The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 14, 1904, Page 3

fice of Journal. r. Cum- Rouen g ess was goi crossed ar re- ndows, Wwhile voice bidding " so that ething might the Nueces h‘;l he did for he e ¥nin F mone "ok til he had fought out ithin himself. So he yward nowhere. was brea g when Mr. Gray climbed the stairs to his room. There were two flights, the ascent of the first v about half an hour nvaluable time; and the second might have taken more of it, or possibly consumed the greater part of the morning, had he received no as- sistance. But, as he reclined to medi- tate upon the first landing, another man entered the hallway from without, ascended quickly, and Craliey became pleasantly conscious that two strong hands hed lifted him to his feet; and, presently, that he was being borne aloft upon the newcomer's back. It seemed quite & journey, yet the mo- tion was soothing, so he made no ef- fort to open his eyes, until he found himpelf gently deposited upon the couch In his own chamber, when he smiled amiably, and, looking up, dis- ecovered his partner standing over him. Tom was very pale and there were deap, viclet scrawls beneath his eyes. For once in his life he had come home later than Cralley. “First time, you know,” said Cralley, with difficulty. “You'll admit first time completely Iincapable? Often mneeded guiding hand, but never—quite—be- fore.” “Yes,” sald Tom, quietly, “it is the first time I ever saw you quite fin- ished.” “Think I must be growing old and constitution refuses bear it. Disgrace- ful to be seen In condition, yet cele bration justified. H'rah for the new: waved his hand wildly. “Old red, “h te and blue! American eagle now y proceed to scream! Star-span- banner intends streaming to all trade winds! Sea to sea! Glorious ries on political thieving exhibi- expedition! Everybody not for the trouble to go and killed!” d energeti Look alive fed 2 self patriotica ¥ ou mean the other, feebly. cher, Tom and Crailey, set- drank long and friend’s assist- ly mcistened towel “All right very sbon " he muttered, and lay low with eyes tightly an intense effort. to concen- ill. When he opened them n, four or five minutes later, they d marvelously cleared and his look was self-contained and sane. ‘Haven't you heard the news?” He spoke much more ezsily now. “It came ht to the Journal.” 've been waiking in the coun- try.” “The Grande on the twenty-sixth month, captured Captain Thornton and murdered Colonel Crook. That means war is certain.” “It has been certain for a long time,” Mexicans crossed the of Rio last said Tom. the first.” “Then it's & devil of a pity be can't e the only man to dle! “Polk has forced it from “Have they called for volunteers?” asked Tom, going toward the door. ; but if the news is true, they and as he reached “Can I help said Tom; the hallway he paused. you to undress?” “ertainly not!” Crailey sat up, in- ignantly. “Can’'t you see that I'm perfectly sober? It was the merest tem- porary fit, and I've shaken it off. Don’t you see?” He got upon his feet, stag- 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 vou? ed Tom. “You'd much better.” ©0.” answered Crailey. “Are you?” o. I'm going to work.” “You've been up all night, too, haven't you?” Crajley 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, thick- ly, 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, Cral- ley.” “I can't. I'm going to change my clothes and go out.” “Why? Cralley did not answer, but at that moment the Catholic church bell, sum- moning 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 be- side him as they listened together to its insistent call. Tom sald, gently, al- most 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 “rlieve 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 dis- tance 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 Ca- rewe’ street must pass the corner, or else make a half-mile detour and ap- proach from the other direction—which the perscn 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 THE SAN drug store caught the early sun of the hot May mornifig and became MHke- sheetd of polished brass; a farmer's wagon rattled dewn the street; a group of Irish waitresses from the hotel made the board walk rattle under their hur- ried 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 strug- gle mournfully with the shutters of Ma- drillon’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 presenfly appeared, smiling, trim, im- maculate, all in white linen, on the op- posite 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 cor- ner 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 ceme- tery 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 remem- ‘bered that this was poor tiny Jean's birthday!” she sald, and sobbed. “He came just after breakfast and asked me to go out there with him.” CHAPTER XIIL THE