The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 21, 1904, Page 3

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. c If Miss Betty £ 3 h weeping for, - 1 little the Chen- ng of 1 Mr 1 almost arehouse ty made merry and ad t of them as Marsh sa Chenoweth s0 that as he v he looked li Carewe Street To Miss Carewe,” he said “the finest flower of them all! May she remember those who never come home!" And without pausing he lifted his rich barytone in an old song that had been vastly popular with the young men of Rouen ever since the night of Miss Bet- t¥'s d=but; they had b red it as they went about their dally 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 Van- revel and sang it again. And the eyes of Crailey Gray rested very gently upon his best friend as they sang: “Beliove me, If all those endearing young charms Whieh 1 gaze on so fondly to-day, ge by to-morrow and fleet from tading away, Il be adored as t 1t will, ench wish of my And aro: Would lantly st CHAPTER XVIL THE PRICE OF SILENCE. It w the misfortune of Mr. C - mings’ final literary offering to annoy one of the editor’s friends. The Jour- nal was brought to the new corporal at noon, wh he was con whether he should rise from h or sleep another hour. Reclining among liows, he glanced through Cum- description with the subdued giggle he always had for the good W liam's style, but as his eye fell upon h he started, sat upright, and procetded to read the passage sev- with anxjous attention. the delight (in which y g and participated) of that festal 2nd dazzling scene. One was the absence of Miss Fanchon Bareaud, one of the donors; another, that of Corporal Gray; a third was the exces- give mod f Major Vanrevel, who, the time, refused ies’ sumptuous offer- that Captain Marsh er person to do the hon- latter reluctantly, y, consented. Also we nt ugh pres were SOTTY the Major appeared n cit 's dress, 2s all were anxious to wit him in his uniform. How- ever, in our humble judgment, he will be compebled by etiquette to don it this afternoon to receive the officers of the regular army, who will arrive by the stage about § o'clock, it is expected, to inspect the company and swear them into the service of the Federal Govern- ment at the courthouse. We, for one, have little doubt that, owing to the Major's well known telent in matters of apperel, his appearance will far eclipse in brilllancy that of his fellow oflicers.” Crailey dressed slowly, returning to the paper now and then with a per- turbed countenance. How would Miss Betty explain this paragraph to her- nt for the fact that ailey, how for the had seen Tom? It s at she could have ove whom wher And ies would she m For ad no means of knowing that ; Tom was one of thos er he we ld not see the Journal. To- morrow he would be gon it would be all over, but he wanted this last ) run smoothly. What wild hopes ad of things that should happen when they all came marching home no one can say; even if it were not to be doubted that Crailey ever enter- tained hopes of any kind whatever, since to hope is to bestow thought upon the f e But, however affairs ran with him so far as hope was concerned, he sel- n lacked an idea; and one came to him presently, a notion that put the frown to rout and brought, the old smile to his s, his smile of the world-worn and tolerant prelate. He flicked the pay lightly from him, and it sped across the roem like a big bird in awk- ward fii he knew how to pre- 7 as he wished and to a vase on aced it in his coat, and went dusty where warm and bright with y to be alive; there in the air, and made up his mind not to take k that day—the last d The The three words kept ring- ough his head like a‘ minor se from a song. To-morrow, at they would be churning down the river, and this was the last day— the last day! last ing. tk 10t too late to make another “stil friend at home,” he s stopping to pat the head of a man street cur that came crouching and wobbling toward bam like a staveless little keg worried by scurries of wind. Dogs and children always fell in love with Crailey at first sight, and he never failed to' receive them in the spirit of their approach. Now the mongrel, at his touch, immediately turned himself over and lay upon the pavement with all paws in the air, to say: “Great lord, magnificent in the graciousness which deigns to cast a glimpse upon this abject cluster of ribs, I perceive that your heart is too gentle to kick me in my present helplessness; yet do with me as you will."” “I doubt if you've