanted to deliver her invitation in person, and to spend
the day with the Ware family. She liked to hear them sing Alex's
praises. _He_ was the one who discovered that something could be done
for Jack, and he it was who had summoned Doctor Tremont, and every
discussion of the subject always brought out the gratifying fact that
had it not been for him, Jack would not now be on the high road to
recovery. She had found, too, that Mary made a most satisfactory little
confidante; much better than Roberta, for she seemed really interested
in Alex and all that pertained to him, and never laughed at Gay's
rhapsodies and made cynical remarks about "before and after taking" as
the worldly-wise Roberta did.
Two thoughts gave Mary the utmost satisfaction in accepting the
invitation. One was, there would be time before San Jacinto Day to make
up the white dress for which her mother had embroidered the lovely
rosebuds. The other was, that an occasion had come at last when it would
be appropriate for her to wear Lloyd's gift, the beautiful chiffon
scarf, spangled with the crystal beads which sparkled like dewdrops.
With only a day and a half to spend in Bauer, Phil could do few of the
things she had planned for his entertainment. Now that Jack was better,
she did not like to take him away from the house long enough to ride out
to the Barnaby ranch and pole up to Fernbank, and such things. Instead,
all the time was spent so that Jack could have his full share of the
visit. She would have been greatly disappointed had she not known she
was going to see Phil several times during her visit to Gay.
He went down to the Mexican supper on the twenty-first, and she followed
next morning. He was to take luncheon with the Mayrells that day, so she
did not see him till night, when they all went in the same party to the
entertainment, Phil and Roberta, Gay and Billy Mayrell, Mary and
Lieutenant Boglin.
The stage of Beethoven Hall was turned into a bower of roses on this eve
of San Jacinto Day, and a great audience, assembling early, awaited the
coming of the Queen of the Carnival and her royal court. In the patent
of nobility given by her gracious majesty to her attendants, was the
command:
"We bid you to join with all of our loyal subjects in the Mirth and
Merriment of this Festival of Flowers, which doth commemorate the
glorious freedom of this, our Texas, won by the deathless heroism of the
defenders of the Alamo, and the Victory of San Jacinto."
This call for Mirth and Merriment struck the keynote of the carnival,
and everyone in the great assembly seemed to be responding with the
proper festival spirit.
Back in the crowded house in a seat next the aisle and almost at the
entrance door, sat Mary Ware, completely entranced by all that was going
on about her. Lieutenant Boglin was beside her, and in the chairs
directly behind them were Gay and Billy Mayrell. Roberta and Phil were
in front of them. They had come early to secure these chairs, and the
men had given the girls the end seats in order that they might have
unobstructed view of both aisle and stage. They all turned so that
conversation was general until the house was nearly filled, then Roberta
said something which drew Phil's attention wholly to herself, and he
turned his back on the others, beginning to talk exclusively to her.
Gay, who appeared to know at least every fourth person who came down the
aisle, sat, like most of the audience, with her head turned expectantly
towards the door, and kept up a running comment to Mary on the
acquaintances who passed her with nods of recognition or brief words of
greeting. The thrum of the orchestra, the sight of so many smiling
faces, although they were strange to her, and the blended colors of
fashionable evening gowns would have furnished Mary ample entertainment
after her dull winter in the country; but it was doubly entertaining
with Gay to point out distinguished people and give her bits of
information, supplemented by Billy and Bogey about this one from the
Post and that one from the town.
She wished that Phil could hear too. She wanted him to know what
prominent personages he was in the midst of. Once when some world-known
celebrity was escorted up the aisle she leaned over and called his
attention to the procession. He looked up with a smile to follow her
glance, and made a joking response, but returned so quickly to the
fascinating Roberta, that Mary felt that his interest in everything
else just then was merely perfunctory.
She remembered what Gay had said about his finding his affinity, and
stole a side glance at Roberta to study her in the new light which
Phil's interest threw upon her. Now in the days when Phil worshipped at
the Little Colonel's shrine, Mary was perfectly content to have it so.
She would have walked over hot plowshares to have brought his romance to
a happy consummation. It seemed so eminently fitting that the two people
in the world whom she had invested with halos, should stand together on
the same pedestal in her affections. To her doting eyes, Lloyd was such
an angel that she knew Phil must be happy with her, and Phil measured so
fully up to the notch on the sterling yard-stick which indicated the
inches and ells that a true prince should be, that she was sure no girl
who wove her Clotho-web for him could fail to find the happiness that
was written for her in the stars.
