The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, January 31, 1904, Page 3

eontention concerning her beauty and her gift of music, for a song can be heard through an open window. And how did it happen that Crailey Gray knew that it was Miss Carewe’s habit to stroll her garden for half an hour or so each evening before retiring, and that she went to mass every morning alley Gray never se in his life, t beheld it from view—as the end of pears that some one the moon lay white s Miss Betty on the bor- ched,” as “the have put it, of the the ten- a The breeze s of the old-fashioned t herry ssoms, violing came on pew song from the hat o s € the last deta a e the ankle «nd the g - es, he was the sketch of Georges Meilhac sprang into AY s sle o8, & £ see - a = arition, her re white e brown iris. d deeper, un- s it became nd like a sob. At The voice was low. vi- al that coolly and it became t go away!” pot go; she had she began to g hands. croyable d his de- ward with an ex- come near me!” she gasped. w . u? Go away Give e second to explain,” he bega k instant reassur- ance s be ng she cut him off . er fears led by his com- monplace. Nay, indignation displaced e fairly flashed height. by the gate!” u mean by com- n that dress? What right have garden? " he begged quickly, You'd allow a street whe ing here Vhat do ¥ and anger. T vainted her incoherently site of that, his it emiled at what he de ation of a ord man who had failen ut richly, in whole heart being in i Crailey had the exagger- pressionable Gra; love “at first sight:” yet,'in the presence of the real- ity, the Incroyable decided that Tom's colors had been gray and humble. was not that ghe was that her nose was chin dexterot y aguare and oval; t soft a shadow not that the trem ageinst her breast ist and tapered the long fingers that sl It merely lovely, straight, and her wrought between t her dark hair lay at n her white brow; bling hand she held sprang from a taper again to the tips of nor that she was of erness as strong as it is deli- cate; © a e exquisite regularity of line and m nor gave the 1 re to himself that he stood for the first time in the pres- ence of beauty, and that now he knew the women he had been wont to call beautiful were but pretty. And yet her beauty, he told himself, was the least of her loveligess, for there was a glamour about her. It was not only the richness of her ¥y but there was an ineffa- bie exhalation which seemed to be made partly of artly of the very spirit of her, a enough, partly of the scent ¢ le fan that hung by a ribbon from her waist. This was a wo- man like & wine, he felt, there was a douquet In regard to the bouquet of the young man himself, if he possessed one, it is pertinent to relate that at this very in- stant the thought skipped across his mind (like the hop of a flea in a rose jar) that so lay he might find the moment when could tell her the truth about herself—with a half laugh —eand say: “The angels sent their ba- Iges in & sandal-wood box to be made into a woman—and it was you!"” “If you have anything to say for yoursel!, say it quickly!” said Miss Be u were singing a while ago,” he answered, somewhat huskily, “and I stopped on the street to listen; then 1 came here to be nearer. The spell of your voice—" He broke off abruptly to " change the word. “The spell of the song came over me—it is my dearest fevorite— o0 that I stood afterward in & sort of trance, only hearing again,.in the silence, “The stolen heart, like the gathered prose, will bloom but a day!” T did not see you until you came to the bench. You must believe me; I would THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL —_— e not have (ri‘hlened you for anything in the world.” “Why are you wearing that dress?” He laughed, and pointed to where, be- hind him on the ground, lay a long gray cloak, upon which had been tossed a white mask. “I'm on my way to the masquerade,” he answered, with an airy gesture in the direction of the vio- lins. “I'm an Incroyable, you see; and 1 had the costume made from my recol- lection of a sketch of your great-uncle. I saw it & long time ago in your li- brary. Miss Carewe's accustomed poise was quite recovered; indeed, she was aston- ished to discover a distinet trace of dis- eappointment that the brilliant appari- tion must offer so tame an explanation. What he said was palpably the truth; there was a masquerade that night, she knew, at the Madrillon’s. a little way up Carewe street, and her father had gone, an hour earlier, a blue domino over his arm. The Incroyable was a person of al- most magical perceptiveness: he felt the let-down immediately and feared a failure. This would not do; the atti- tude of tension between them must be renewed at once. “You'll forgive me?” he began, in a quickly impassioned tone. “It was only after you sang, & dream possessed me, and—" ' “I cannot stay to talk to you, Betty interrupted, and added. with a straightforwardness which made him afraid she would