breakfasted, brother,” Crailey responded aloud, rubbing the dog’s head softly with the p of his boot. “Will you share the meager fare of one who is a poet, should be a lawyer, but is about to be- come a soldier? Eh, but a corporal! Rise, my friend. Up! and be in your own small self a whole corporal's guard! And if your corporal doesn't come home from the wars, perhaps you’'ll remember him kindly? Think?” He made a vivacious gesture, the small enimal sprang into the air, con- voluted with gratitude and new love, while Crailey, laughing softly, led the way to the hotel. There, while he ate sparsely himself, he provided munifi- cently for his new acquaintance, and recommended him, with an acompani- ment of silver, to the good offices of the Rouen House kitchen. After that, out into the sunshine again he went, with elastic step, and a merry word CHOW NI HOURS DOES T T DOCToR o4 ? At he bought arried them English gardene e bouquets a four or f 1 on a round of visits of fare: well to as many old ladies who had been kind to hi This done, leaving his laughter and his flowers behind him, he went to Fan- chon and spent part of the afternoon bringing forth cunning arguments chee , to prove to her that General Taylor would be in the Mexican capi- tal before the volunteers reached New Orleans, and urging upon her his be- lief that they would all be back in Rouen before the summer wus gone. But Ifanchon could only sob and whisper, “Hush, hush!” in the dim room where they sat, the windows darkened so that, after he 1d not remember how and the purple depths un- 18 forget how pretty her : the mor he sho eyes were at der ther she had beer time, finding to cheer wept, he gre best. that e he the brokenily she ilent, only stroking her head, while sun sounds came in through t window; the mill whir of locusts, the small monotone of dis- tant farm bells, the laughter of chil- ra ied er dren in the street, and the g arias of a mocking bird swinging in the open window of the next house. So ¢ sat together through the long, il afternoon of the last da No one in Rouen found that after- n particularly enlivening. Even Mrs. Tan y gave way to the com- mon depression, and, once more, her doctr of cheerfulness relegated to the ghostly ranks of the purely theo- retical, she bowed under the burden of her woe so far as to sing “Me- thought I Met a Damsel Fair” (her of the bursting sighs) at the piano. Whenever sadness lay upon her soul she had acquired the habit of resort- ing to this unhappy ballad; to-day she sang it four times. Mr. Carewe was not at home, and had announced that though he intended to honor the even- ing meal with his attendance, he should be away for the evening itself; as commeht upon which statement Mrs. Tanberry had offered ambiguous- ly the one word, “Amen!” He was stung to no reply and she had noted the circumstances as unusual, and also that he had appeared to labor with the suppression of a keen excitement, which made him anxious to escape from her sharp little eves; an agitation for which she easily accounted when she recalled that he had seen Vanrevel on the previous evening. Mr. Carewe had kept his promise to preserve the peace, as he always kept it when the two met on meutral ground, but she had ob- served that his face showed a kind of hard-leashed violence whenever he had been forced to breathe the air of the same room with his enemy, .and that the thing grew on him. Miss Betty exhibited not precisely a burning interest In the adventure of the Damsel Falr, wandering out of the room during the second rendition, wan- dering back agailn, and once more away. She had moved about the house in this fashion since early morning, wearing what Mamie described as a “peak-ed look.” White-faced and rest- less, with distressed eyes, to which no sleep had come in the night, she could not read; she could no more than touch her harp; she could not sleep; she could not remain gquiet for three Often she sank into air languor and to start immediately minutes tczeth & chair with wearines an only out of it and sesk some other part of the house, or to go and pace the gar- re in the air heavy with-roses ulous with June, as she walked up and down, lat the after- ncon, at the time when the far-away farm-bells were calling men from the fields t¢ supper, the climax of her rest- les ceme. That anguish and des- peration, so oid in her sex, the rebellion against the law that inaction must be her part, had failen upon her for the first time. She came to an abrupt stop and strucl or hands together de- spalringly, and spoke aloud. “What shall I do! What shall T do!” Ma'am?” asked a surprised voice, behind her. She wheeled quickly about, to behold a shock-headed urchin of ten in the path necar the little clearing. He was ragged, tanned, dusty, neither shoes nor coat trammeling his independence; and fie had evidently entered the gar- den through the gap in the hedge. “I theught you spoke to me?” he said inquiring “I didn’t see “What is it you,” she returned. ew Le asked; but answer he said reas- of course you are! I remember ycu verfectly, ne.