Mary had grown accustomed to the fact by this time that she had made a
mistake in her reading of the stars. Lloyd was destined for someone
else. But it had not occurred to her before that maybe Phil was, too.
The thought that he would carry a secret sorrow with him to the grave,
invested him with a melancholy charm that made him all the more
interesting. It was somewhat of a shock to her to see him watch the
downward sweep and swift upward glance of Roberta's pretty eyes in such
an admiring way, although Mary herself had heretofore found pleasure in
watching them. Of course she didn't want him to go on suffering always,
still--she didn't want him to forget.
In her passionate loyalty to Lloyd she resented his bestowing a second
glance on any girl who was any less of an angel than she; and yet her
loyalty to Phil made her want him to have whatever he wanted. Knowing
how many men had fallen victims to Roberta's flirtatious little ways,
she longed to save Phil from the same fate. The growing alarm with which
she watched them was almost comical for one of her years. It was comical
because it was so motherly. Not a particle of jealousy or a thought of
self entered into it.
A hush fell on the great audience, and the curtain rose on a tableau of
surpassing loveliness. The stage seemed to be one mass of American
Beauty roses. The walls were festooned and garlanded with them. They
covered the high throne in the centre and bordered the steps leading up
to it. They hung in long streamers on either side from ceiling to
floor. Grouped against this glowing background, stood the noble dukes,
the lords-in-waiting and their esquires. The gay-colored satins and
brocades of their old-time court costumes, the gleam of jewelled
sword-hilts, the shine of powdered perukes, transported one from prosaic
times and lands to the old days of chivalry and romance.
The jester shook his bells, the trumpeters in their plumed helmets
raised their long, shining trumpets, and sounded the notes that heralded
the first approach. Then the Lord Chamberlain stepped forth in a brave
array of pink satin, carrying the gold stick that was his insignia of
office.
"That's me friend," whispered Gay, "the man who originated this affair.
I tell him I think he must be one of the Knights of the Round Table
re-incarnated, or else the wizard Merlin come to life again, to bring
such a beautiful old court scene into being in the way he has done."
She stopped whispering to hear the impressive announcement he was
making, in a voice that rang through the hall:
"Her Grace, Lady Elizabeth, of the House of Lancaster!"
Immediately every eye turned from the stage to look at the rose-trimmed
entrance door. The orchestra struck into an inspiring march and the
stately beauty, first to arrive at the Court of Roses, began her
triumphal entry up the long aisle. She passed so near to Mary that the
tulle bow on the directoire stick she carried almost touched her cheek
with its long floating ends, light as gossamer web. And Mary, clasping
her hands together in an ecstasy of admiration, noted every detail of
the beautiful costume in its slow passing.
"It's like the Princess Olga's," she thought, recalling the old
fairy-tale of the enchanted necklace. "Whiter than the whiteness of the
fairest lily, fine, like the finest lace that the frost-elves weave, and
softer than the softest ermine of the snow."
The long court train that swept behind her was all aglisten, as if
embroidered with dewdrops and pearls. Mary watched her, scarcely
breathing till she had ascended the steps to the stage. Then her
appointed duke came forward to meet her and led her to the steps of the
throne.
The music stopped. Again the heralds sounded their trumpets and the Lord
Chamberlain announced the next duchess.
"You see," explained Gay, hastily, as all necks craned toward the door
again, "each girl is duchess of some rose or other, like Killarney or
Malmaison or Maréchal Niel."
One after another they passed by to take their places beside the throne,
all in such exquisitely beautiful costumes that Mary thought that each
one must be indelibly photographed on her memory. But when they had
passed, all she could remember of so many was a spangled procession of
court trains, covered with cascades of crystal and silver and pearls and
strung jewels.
Each time a new duchess swept slowly and majestically by, Mary turned a
quick glance toward Phil to see if he were properly impressed; but when
the Queen was announced, she had no eyes for anything but the regal
figure proceeding slowly up the aisle, amid the admiring applause which
almost drowned the music of the march.
