The Two Vanrevels
CHAPTER XVI
"Those Endearing Young Charms"
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."