- I git the light on you, so to speak. Don't you remember me?” Vo, I don’t think I do. Lord!” he responded, wonderingly. “1 was one of the boys with you on them boxes the night of your jpa's fire!” Mingled with the surprise in his tone was a respectful unction which intimated how greatly he hcnored her father for having been the owner of so satisfactory a confiagration, “Were you? Perhaps I'll remember you if you give me time.” But at this point the youth recalled fact that he had an errand to dis- , and, assuming an expression of businesslike haste’tvo pressing to per- mit farther parley, sought in his pocket and produced a sealed envelope, with which he advanced upon her. “Here. There's an answer. He told me not to tell anybody who sent it, and not to give it to nobody on earth but you, and How to slip jn through the hedge and try and find you in the gar- den when nobody was lookin’, and he give a pencil for you to answer on the back of it, and a dollar.” Miss Betty tcok the note, glancing once over her shoulder at the house, but Mrs. Tanberry was still occupled with the Maiden, and no one was in sight. She read the message hastily, “I have obeyed you, and shall al- ways. You have not sent for me. Per- haps that was because there was no time when you thought it safe. Per- haps you have still felt there would be a loss of dignity. you can, that you have it in your heart 10 let me go without seeing you once more, time. without good-by—for the 1last Or was it untrue that you wrote me what you did? Was that dear let- ter but a fairy dream of mine? Ah, will ‘'you see me again, this once—this once—let me look at you, let me talk with you, hear your/voi The last was no signature. Miss Betty quickly wrote four lines upon the same sheet: “Yes—yes! I must see you, must talk with you be- fore u go. Come at dusk. The gar- den—near the gap in the hedge. It will be safe for a little while. He will not be here.” She replaced the paper in its envelope, drew a line through her own name on the letter and wrote “Mr. Van- revel” underneath. _ “Do you know the gentleman who sent you?” she asked. “No'm; but he'll be waitin’ at his office, ‘Gray -and Vanrevel,” on Main street, for the answer.” “Then hur said Betty. He eeded bidding, with w through the gap in the hedge. second but. no ngs ¢n his bare heels, made off At the corner of the street he encountered an adventure, a gentleman's legs and a heavy. hand at the same time. The hand fell on his shoulder, arresting his scamper with a vicious jerk; and the boy was too awed to attempt an escape, for he knew his captor well by sight, although never ‘before had he found himself go directly in the company of Rouen's richest citizen. The note dropped from the trembling fingers, yet those fingers did not shake as did the man's when, like a flash, Carewe seized upon the missive with his disengaged hand and saw what two names were on the envelope. “You were stealing, were you!” he cried, savagely. “I saw you sneak through my hedge!" “I didn't, either!” Mr. Carewe ground his teeth. were you doing there?” “Nothing!” “Nothing!” mocked Carewe. ‘“Noth- ing! You didn’t carry this to the young lndy')n there and get her answer?” “No, sir!” answered the captive, earnestly. ‘“Cross my heart I didn’t. I found it!” Slowly the corrugations of anger were leveled from the magnate’s face, the white heat cooled, and the prisoner marveled to find himself In the pres- ence of an urbane gentleman whose placidity made the scene of a moment ago appear some trick of distorted vis- ion. And yet, curious to behold, Mr. Carewe’s fingers shook even more vio- lently than befcre, as he released the boy’s shoudder and gave him a friendly tap on the head, at the same time smiling benevolently. “There, there,” he said, bestowing a wink upon the youngster. “It's all right; it doesn’t matter—only I think I see the chance of a jest in this. ' You wait, while I read this little note, this message that