The Two Vanrevels
CHAPTER XI
A Voice in a Garden
Crailey came home the next day with a new poem, but no fish. He lounged up
the stairs, late in the afternoon, humming cheerfully to himself, and, dropping
his rod in a corner of Tom's office, laid the poem on the desk before his
partner, produced a large, newly-replenished flask, opened it, stretched himself
comfortably upon a capacious horse-hair sofa, drank a deep draught, chuckled
softly, and requested Mr. Vanrevel to set the rhymes to music immediately.
"Try it on your instrument," he said. "It's a simple verse about nothing but
stars, and you can work it out in twenty minutes with the guitar."
"It is broken," said Tom, not looking up from his work.
"Broken! When?"
"Last night."
"Who broke it?"
"It fell from the table in my room."
"How? Easily mended, isn't it?"
"I think I shall not play it soon again."
Crailey swung his long legs off the sofa and abruptly sat upright. "What's
this?" he asked gravely.
Tom pushed his papers away from him, rose and went to the dusty window that
looked to the west, where, at the end of the long street, the sun was setting
behind the ruin of charred timbers on the bank of the shining river.
"It seems that I played once too often," he said.
Crailey was thoroughly astonished. He took a long, affectionate pull at the
flask and offered it to his partner.
"No," said Tom, turning to him with a troubled face, "and if I were you, I
wouldn't either. These fishing trips of yours—"
"Fishing!" Crailey laughed. "Trips of a poetaster! It's then I write best,
and write I will! There's a poem, and a damned good one, too, old preacher, in
every gill of whiskey, and I'm the lad that can extract it! Lord! what's better
than to be out in the open, all by yourself in the woods, or on the river? Think
of the long nights alone with the glory of heaven and a good demijohn. Why, a
man's thoughts are like actors performing in the air and all the crowding stars
for audience! You know in your soul you'd rather have me out there, going it all
by myself, than raising thunder over town. And you know, too, it doesn't tell on
me; it doesn't show! You couldn't guess, to save your life, how much I've had
to-day, now, could you?"
"Yes," returned the other, "I could."
"Well, well," said Crailey, good-naturedly, "we weren't talking of me." He
set down the flask, went to his friend and dropped a hand lightly on his
shoulder. "What made you break the guitar? Tell me."
"What makes you think I broke it?" asked his partner sharply.
"Tell me why you did it," said Crailey.
And Tom, pacing the room, told him, while Crailey stood in silence, looking
him eagerly in the eye whenever Tom turned his way. The listener interrupted
seldom; once it was to exclaim: "But you haven't said why you broke the guitar?"
"'If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out!' I ought to have cut off the hands
that played to her."
"And cut your throat for singing to her?"
"She was right!" the other answered, striding up and down the room. "Right—a
thousand times! in everything she did. That I should even ap-proach her, was an
unspeakable insolence. I had forgotten, and so, possibly, had she, but I had not
even been properly introduced to her."
"No, you hadn't, that's true," observed Crailey, reflectively. "You don't
seem to have much to reproach her with, Tom."
"Reproach her!" cried the other. "That I should dream she would speak to me
or have anything to do with me, was to cast a doubt upon her loyalty as a
daughter. She was right, I say! And she did the only thing she could do: rebuked
me before them all. No one ever merited what he got more roundly than I deserved
that. Who was I, in her eyes, that I should besiege her with my importunities,
who but her father's worst enemy?"
Deep anxiety knitted Crailey's brow. "I understood she knew of the quarrel,"
he said, thoughtfully. "I saw that, the other evening when I helped her out of
the crowd. She spoke of it on the way home, I remember; but how did she know
that you were Vanrevel? No one in town would be apt to mention you to her."
"No, but she did know, you see."
"Yes," returned Mr. Gray slowly. "So it seems! Probably her father told her
to avoid you, and described you so that she recognized you as the man who caught
the kitten."