ROOM IN THE CUPOLA. Mr. Carewe returned, one warm May afternoon, by the six o'clock boat, which was sometimes a day late and sometimes a few hours early; the lat- ter contingency arising, as in the pres- ent instance, when the owner was aboard. Nelson drove him from the wharf to the bank, where he conferred briefly, in an undertone, with Eugene Madrillon; after which Eugene sent a note containing three words to Tap- pingham Marsh. Marsh tore up the note, and sauntered over to the club, where he found General Trumble and Jefferson Bareaud amicably discussing & pltcher of cherry bounce. “He hss come.” said Tappingham, pleased to find the pair the only occu- pants of the place. “He saw Madrillon, and there’s a session to-night.” “Praise the Lord!" exclaimed the stout general, rising to his feet. “r'1 see old Chenoweth at once. My fingers have the itch.” 3 “And mine, too,” said Bareaud. “I'a begun to think we'd never have a go with him again. “You must that Crailey comes. We want a full table. Drag him, it you can’t get him any other way.” “He won't need urging, id Jefter- son. “But hé cut us last time.” “He won’t cut to-night. What hour?” “Nine,” answered Tappingham. “It's to be a full sitting, remember.” - “Don’t fear for us,” laughed Trumble. “Nor for Crailey, Jefferson added. “After so lohg a vacation you couldn't keep him away If you chained him to the courthouse pillars; he‘d tear ‘em in twe!" “Here’s to our better lorlunel then! said the old soldlier, filling a glass for Tappingham; and, “Here’s to our bet- ter fortunes!" echoed the young men, pouring off the gentle liquor heartily. Having thds made libation to their par- ticular god, the trio separated. ' But Jefferson did not encounter the alacrity of acceptance he expected frem Crailey, when he found him, half an hour later, at the hotel bar. Indeed, at first Mr. Gray not only refused out- right to go, but seriously urged the same cqurse upon Jefferson; moreover, his remonstrance was offered in such evident good faith that Bareaud, in the act of swallowing one of his large doses of cuinine, paused with only half the powder down his throat, gazing, non- plusgd, at his prospectiye brother-in- law. ‘ immortal soul!” he gasped. “Is this! Crailey Gray? What's the trou- ble?? “Nothing,” replied Crailey, quietly. “Only don’t go, you've lost enough.” “Well, you're a beautiful one!” Jeffer- son exclaimed, with an incredulous laugh. “You're a master hand; you, to talk about losing enough!” “I know, I know,” Cralley began, shaking his head, “‘but—" “You've promised Fanchon never to go again, and you're afraid Miss Betty will see or hear us, and tell her you were there.” “I don’t know Miss Carewe.” “Then you needn’t fear; besides, she’'ll be out when we come, and asleep when we go. She will never know we've deen in the house.” “That has nothing to do with it,” sald Craliley, impatiently; and he was the more earnest because he remembered the dangerous geography of the Carewe house, which made it impossible for any one to leave the cupola-room except by the long hall which passed certain doors. “I will not go, and what's more, I promised Fanchon I'd try to keep you out of it hereafter.” “Lord, but we're virtuous!” the incredulous Jefferson. for you at a quarter to nine.” “I will not go, I tell you.” Jefterson roared. “Yes, you will. You couldn’t keep from it if you tried!"” And he took himself off, laughing violently, again promising to call for Cralley on his way to the tryst, and leaving him still warmly protesting that it would be a great folly for either of them to go. Crailey looked after the lad’s long, thin figure with an expression as near anger as he ever wore. “He'll go,” he said to himself. s “And—ah, well—T'll ‘have. to risk it! I'll go with him, but only to try and bring him away early—that is, as early as it's safe to be sure thatythey are asleep downstairs. And I won't play. No, I'll not play; I'll not play.” He paid his score and went out of the hotel by a side door. Some distance up the street, Bareaud was still to be seen, lounging homeward in the pleasant of- ternoon sunshine, he stopped on a cor- ner and serenely poured another qui- nine powder into himself and threw txn paper to a couple of pigs who looked from the gutter maliciously. “Confound him!” said Crailey, laugh- ing ruefully. “He makes me a mission- ary—for I'll keep my word to Fanchon in that, at least! I'll Iook after Jeffer- son to-night. Ah, I might as well be ughed 1 come - old Tom Vanrevel, indeed!” ' Meanwhile, Mr. Carewe had taken possession of his own again. His daughter ran to the door to meet him; she was trembling a little, and, blush- FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. 1, ‘F““ s -« ’ Wfl?