you found!” He ended by winking again with the friendliest drollery. “What He turned his back to the boy, and opened the note; continuing to stand in that position while he read the two messages. It struck the messenger that after this there need be no great shame in his own lack of this much- vaunted art of reading, since it took so famous a man as Mr. Carewe such a length of time to peruse a little note. But perhaps the great gentleman was {1, for it appeared to the boy that he lurched several times, once so far that he would have gone over if he had not saved himself by a lucky stagger. And once, except for the fact that the face that had turned away had worn an ex- pression of such genial humor, the boy would have believed that from it issued a sound like the gnashing of teeth. But when it was turned to him again, it bore the same amiable joccsity of mouth and eye, and nothing seemed to be the matter, cxcept that those fin- gers still sheok so wildly, teo wildly, indeed, to restore the note to its en- velope. “There,” said Mr. Carewe, “put it back, laddie, put it back yourself. Take it to the gentleman who sent you. I see he's even disguised his hand a fle—ha! ha!—and I suppose he may not have expected the young lady to write ¥ name quite so boldly on the envelope! What do you suppose?” “I d'know,” returned the boy. reckon I don’t hardly understand.” “No, of course not,” said Mr, Carewe, laughing rather madly. “Ha, ha, ha! Of course you wouldn't. And how my did he give you?” “Yay!" cried the other, joyously. “Didn’t he go and hand me a dollar!” “How much will you take mot to tell him that I stopped you and read it; how much not to speak of me at all?” “What?" “It's a_foolish kind of joke, nothing more. I'll give you five dollars never to tell any one that you saw me to- day.” “Don’t shoot, Colonel,” exclaimed the youth, with a rictous fling of bare feet in the air, “I'll come down!" “You'll do it?” “Five!” he shouted, dancing upon the boards. “Five! TNl cross my heart to die I never hear tell of you, or ever knew they was sich a man in the world!” Carewe bent over him. “No! Say: ‘God strike me dead and condemn me eternally to the everlasting flames of hell if I ever tell’”” This entailed quick sobriety, though only benevolence was in the face above bim. The jig-step stopped, and the boy pondered, frightened. “Have I got to say that?” Mr. Carewe produced a bank-bill about which the boy beheld a halo. Clearly this was his day; heaven showed its approval of his conduct by an outpouring of imperishable riches. And yet the oath misliked him; there was a savor of the demoniacal contract; still that was to be borne and ‘the plunge taken, for there fluttered the huge sum before his dazzled eyes. He took a deep breath. “ ‘God strike me dead’ ” — he began, slowly — “ ‘it I ever “No. ‘And condemn me to the ever- lasting flames of hell'—" “Have I got to?” “Yes.” —**‘And condemn me to—to the ever- lasting flames of—of hell, if I ever L SRR He ran off, pale with the fear that he might grow up, take to drink and some day tell in his cups, but so resolved not to coquet with temptation that he went around a block to avoid the door of the Rouen House bar. Nevertheless, the note was in his hand and the for- tune in his pocket. And Mr. Carewe was safe. He knew that the boy would never tell, and he knew another thing, for he read the Journal, though it came no more to his house; he knew that Tom Vanrevel ‘wore his uniform that evening, and that even in the dusk the brass buttons on b ¢ officer’s breast make a good mark lor a gun steadied along the ledge of a window. As he entered the gates and went toward the house he glanced up at the window which overiooked his garden from the cupola. CHAPTER XVIIL THE UNIFORM. Crailey was not the only man In Rouen who had been saying to himself all day that each accustomed thing he did was done for the last time. Many of his comrades went about with “Farewell, old friend,” in their hearts, not only for the people. but for the usual things of Mfe and the actions of habit, now become unexpectedly dear and sweet to know or to perform. So Tom Vanrevel, relieved of his hot uni- form, loose as to lar, wearing a big dressing-gown, and stretched in & chair, watched the sunset from the western window of the dusty office, where he had dreamed through many sunsets in su s past, and now took his leave of t silence, with a the chances seeing the = wooden br street again The ruins of removed. an to his banks like a ri wharf, the ugly and