It was at this juncture that Phil glanced back at Mary. Her face so
plainly showed the admiration which filled her that he continued to
watch her with an amused smile, saying to Roberta in an undertone:
"Look at Mary's rapt expression! She's always adored queens and such
things, and now she feels that she's up against the real article."
"I don't wonder," answered Roberta, herself so interested that she
turned her back on Phil until the royal party had passed by. Two little
pages in costumes of white and gold, with plumed hats and spangled
capes, bore the royal train, and Roberta tried to upset the dignity of
one of them, who was a little friend of hers, by whispering, "Hello,
Gerald, where did you get that feather?"
In Mary's estimation it was not the diamond crown that marked the Queen
as especially regal, not the jewelled sceptre nor the white satin gown,
heavily embroidered in gold roses and gleaming with brilliants; it was
the fact that the long train borne by the little pages was of
_cloth-of-gold_. To Mary, cloth-of-gold was more royal than ermine or
purple velvet, and lovingly associated in her thought with the white
samite of Tennyson's idyls. It was cloth-of-gold that the Lily Maid of
Astolat had worn to her burying, and the only piece that Mary had ever
seen was the drapery over the bier of the fair Elaine, when Lloyd took
the part of the Lily Maid, in the tableaux at The Beeches. When she
caught sight of it she clasped her hands still tighter, and never took
her eyes from it until the Queen was seated on her throne, and the long,
shining folds swept down beside her, the full length of the steps.
The presentation scene followed. In the name of The Order of the Alamo,
the Queen was given a magnificent necklace, with a jewelled pendant.
After that the visiting duchesses were received, representing many towns
of Texas, from El Paso to the gulf. They came with their maids of honor,
and when they had been met by their lords-in-waiting and their esquires,
the entertainment for the Queen began.
Grecian maidens bearing garlands of roses danced before her. The second
group was of seven little barefoot girls, carrying golden lyres, and
forming a rainbow background for another small maid who gave a cymbal
dance. The Grecian dances were followed by a gavotte of the time of
Louis XIII, in which all the dukes and duchesses took part.
"They danced the minuet last year," commented Gay. "This is the end of
the performance, but we'll wait to watch them go out, on their way to
the Queen's ball. I went to that too, last year. These are good seats;
we catch them coming and going."
The audience remaining seated until all the members of the Court had
passed out two by two, had ample time for comment and observation.
Bogey, who, seeing Mary's absorbing interest in the scene, had
considerately left her undisturbed most of the time, now leaned over and
began to talk. As Gay had once said, "When it comes to giving a girl a
good time, Bogey is quite the nicest officer in the bunch," and Phil,
overhearing scraps of their conversation, concluded that Mary was
finding her escort as entertaining as the pageant. A backward glance now
and then showed that she was not watching the recessional as closely as
she was listening to him.
As they all started out of the hall together, moving slowly along with
the crowd, barely an inch at a time, they talked over arrangements for
the next day. Lieutenant Boglin could not be counted in. He had to ride
in the procession with the rest of the troops from the Post who were to
take part in the parade. Billy Mayrell had another engagement, so Phil
proposed to take all three of the girls under his wing. It was too late
to secure seats in the plaza from which to watch the flower battle. The
Major had been able to get only two. So Phil said the Major and his wife
should occupy those. He would come around for the girls in an automobile
and they could watch the parade seated in that.
There was a blockade near the door, but as soon as they could get
through it, they all walked up the street to a building in which the
Major had secured the use of a second-story window, from which they
could watch the parade of the Queen and her court on their way to the
ball. The time spent in waiting was well worth while, when it finally
appeared. The horses of the chariots were led by Nubian servants, and
each chariot represented a rose, wherein sat the duchess who had made it
her choice.
The Queen's chariot was surmounted by a mammoth American Beauty rose,
and as she smiled out from the midst of its petals, Mary had one more
entrancing view of the royal robes. This time they were lit up by the
red gleam of torches, for eight torch-bearers, four on a side,
accompanied each chariot, and added their light to the brilliant
illuminations of the streets.
"You must see the river," said Billy Mayrell, after the procession had
passed by. "Nobody can describe it, with the lights strung across it
from shore to shore all down its winding course. It makes you think of
Venice."