[ nN )l Ly TooNG D 7.4 mf}fl# 05 ooy 7}7/ 2 AL ing and smiling, held out her hands to chim, so that Mrs. Tanberry vowed this was the loveliest . creature In the world, and the kindest. Mr. Carewe bowed slightly, as to an acquaintance, and disregarded the ex- tended hands. At that, the blush faded from Miss Betty's cheeks; she trembled no more, and a salutation as icy as her father's was returned to him. He bent his heavy brows upon her, and shot a black glance her way, being, of course, imme- diately enraged by her reflection of his own manner, but he did not speak to her. i Nor did he once address her during the evening meal, preferring to honor Mrs. Tanberry with his conversation, to that diplomatic lady's secret anger, but outward amusement. She cheerfully neglected to answer him at times, hav- ing not the slightest awe of him, and turned to the girl instead; indeed, she was only preyented from rating him soundly at his own table by the fear that she might make the situation more difficuit for her young charge. As soon as'it was possible, she made her escape with Miss Betty, and they drove away in the twilight to pay visits of duty, leaving Mr. Carewe frowning at his coffee on the veranda. ‘When they came home, three hours later, Miss Betty noticed that a fringe of illumination bordered each of the heavily curtained windows in the cupo- ‘ la, and she uttered an exclamation, for she had never known that room to be lighted. “Look!"” she cried, touching Mrs. Tan- berry’s arm, as the horses trotted through the gates under a drizzle of rain. “I thought the room in the cu- pola was empty. It's always locked, and when I came from St. Mary’s he told me that old furniture was stored there.” Mrs. Tanberry was grateful for the darkness. ‘“He may have gone there to read,” she answered, in a queer voice. “Let us go quietly to bed, child, so as not to disturb him.” Betty had as little desire to disturb her father as she had to see him; there- fore she obeyed her friend’'s injunction, and went tp her room on tiptoe. The house was very silent as she lit the candles on her bureau. Outside, the gentle drizzle and the soothing tinkle from the eaves were the only sounds; within, there was but the faint rustle of garments room. Presently the latter ceased to be heard, and a wooden moan of protest from the four-poster upon which the good lady reposed announced that she had drawn the curtains and wooed the rulers of Nod. Although it was one of those nights of which they say, “It is a good night to sleep,” Miss Betty was not drowsy. She had half unfastened one small sandal, but she tied the ribbons again, and seated herself by the open window. The ledge and casement framed a dim oblong of thin light from the candles behind her, a lonely luster, which crossed the veranda to melt shapelessly into darkness on the soggy lawn. She felt a melancholy in the softly falling rain and wet, black foliage that chimed with the sadness of her own spirit. The night suited her very well, for her father's coming had brought a weight of depression -with it. Why could he not have spoken one word to her, even a cross one? She knew that he did not love her, yet, merely as a fellow-being, she was entitled to a measure of cour- tesy: and the fact that she was his daughter eould not excuse his fallure to render it. Was she to continus to from Mrs. Tanberry’s’ live with him on their present terms? She had no intention to make another effort to alter them; but to remain as they were would be intolerable, and Mrs. Tanberry could not stay forever, to act as a buffer between her and her father. Peering out into the dismal night, she found her own future as black. and it seemed no wonder that the sisters loyed the convent life; that the pale nuns forscok the world wherein there was so much useless unkindness; where women were petty and jealods, like that cowardly Fanchon, and men who looked great wers tricksters, like Fanchon's betrothed. Miss Betty clenched her delicate fingers. She would not remember that - white, startled face again! Another face helped hec to shut out the recollection; that of the man who had come to mass to meet her yester- day morning, and with whom she had taken a long walk afterward. He had shown her a quaint old English gar- dener who lived on the bank of the river, had bought her a bouquet, and she had helped him to select another to send to a sick friend. How beautiful the flowers were, and how happy he had made the morning for her, with his gayety, his lightness, and his odd wis- dom! Was. it only yesterday? Her father’s coming had made yesterday a fortnight old. But the continuously pattering rain and the soft drip-drop from the roof. though as mournful as she chose to find them, began, afterwhile, to weave their somnolent spells, and she slowly drifted from reveries of unhappy sorts, into half-dreams, in which she was still aware she was awake; yet slumber, heavy-eyed, stirring from the curtains beside her with the small night breeze, breathed strange distortions