He paused, picked up the flask, and again applied himself to its contents,
his eyes peering over the up-tilted vessel at Tom, who continued to pace up and
down the length of the office. After a time, Crailey, fumbling in his coat,
found a long cheroot, and, as he lit it, inquired casually:
"Do you remember if she addressed you by name?"
"I think not," Tom answered, halting. "What does it matter?"
Crailey drew a deep breath.
"It doesn't," he returned.
"She knew me well enough," said Tom, sadly, as he resumed his sentry-go.
"Yes," repeated Crailey, deliberately. "So it seems; so it seems!" He blew a
long stream of smoke out into the air before him, and softly mur-mured again:
"So it seems, so it seems."
Silence fell, broken only by the sound of Tom's footsteps, until, presently,
some one informally shouted his name from the street below. It was only Will
Cummings, passing the time of day, but when Tom turned from the window after
answering him, Crailey, his poem, and his flask were gone.
That evening Vanrevel sat in the dusty office, driving himself to his work
with a sharp goad, for there was a face that came between him and all else in
the world, and a voice that sounded always in his ears. But the work was done
before he rose from his chair, though he showed a haggard visage as he bent
above his candles to blow them out.
It was eleven o'clock; Crailey had not come back, and Tom knew that his
light-hearted friend would not return for many hours; and so, having no mind to
read, and no belief that he could if he tried, he went out to walk the streets.
He went down to the river first, and stood for a little while gazing at the
ruins of the two warehouses, and that was like a man with a headache beating his
skull against a wall. As he stood on the blackened wharf, he saw how the charred
beams rose above him against the sky like a gallows, and it seemed to him that
nothing could have been a better symbol, for here he had hanged his
self-respect. "Reproach her!" He, who had so displayed his imbecility before
her! Had he been her father's best friend, he should have had too great a sense
of shame to dare to speak to her after that night when her quiet intelligence
had exhibited him to himself, and to all the world, as nought else than a
fool—and a noisy one at that!
Suddenly a shudder convulsed him; he struck his open palm across his forehead
and spoke aloud, while, from horizon to horizon, the night air grew thick with
the whispered laughter of observing hobgoblins:
"And even if there had been no stairway, we could have slid down the
hose-line!"
He retraced his steps, a tall, gray figure moving slowly through the blue
darkness, and his lips formed the heart-sick shadow of a smile when he found
that he had unconsciously turned into Carewe Street. Presently he came to a gap
in a hedge, through which he had sometimes stolen to hear the sound of a harp
and a girl's voice singing; but he did not enter there tonight, though he paused
a moment, his head bowed on his breast.
There came a sound of voices; they seemed to be moving toward the hedge,
toward the gap where he stood; one a man's eager, quick, but very musical; the
other, a girl's, a rich and clear contralto that passed into Tom's soul like a
psalm of rejoicing and like a scimitar of flame. He shivered, and moved away
quickly, but not before the man's voice, somewhat louder for the moment, came
distinctly from the other side of the hedge:
"After all," said the voice, with a ripple of laughter, "after all, weren't
you a little hard on that poor Mr. Gray?"
Tom did not understand, but he knew the voice. It was that of Crailey Gray.
He heard the same voice again that night, and again stood unseen. Long after
midnight he was still tramping the streets on his lonely rounds, when he chanced
to pass the Rouen House, which hostelry bore, to the uninitiated eye, the
appearance of having closed its doors upon all hospitalities for the night, in
strict compliance with the law of the city fathers, yet a slender wand of bright
light might be discovered underneath the street door of the bar-room.
From within the merry retreat issued an uproar of shouting, raucous laughter
and the pounding of glasses on tables, heralding all too plainly the hypocrisy
of the landlord, and possibly that of the city fathers also. Tom knew what
company was gathered there: gamblers, truckmen, drunken farmers, men from the
river steamers making riot while their boats lay at the wharf, with a motley
gathering of good-for-nothings of the back-alleys, and tippling clerks from the
Main Street stores. There came loud cries for a song, and, in answer, the voice
of Crailey rose over the general din, somewhat hoarse, and never so musical when
he sang as when he spoke, yet so touching in its dramatic tenderness that soon
the noise fell away, and the roisterers sat quietly to listen. It was not the
first time Ben Jonson's song had stilled a disreputable company.