prove lamentably di- rect: “I do not know you.” Perhaps she remembered that already one young man had been presented to her by ro better sponsor than a white cat, and had no desire to carry her unconventionality farther than that. In the present instance there was not even a kitten, She turned toward the house, where- upon he gave a little pathetic exclama- tion of pleading in a voice that was masterly, being as sincere as it was musical, and he took a few leaning steps toward her, both hands out- stretched. “One moment more!” he cried, as she turned again to hir “It may be the one chance of my to speak with you; don't deny me this. All the rest will meet you whe e happy evening comes, will dance with you, t with you, see you when they like, listen to you sing. I, alone, must hover about the gates, or 1 like a thief into your Miss garden to hear you from a distance. Listen to me st this once—for a moment 2" “I cannot listen,” she said firmly; and stood quite s She was now in deep shadow. “I will not believe you merciless! You would not condemn the meanest crimi- nal unheard!” Remembering that she was so lately from the convent, he ven- tured this speech in a deep, thrilling voice, only to receive a distinct shock for his pains, for she greeted it with an irrepressible, most unexpected peal of contralto laughter. and his lips parted slightly with the surprise of it. They paiied much farther in the next instant—in good truth, it may be stated of the gentleman that he was left with his mouth open—for, suddenly leaning toward him out of the shadow into the light, her face shining as a cast of tragedy, she cried in a hoarse whisper: “Are you a murderer?” And with that and a whisk of her ekirts, and a footfall on the gravel path, she was goge. He stood dum- founded, poor comedian, having come to play the chief role, but to find the scene taken out of his hands. Then catching the flutter of her wrap, as she disappeared into the darkness of the veranda, he cried in a loud, manly voice: “You are a dear!™ As he came out into the street through 2 gap in the hedge, he paused, drawing his cloak about him, and lifted his face to the eastern on. It was a strange face; the eling most like what is called Greek, save for the nose, which was a trifle too short for that, and the features showed a happy puri- ty of outline almost childlike; the blue eves, clear, fleckiess, serenely irrespon- sible, with more the look of refusing re- sponsibility th¥n being unconscious of it; eyes without care, without pru- dence, and without evil. A stranger might have said he was about twenty five and never had a th ht in his life. There were bic 1s on the hedge, and he touched one lightly, as though he chucked it under the chin; he smiled upon it t ut not as he had smiled upon Mis for thia was his own, the sm he was alone; and. w face was no longer jovous as it been in repose; there was an infinite patience and worn tolerance—possibly for himself. This incongruous and mel- ancholy smile was astonishing; one looked for the laughter of a boy and found, instead, a gentle, worldly, old prelate. Standing there, all alone in the mooniight, by the hedge, he lifted both hands high and waved them toward the house, as children wave to each other ecross lawns at twilight. After that he made a fantastic bow to his corrugated shadow on the broad sidewalk. “Again, you rogue!” he exclaimed aloud. Then, as he faced about and be- gan to walk in the direction of the beckoning violins: “I wonder if Tom’s kitten was better, after all!” CHAPTER IIL THE ROGUES' GALLERY OF A FA- THER SHOULD BE EXHIBITED TO A DAUGHTER WITH PARTICULAR CARE. Those angels appointed to be guard- fans of the merry people of Rouen, poising one night, between earth and etars, discovered a single brilliant and resonant spot, set in the midst of the dark, quiet town like a jeweled music- box on & black cloth. Sounds of rev- eiry and the dance from the luminous spot came up through the summer stiliness to the weary guardians all night long, until, at last, when a red glow stole into the east, and the dance #till continued, nay grew faster than ever, the celestial watchers found the work too heavy for their strength, and forthwith departed, leaving the dancers to their own devices; for, as every one knows, when a dance lasts till daylight, guardian angels flee. All night long the fiddles had been swinging away at their best; all night long the candles had shone in thin rows “of bright orange through the slits of the window-blinds; but now, as the day broke over the maples, the shutters were flung open by laughing young men, and the drivers of the carriages, waiting in the dusty street, pressed up closer to th:d)edxe. or came within and stretch themselves upon the lawn, to see the people walting in the daylight. The horses, having no such desires, stood with loosened check-reins, slightly twitching their-upper lips, wist- ful of the tall grass which bordered the wooden sidewalk, though