He led them to a place where they could look across a bend and see one
of the bridges. It was strung so thickly with red lights which outlined
every part, that it seemed to be made of glowing rubies, and its
reflection in the water made another shining ruby bridge below, wavering
on the dark current.
Mary leaned over the rail watching the shimmering lights, and feeling
dreamily that this City of the Alamo was an enchanted city; that the
buildings looming up on every side were not for the purpose of barter
and trade. They were thrown up simply as backgrounds for the dazzling
illuminations which outlined them against the night sky. The horns of
the revellers answering each other down every street, the music of
distant bands, the laughter of the jostling throngs, all deepened the
illusion.
It did not seem possible that this could be the city through which she
had once tramped in the rain, discouraged and forlorn, in search of a
home. It was a realm given over utterly to "Mirth and Merriment," where
a gracious young queen held sway, where illness and trouble and grief
had no part.
"I don't wonder that the Major wants everybody not already a loyal Texan
to see this," she said to the Lieutenant. "It's enough to make one want
to live here always."
She made the same remark to Gay next afternoon, as she sat beside her on
the back seat of the automobile. Roberta was on the front seat with
Phil. He had ordered a machine which he could drive himself, and they
had taken a run through the principal streets to see all the
decorations, before coming to a standstill to wait for the procession.
It was an inspiring scene, the grandstand packed with applauding
spectators, the plaza crowded from park to curbstone. Shops and offices
had closed for the day, schools were dismissed and all work abandoned as
far as possible, in order that everyone might share in the Carnival
play-time. The wise old town knows the full worth of holidays, and makes
the most of each one.
The chariots Mary had seen in the brilliantly-lighted streets the night
before, lost some of their glamour seen by day; but the duchesses and
their ladies-in-waiting were dressed now in the colors of their chosen
roses instead of the court-robes, and there were many new features in
this parade; floats and handsomely decorated carriages, and a long line
of troops from the post with the famous military bands. It was hard to
sit still when they played so inspiringly.
Back and forth in front of the Alamo went the two divisions of the
parade, meeting and passing and turning to meet and pass again, all the
while pelting each other with flowers, till the plaza where they rode
was covered deep with them. And the bands played and the people cheered,
till the smallest schoolboy in their midst felt a thrill of gratitude to
the heroes whose deeds they were commemorating. He might miss the deeper
meaning of it all, but he grasped one fact clearly enough: that had it
not been for the grim battle which those brave fellows fought to the
death, there would have been no San Jacinto Day for him. No
pageant-filled holiday to make one feel that it is a great and glorious
thing to be a son of the Lone Star State.
Phil dined at the Major's again that night, and Roberta was the only
other guest beside Mary. Gay had objected when her father proposed
others, saying that they intended to devote the entire evening to music.
Since they had discovered what a magnificent voice Mr. Tremont had, and
he had discovered what proficient accompanists she and Roberta were,
they had decided to treat themselves to a musicale given by the three,
with only Mary for audience. The family could listen, of course, but
with the understanding that there was to be no conversation. As the
Major had an engagement which took him out immediately after dinner and
Mrs. Melville had some friends drop in to call soon after, it happened
that their audience was limited to one.
Now the one thing that Mary enjoyed above all others was hearing Phil
sing, and quite the pleasantest part of her whole visit was that last
evening spent in listening to him, with Roberta at the piano, and Gay
improvising wonderfully soft and lovely accompaniments on her violin.
Mary had heard two celebrated opera singers while in Washington, but in
her opinion neither one equalled Phil.
Phil's surprise would have been unbounded could he have known that she
was comparing his singing to the angel Israfel's, "whose heartstrings
were a lute, and who had the sweetest voice of all God's creatures." It
would have been a matter of still greater surprise if he could have
known the exalted opinion that Mary had of him. Not that any sentimental
interest entered into her regard for him. Despite her eighteen years and
her womanly attitude towards the world in general, she was still a
little girl, and a very humble little girl in her own estimation, as
far as he was concerned. He was her ideal; the man whose good opinion
she valued above all things, whose approval made her inexpressibly
happy, and whose advice she eagerly followed.