"I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee, As giving it the
hope that there It might not withered be."
Perhaps, just then, Vanrevel would have wished to hear him sing anything in
the world rather than that, for on Crailey's lips it carried too much meaning
tonight, after the voice in the garden. And Tom lingered no more near the
betraying sliver of light beneath the door than he had by the gap in the hedge,
but went steadily on his way.
Not far from the hotel he passed a small building brightly lighted and
echoing with unusual clamors of industry: the office of the Rouen Journal. The
press was going, and Mr. Cummings's thin figure crossed and recrossed the
windows, while his voice could be heard energetically bidding his assistants to
"Look alive!" so that Tom imagined that something might have happened between
the Nueces River and the Rio Grande; but he did not stop to ask the journalist,
for he desired to behold the face of none of his friends until he had fought out
some things within himself. So he strode on toward nowhere.
Day was breaking when Mr. Gray climbed the stairs to his room. There were two
flights, the ascent of the first of which occupied about half an hour of
Crailey's invaluable time; and the second might have taken more of it, or
possibly consumed the greater part of the morning, had he received no
assistance. But, as he reclined to meditate upon the first landing, another man
entered the hallway from without, ascended quickly, and Crailey became
pleasantly conscious that two strong hands had lifted him to his feet; and,
presently, that he was being borne aloft upon the new-comer's back. It seemed
quite a journey, yet the motion was soothing, so he made no effort to open his
eyes, until he found himself gently deposited upon the couch in his own chamber,
when he smiled amiably, and, looking up, discovered his partner standing over
him.
Tom was very pale and there were deep, violet scrawls beneath his eyes. For
once in his life he had come home later than Crailey.
"First time, you know," said Crailey, with difficulty. "You'll admit first
time completely incapable? Often needed guiding hand, but never—quite—before."
"Yes," said Tom, quietly, "it is the first time I ever saw you quite
finished."
"Think I must be growing old and constitution refuses bear it. Disgraceful to
be seen in condition, yet celebration justified. H'rah for the news!" He waved
his hand wildly. "Old red, white, and blue! American eagle now kindly proceed to
scream! Starspangled banner intends streaming to all the trade winds! Sea to
sea! Glorious victories on political thieving exhibition—no, expedition!
Everybody not responsible for the trouble to go and get himself patriotically
killed!"
"What do you mean?"
"Water!" said the other, feebly. Tom brought the pitcher, and Crailey,
setting his hot lips to it, drank long and deeply; then, with his friend's
assistance, he tied a heavily moistened towel round his head. "All right very
soon and sober again," he muttered, and lay back upon the pillow with eyes
tightly closed in an intense effort to concentrate his will. When he opened them
again, four or five minutes later, they had marvellously cleared and his look
was self-contained and sane.
"Haven't you heard the news?" He spoke much more easily now. "It came at
midnight to the Journal."
"No; I've been walking in the country."
"The Mexicans crossed the Rio Grande on the twenty-sixth of last month,
captured Captain Thornton and murdered Colonel Crook. That means war is
certain."
"It has been certain for a long time," said Tom. "Polk has forced it from the
first."
"Then it's a devil of a pity he can't be the only man to die!"
"Have they called for volunteers?" asked Tom, going toward the door.
"No; but if the news is true, they will."
"Yes," said Tom; and as he reached the hallway he paused. "Can I help you to
undress?"
"Certainly not!" Crailey sat up, indignantly. "Can't you see that I'm
perfectly sober? It was the merest temporary fit, and I've shaken it off. Don't
you see?" He got upon his feet, staggered, but shook himself like a dog coming
out of the water, and came to the door with infirm steps.