now #nd then one would lift his head high, sniffing the morning air and bending an earnest gaze not upon the dancers but upon the florid east. Over the unwearied plaint of French horn, violin and bassoon rose a silvery confusion of voices ang laughter and the sound of a hundred footfalls in uni- son, while from the open windows thers issued a warm breath, heavily laden with the smell of scented fans, of rich fabrics, of dying roses, to mingle with the spicy perfume of wild crab tree in fullest blosgom, which stood near enough to peer into the ballroom, and, like a brocaded belle herself, challenge the richest to show raiment as fine, the loveliest to look as fair and joyful in the dawn, Believe m those endearing young charm: Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, ‘Were to fade by to-morrow and fleet from my ar Like f £ifts tading away— So ran the violins in waltz time, se bassoon and horn to those dulcet meas- ures; and then, with one accord, & hun- dred voi joined them in the old, sweet melody: Thou wouldst still be adored as t oment thou art i 1t all Let thy loveliness fade as it win And 4round the dear rul ‘nv“d-, eart Would entwine itself verdantly stim, And the jealous crab trees found but one to overmatch fitself in beauty; a lady who was the focus of the singing; for, by the time the shutters were flung open there was not a young man in the room, lacked he never so greatly in music or in voice, who'did not heart- ily desire to sing to Miss Betty Carewe, and who did not now (craning neck over partner’s shoulder) seek to fix her with his glittering eye, while he sang “Oh, Believe Me"” most directly and conspicuously at her. For that night was the beginning of Miss Betty's fa- mous career as the belle of Rouen, and was the date from which strangers were to hear of her as “the beautiful Miss Carewe,” until “beautiful” was left off, visitors to the town being sup- posed to have heard at least that much before they came. There had been much discussion of her. though only oné¢ or two had caught glimpses of her; but most of the gal- lants appeared to agree with Crailey Gray, who aired his opinion—in an ex- ceedingly casual way— at the little club on Main street. Mr. Gray held that when the daughter of a man as rich as Bob Carewe was heralded as a beauty the chances were that she would ¢ " ME_ONE D_. IO prove disappointing, and, for his part, he was not even intereested enough to attend and investigate. 5o he was go- ing down the river in & canoe and pre- ferred the shyness of bass to that of & girl of eighteen just from the convent, Tom Vanrevel was not present on the occasion of these remarks, and the gen- eral concurrence with Crailey may be suspected as a purely verbal one, since. ‘when the evening came, two of the most enthusiastic dancers and love makers of the town, the handsome Tappingham Marsh and that doughty ex-dragoon and Indian fighter, stout old General Trumble, were upon the field before the enemy appeared; that is to say, they were in the new ballroom before their host; indeed, the musiclans had not arrived, and Nelson. ait aged negro ser- vitor, was engaged in lighting the house. The crafty pair had planned this early descent with a view to monopoly by right of priority, in case the game ne BEORNY proved worth the candle, and they were leaning effectively against the little ralling about the musicians’ platform when Mr. Carewe entered the room ‘with his daughter on his arm. She was 1n white, touched with count- less small lavender flowers; there were rows and rows of wonderful silk and lace flounces on her skirt, and her fan hung from a rope of great pearis. Ah, hideous, blue. rough cloth of the con- vent, unforgotten, but laid aside for- ever, what a chrysalis you were! Tappingham twitched his eompan- lon’s sleeve, but the general was al- ready posing; and neither heard the words ‘of presentation, “because Miss Bettey gave each of them a quick look, then smiled upon them as they bowed; the slayers were prostrated before their prey. Never were lady-killers more in- stantaneously tamed and subjugated by the power of the feminine eye. Wiil Cummings tame in scon, and, almost upon his heels, ‘Eugene Madrillon and young Frank Chenoweth. No others appeared for half an hour, and the five gentlemen looked at one another aside, each divining his own diplomacy in his fellow’s eye, and each laboriously ex- plaining to the others his own mistake in regard to the hour designated upon Mr. Carewe’s cards of invitation. This small embarrassment, however, did not prevent General Trumble and young Mr. Chenoweth from coming to high words over Miss Carewe's little, gilt- filigree programme of dances. It may not be untimely to remark. also, of these five redoubtable beaux, that, during the evening, it occurred to every one of them to be glad that Crai- ley Gray was betrothed to Fanchon Ba- reaud, and that he was down on the Rouen. River with a canoe, a rod and a tent. Nay, without