She had adored him for years as little girls do sometimes look up to and
adore grown men, and had stored away in her memory many a remark that he
forgot as soon as it was uttered. There was the time she confided to him
her grief at being so fat and her ambition to be an "airy, fairy
Lillian," like Lloyd. He did not even smile, and he answered so gravely
and kindly that she remembered even yet the consolation that his words
gave her. Another time she overheard him referring to her as an "angel
unawares," because she had unknowingly done him a service by repeating
something Lloyd had said about him.
From that time on, that was the part she longed to play in his life. She
burned to be the "angel unawares" who could help him to the attainment
of everything he wanted. That was why she had been so bitterly
disappointed when Lloyd's engagement to Rob Moore had been announced.
She wanted Lloyd to marry Phil because she knew that was what Phil
wanted. Now that that was not possible she was just as ready to help
him if he should ever love again. She hardly thought that he could do
_that_, though. It seemed so incredible that he should ever find another
as fine and high and sweet as the Princess Winsome; it was still more
incredible that once having set his mark that high he could ever look at
anything less.
His powerful, well-trained voice filled the room with a sweetness that
brought an ache to her throat and sometimes tears to her eyes. Presently
Roberta rummaged out some old, old melodies--"Drink to me only with
thine eyes," and the "Bedouin Love-song."
When she asked for that last one, Mary cringed inwardly, as if she had
been hurt herself, so sure was she that it must bring up painful
memories to Phil. She fully expected to see him lay it aside with some
excuse for not singing it. She remembered as vividly as if it were only
last night how she had sat on the floor of the library at The Locusts,
listening to the notes of his guitar as he sang to Lloyd outside on the
porch:
"Till the stars are old
And the sun grows cold
And the leaves of the Judgment
Book unfold."
For the life of her, she couldn't see how Lloyd ever listened to any
other wooing after that. Had any one sung that to _her_ in that voice it
would have won her so completely that she would have risen like the
Sleeping Beauty at the call of the prince.
"Beyond the night--across the day--
Through all the world she followed him."
To her surprise, Phil took up the sheet of music as nonchalantly as if
he had never seen it before. But when he began to sing it seemed to her
anxious ear that he sang it more feelingly than anything she had ever
heard. It was plain enough to her now that he had not ceased to care. It
wrung her heart to hear him sing it so, pouring out his soul in a flood
of noble devotion which he knew could never be requited, but which would
live on till the sun lost its heat and the stars their light.
"I love that song," said Roberta, laying it aside to pick up another.
"But I'd like to meet that fiery old duck of a Bedouin when the leaves
of the Judgment Book _do_ unfold, and find out how long his devotion
kept up to high-water mark." Then she trilled airily, "Men are gay
deceivers ever."
Under the circumstances the remark seemed flippant, almost
sacrilegious, to Mary. She gave Roberta a disapproving glance behind her
back, thinking, "Little _you_ know about it. If you could see as I do
now, how Phil is hiding his real feelings, you'd realize that there's
_one_ man, at least, capable of the deathless devotion you scoff at."
The evening was over all too soon. Phil was to take Roberta home on his
way back to the hotel, and when he rose to go said, "I'll not make my
farewells now. My train doesn't leave till nearly noon to-morrow, so
I'll call some time during the morning to pay my respects to the Major
and see you all again."
"You'll have to say good-by to Mary now," said Gay. "She insists on
taking that horrid freight car back to Bauer, at seven in the morning."
"I must," said Mary. "You know they need me, now that the nurse is gone,
and I've already been away two days."
Roberta went out into the hall for her hat, and Gay followed as far as
the door, talking as she went.
"And I haven't had any visit with _you_ at all," said Phil, who was
standing, hat in hand, looking down at Mary. "I haven't had a word with
you by yourself, and you haven't confided once in me or asked me a
single scrap of advice. It doesn't seem natural. But I'm not going to
let you escape me this way; I'm going down to the train in the morning
to see you off."
Gay turned in time to hear the last part of his sentence. "That is," she
corrected, "if you are called in time. They don't always do it at hotels
when they say they will. I've had some bad experiences that way. So if
he doesn't appear, Mary, you can console yourself with the thought that
he's like Kathleen Mavourneen--'slumbering still.'"
"I'll be there," was the confident reply, as he smiled down into Mary's
wistful eyes and held out his hand to say good-night. "Electric bells
are not as romantic as the 'horn of the hunter heard on the hill,' but
they're more effective when it comes to getting a fellow up in the
morning; you'll see me sure."