"You're going to bed, aren't you?" asked Tom. "You'd much better."
"No," answered Crailey. "Are you?
"No. I'm going to work."
"You've been all up night, too, haven't you?" Crailey put his hand on the
other's shoulder. "Were you hunting for me?"
"No; not last night."
Crailey lurched suddenly, and Tom caught him about the waist to steady him.
"Sweethearting, tippling, vingt-et-un, or poker, eh, Tom?" he shouted,
thickly, with a wild laugh. "Ha, ha, old smug-face, up to my bad tricks at
last!" But, recovering himself immediately, he pushed the other off at arm's
length, and slapped himself smartly on the brow. "Never mind; all right, all
right—only a bad wave, now and then. A walk will make me more a man than ever."
"You'd much better go to bed, Crailey."
"I can't. I'm going to change my clothes and go out."
"Why?"
Crailey did not answer, but at that moment the Catholic church-bell,
summoning the faithful to mass, pealed loudly on the morning air; and the steady
glance of Tom Vanrevel rested upon the reckless eyes of the man beside him as
they listened together to its insistent call. Tom said, gently, almost timidly:
"You have an—engagement?"
This time the answer came briskly. "Yes; I promised to take Fanchon to the
cemetery before breakfast, to place some flowers on the grave of the little
brother who died. This happens to be his birthday."
It was Tom who averted his eyes, not Crailey.
"Then you'd best hurry," he said, hesitatingly; "I mustn't keep you," and
went downstairs to his office with flushed cheeks, a hanging head, and an
expression which would have led a stranger to believe that he had just been
caught in a lie.
He went to the Main Street window, and seated himself upon the ledge, the
only one in the room not too dusty for occupation; for here, at this hour, Tom
had taken his place every morning since Elizabeth Carewe had come from the
convent. The window was a coign of vantage, commanding the corner of Carewe and
Main streets. Some distance west of the corner, the Catholic church cast its
long shadow across Main Street, and, in order to enter the church, a person who
lived upon Carewe Street must pass the corner, or else make a half-mile detour
and approach from the other direction—which the person never did. Tom had
thought it out the first night that the image of Miss Betty had kept him
awake—and that was the first night Miss Carewe spent in Rouen—the St. Mary's
girl would be sure to go to mass every day, which was why the window-ledge was
dusted the next morning.
The glass doors of the little corner drug-store caught the early sun of the
hot May morning and became like sheets of polished brass; a farmer's wagon
rattled down the dusty street; a group of Irish waitresses from the hotel made
the boardwalk rattle under their hurried steps as they went toward the church,
talking busily to one another; and a blinking youth in his shirt-sleeves, who
wore the air of one newly, but not gladly, risen, began to struggle mournfully
with the shutters of Madrillon's bank. A moment later, Tom heard Crailey come
down the stairs, sure of foot and humming lightly to himself. The door of the
office was closed; Crailey did not look in, but presently appeared, smiling,
trim, immaculate, all in white linen, on the opposite side of the street, and
offered badinage to the boy who toiled at the shutters.
The bell had almost ceased to ring when a lady, dressed plainly in black, but
graceful and tall, came rapidly out of Carewe Street, turned at the corner by
the little drug-store, and went toward the church. The boy was left staring, for
Crailey's banter broke off in the middle of a word.
He overtook her on the church steps, and they went in together.
That afternoon Fanchon Bareaud told Tom how beautiful her betrothed had been
to her; he had brought her a great bouquet of violets and lilies-of-the-valley,
and had taken her to the cemetery to place them on the grave of her baby
brother, whose birthday it was. Tears came to Fanchon's eyes as she spoke of her
lover's goodness, and of how wonderfully he had talked as they stood beside the
little grave.
"He was the only one who remembered that this was poor tiny Jean's birthday!"
she said, and sobbed. "He came just after breakfast and asked me to go out there
with him."