more words, to de- clare the. truth in regard to Crailey, they felt greater security In his absence frém the fleld than in his betrothal. A Mr. Chenoweth, a youth as open as out-of-doors, both in countenance and mind, observed plaintively to Tapping- ham Marsh, in a corner, while they watched Miss Betty's lavender flowers miraculously swirling thropgh a qua- drille: “Crailey, you know, well, Crai- ley’'s been engaged before!" It was not Mr. Chenoweth’s habit to disguise his apprehensions. and Crailey Gray would not fish for bass forever. The same Chenoweth was he, who, maddenred by the general's triumphant- Iy famillar way of toying with Miss Betty’s fan between two dances, at- tempted to propose to her during the sunrise waitz. Having sung “Oh, be- lieve me"” in her ear as loudly as he could, he expressed the wish—quite as loudly—"“That this waltz might last for alway: That was the seventh time it had been said to Betty during the night, and though Mr. Chenoweth's predeces- sors had revealed their desires in a guise lacking this prodigious artless- ness, she already possessed no novel ac- quaintance with the exclamation. But she made no comment; her partner’'s style was not a stimulant to repartee. “It would be heaven.” he amplified, earnestly, “it would be heaven to dance with you forever—on a desert isle where the others couldn’t come!” he finished with sudden acerbity as his eye caught the general's. , He proceeded, and only the cessation of the music aided Miss Carewe in stop- ping the declaration before it was al- togetker out; and at that point Frank's own father came to her rescue, though in a fashion little saving of her confu- sion. The elder Chenoweth was one of the gallant and kindly Southern colony that made it natural for Rcuen always to speak of Miss Carewe as Miss Betty. He was a handsome old fellow, whose hair, long mustache and imperial were as white as he was proud of them, a Virginian with the admirable South- ern fearlessness of being thought senti- mental, - Mounting a chair with com- plete dignity, he lifted a glass of wine high in the air. and, when all the other glasses had been filled, proposed the health of his young hostes He made a speech of some leng pronouncing himself quite as hopelessiy fn love with his old friend's daughter as all could see his own son was; and wishing her long life and prosperity, with many al- lusions to fragrant bowers and the Muses. It made Miss Betty happy, but it was rather trying, too, ‘for she could only stand with downeast eyes before them all, trembling a little, and receiving a mixed impression of Mr. Chenoweth's remarks, catching fragments here and there: “And may the biush upon that gentle cheek, loveller than the radiant clouds at set of sun,” and “Yet the sands of ‘the hour giass must fall, and in the calm and beauteous old age fome day to be her lot, when fond mem'ry leads her back to view again the brilllant scene about her now, where stand ‘fair women and brave men, wine cup in hand, to do her honor, oh, may she wWipe the silent tear,” and the like. As the old gentleman finished, and before the toast was drunk, Fan- chon Bareaud, kissing her hand to Betty, took up the song again: and they all joined in, lifting their glasses to the blushing and happy gir! clinging to her father’s arm: Thou wouldst still be adored as this momen: thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will: And around the dear ruln each wish of my ‘Would entwine itself verdantly still. They were happy people who had not learned to be self-conscious enough to fear doing a pretty thing openly without mocking themselves for it; and it was a brave circle they made about Betty Carewe, the charming faces of the women and their fine fur- belows, handsome men and tall, all so gay, so cheerily smiling, and yet so earnest in their weicome to her. No one was afraid to “let out” his voice; their song went full and strong over the waking town, and when it was fin- ished the ball was over, too. The veranda and the path to the gate became like tropic gardens, the fair colors of the women’s dresses, bal- looning in the early breeze, making the place seem strewn with gilant blossoms. They all went away at the same time, those in carriages calling farewells to each other and to the lit- tle processions departing on fobt in different directions to homes near by. The sound of the voices and laughter drew away, slowly died out altogether, and the silence of the street was strange and unfamiliar to Betty: She went to the hedge and watched the musicians, who were the last to go, until they passed from sight; little black toilsome figures, carrying gro- tesque black boxes. While she could still see them, it seemed to her that her ball was not quite over, and she wished to hold the least speck of it as long as she could: but when they had disappeared she faced the truth with a deep sigh; the long, glorious night was finished indeed. What she needed now was another