upon fa- miliay things, and drowsy impossibil- ities moved upon the surface of her thoughts. Her chin, resting upen her hand, sank gently, until her head al- most lay upon her relaxed arms. “That is mine, Crailey Gray!” Bhe sprapg to her feet, immeasurably startled, one hand clutching the back of her chair, the other tremulously pressed to her cheek, convinced that her father had stooped over her and sh~uted the sentence in her ear. For it was his voice, and the house rang with the words; all the rooms, halls, apd even the walls, seemed still mur- murous with the sudden sound, like the tingling of a bell after it has been struck. And yet—everything was quiet. She pressed her fingers to her fore- head, trying to untangle the maze of dreams which had evolved this shock for her, the sudden clamor in her father’s voice of a name she hated and hoped never to hear again, a name she was trying to forget. But as she was unable to trace anything which had led to it, there remained ‘only the conclu- sion that her nerves were not what they should be. The vapors having be- come obsolete for young ladies as an ex- planation for all unpleasant sensations, they were instructed to have “nerves.” This was Miss Betty’s first conscious- ness of her own, and, desiring no great- er acquaintance with them, she told herself it was unwholesome to fall “asleep in a chair by an open window when the night was as sad as she. Turning to a chair in front of the small oval mirror of her bureau, she unclasped the brooch which held her lace collar, and, seating herself, began to unfasten her hair. Suddenly she paused, her uplifted arms falling me- chanically to her sides. Some one was coming through thelong hall with a soft:; almost inaudible step, a step which was not her father’s. She knew at once, with instinctive certain- ty, that it was not he. T was it Nel- son, who would have shuffled; nor could it be the vain Mamie, nor one of the other servants, for they did not sleep In the house. It was a step mors like a woman’s, though certalnly It was not Mrs. Tanberry's. Betty rose, took a candle, and stood silent for a moment, the heavy tresses of her halr, half unloosed, falling upon her neck and left shoulder like the folds of a dark drapery. At the slight rustle of her rising. the steps ceased instantly. Her heart set up a wild beating and the candle shool in her hand. But she was brave and young, and, following an irresistible im- pulse, she ran across the room, fung open the door, and threw the light of the candle into the hall, holding I8 as arm'’s length before her. She came almost face te face with Cralley Gray. The blood went from his cheesks a® & swallow flies down from a roef] he started back against the opposite wall with a stifled groan, while she stared at him blankly, and grew as Mb, pale as he. He was a man of.nu-m_h all emergencies which required a gquick tongue, but, for the moment, this was beyond him. He feit himuself lost, top- pling backward into an abyss, and the uselessness of his destruction mads Rimx physically sick. For he need not have been there; he had not wished to somaey he had well counted the danger to him- self, and this one time In his life had gone to the cupela-reom out of goed- nature. But Bareaud had been obsti- nate and Crailey had come away alene, hoping that Jefferson might follew. And here he was, poor trapped rat, con- victed and ruined because of a good ac- tion! At last he knew consistency to be & jewel, and that a greedy boy should never give a crust; that & fool should stick to his folly, a yillain te his deviltry, and each held his own; for the man who thrusts & good deed into a life of lies is wound about with peril- ous passes, and in his devious ways a thousand unexpected damnations spring. Beaten, stunned, hang-jawed with despalr, he returned her long, dum- founded gaze hopelessly and told the truth like an inspired dunce. “I came—I came—to bring another man away,” he whispered brokenly; and, at the very moment several heavy, half-suppressed voices broke into eager talk overhead. The white hand that held the candle wavered and the shadows glided In a huge, grotesque dance. Twice she es- sayed to speak before she could do so, at the same moment metioning him back, for he had made & vague gesturs toward her. “I am not faint. from up there?” cupola stairs. “Yes.” “Have—have you seen my father?" The question came out of such a depth of incredulousness that it was more an articulation of the lips thaa a sound, but he caught it; and, with it, not hope, but the shadow of a shadow of hope, a hand waving from the far shore to the swimmer who has been down twice. Did she-fear for his sake? “No; 1 have not seen him.” He was groping blindly. :‘zou did not come from that room?™ 0. “How did you enter the house?™ The draught through the hall was Do you mean, away She pointed to - the