girl; the two would have gone te Betty's room and danced it all over again until noon; but she had only her father. She found him smoking a Principe cigar upon the veranda, so she seated herself timidly, neverthe- less with a hopeful glance at him, on the steps at his feet; and, as she did so, he looked down upon her with something more akin to geniality than anything she had ever seen in his eve before. It was not geniality itself, but might be third cousin to it. In- deed, in his way, he was almost proud of her, though he had no wish to show it. Since one was compelled to dis- play the fact that one possessed a grown daughter, it was well that she be like this one. They did not know each very well, and she often doubted- that they would ever become intimate. There was no sense of companionship for either in the other; she had been una- ble to break through his perfunctory, almost fognal, manner with her: therefore, because he encouraged ne affection in her, she feit none, and wondered why, since he was her fath- er. She was more curious about him than interested, and, though she did not know it, she was prepared to judge him—should; occasion arise— precisely as she would judge any other mere acquaintance. This morning, for the first time, she was comscious of a sense of warmth and gratitude toward him; the elaborate fashion in which he had introduced her to his friends made it appear possible that he liked her; for he had forgotten nothing, and to remember everything in this case was to be lavish, which has often the appearance of gener- osity. And yet there had been a lack; some small thing she had missed. though she was not entirely sure that she identified it: but the lack had not been in her father or in anything he had done. Then, too, there was some- thing so unexpectedly human and pleasant in his not going to bed at once, but remaining to smoke on the veranda at this hour, that she gave him credit for a little of her own ex- citement, innocently fancying that he, also, might feel the need of a com- panion with whom to talk over the brilliant passages of the night. And a moment ensued when she debated taking his hand. She was too soon glad that her intuition forbade the demonstration. “It was all so beautiful, papa,” she said, timidly. “I have no way to tell you how I thank you.” “You may do that™ he replied, evenly, with no unkindness, with no kindness, either, in the level of his tone, “by never dancing agaln mors than twice with one man in one even- ing.” “I thnk I should much prefer net, myself,” she returned, lifting her head to face him gravely. “I believe if I cared to dance more than once with one, I should like to dance all of them with him.” Mr. Carewe frowned. “T trifst that you discovered none last night whem you wished to honor with your entire programme 7" “No," she laughed: “not last night.” Her father tossed away his cigar abruptly. “Is it too much to hepe,” he inquired, “that when you discover a_gentleman with whom you desire to waltz all night, vou will omit to men- tion the fact to him?” There was a brief flash of her eye as she recalled her impulse to take his hand, but she immediately looked at him with such comvlete seriousness that he feared his irony had been thrown away. 3 “I'll remember not to mention it." she answered. “I'll tell him you told me not to.” “I think you may retire now,” sald Mr. Carewe, sharply. She rose from the steps, went to the door, then turned at the threshold. *“Were all your friends here, papa?” “Deo you think that every ninny who gabbled in my house last night was my friend?” he said, angrily. “There wase one friend of mine, Mrs. Tan- berry. who wasn’t here, because she is out of town; but I do not imagine that you aye inquiring about women. You meaniy Was every unmarried male idiot “who could afford a swallow- tailed coat and a clean pair ef gloves cavorting about the place? Yes, miss, they weére al] hiere except two, and one of those is a fool, the other a knave.” “Can’t 1 know the fool?” she asked, eagerly. “I rejoice to find them so rare In your experience!™ he retorfed. “This one is out of town, though I have no doubt you will see him sufficiently often when he returns. His name is Crailey Gray, and he Is to marry Fan- chon Bareaud—if he remembers!” “And the knave?” “Is one!” Carewe shut his teeth with a venomous snap, and his whole face reddened suddenly. *“T'll men- tion this fellow once—now,” he said, speaking each word with emphasis. “His name is Vanrevel. You see that gate; yon see the line of r y property there; the man himself, as well as every other person in the town, re- members weill that the last time I spoke to him..it was to tell him that if he ever set foot on ground of mine T'd shoot him down, and he knows, and they all know, I shall keep my word! Elsewhere, I told him that for the , sake of public peace I should ignore him. I do. You will see him everywhere; but it will not be difi- cult; no one will have the hardihood