grim near by, lay p old habit of his In loag cigar, considering against his ever n behind the long the foot of Main he warehouses had been river was laid clear n between ' brown r of rubies, and, at the ening steamboat, h to behold from and lovely in that® bread glow, tc ; imminent depar- ture, although an hour might elapse before it would back into the curren The sun wider clung briefly to the horizon, and opped béhind the low hills beyond t bottom lands; the stream grew purple, then tock qn a as the stars came out. hanged to misty e s In the 2 1e quieter, and ng litth choruses of gradually into silence. And nc dusk crept on the town, and the corner drugstore window lights mottied colars on the pavemen m the hall, outside the closed c¢ffice-door, came the sound of quic! light footsteps; it was Cralley going out; bt only sighed to him- self, and did So these light footsteps of echoed but a moment in stairway, and were heard no more. A few moments /later a tall figure, wrapped from neck to heels In a gray cloak. rapidly crossed the mottled lights, and 4 peared Inte Carewe street. This cloaked person wore on his head a sc r's cap, and Tom, not reco, ng him surely, vaguely won- dered why Tappingham Marsh chose to muffle himself so warmly on & June evening. He noted the quick, aler tread as un Marsh's unusual gait, but no suspicion crossed his mind that the figure might be that of his partner. A rocket went up from the Rouen House, then I followed by « salvo of anvils and a rackety dfscharge of small arms; the beginning of a no- ble display of fireworks in celebration of the prospective victories of the United States and the utter discomfit- ure of the Mexicans when the Rouen Volunteers should reach the seat of war, an exhibition of patriotism which brought little pleasure to Mr. Vanrevel. But over the noise of the street he heard his own name shouted from the stalrway, and almost instantly a vio« lent knocking assailed the door. Be= fore he could bid the visitor enter, the door was flung open by a stout and ex- cited colored woman, who, at sight of him, threw up her hands in tremulous thanksgiving. It was the vain Mamle. She sank into a chalr and rocked herself to and fro, gasping to regain her ‘lost breath. “Bless de good God 'Imighty you ain’ gone out!” she panted. “Irun an’I run, an’ I come so fas’ I got stitches in de side f'um head to heell” Tom brought her a glass of watsrs, which she drank between gasps. “I nevah run so befo’ duin’ my livin® days,” she asserted. “You knows me, who T am an’ whum I cum f'um. nigh's well’s I know who you is ¥ reckon, Maje’ Vanrevel?"” “Yes, yes, I know. WIill you tell me who sent you?” “Miz Tanberry, suh, dat who sended me, an’ in a venomous hurry she done de same!™ “Yes. Why? Does she want me?* Mamie emitted a screach. “ 'Deed she mos’ everlas'in’ly does mot! Dat de ve'y exackindes’ livin’ t'ing she does not want!” “Then what is it, Mamie?” “Lemme git my bref, suh, an’ you hole yo'ne whiles I tell you! She say to me, she say: ‘Is you ’quainted Maje’ Vanrevel?” s’ she, an’ I upn’ ansuh, ‘Not to speak wid, but dey ain® none on 'em I don’ knows by sight, an’ none betterer dan him,’ I say. Den she say, she say: ‘You run all de way an’ fin’ dat young man,” she says, s" she, ‘an’ if you den” git dah fo' he leave, er don’ stop him on de way, den God "Imighty fergive you!’ she say. ‘But you tell him f'um Jane Tanberry not to come nigh dis house or dis gyahden dis night! Tell him dat Jane Tanberry warn him he mus’ keep outer Carewe's way ontel he safe on de boat to-mor- rer. Tell him Jane Tanberry beg him to stay in he room dis night, an’ dat she beg it on her bented knees!” An’" dis she say to me when I tole her what Nelson see in dat house dis evenin’. An’ hyuh I is, an’ hyuh you is, an’ de blessed Jesus be thank’, you is hyuh!” Tom regarded her with a grave atten- tion. “What made Mrs. Tanberry think I might be coming there to-night?” “Dey’s cur’ous goin’s-om in dat house, De young lady she aln’ liké her- down an’ roun’ about. are a mighty guessifying woman, an de minute ¥ tell her what Neise see, she s'pec’ you a-comin’ an’ dat de boss mos’ pintedly preparin’ fo* it!” “Can you make it a little clearer for me, Mamie? I'm afraid T don't under- stand.” “Well, suh, you know dat ole man Nelson, he allays tell me ev'yt'ing he think he know, jass de same, suh. An’ dat ole Neise, he mos’ "sessful cull'd man in de worl’ to crope roun’ de house an’ pick up de gossip an’ git de fo’ an* behine er what’s goin’ on. So 'twas dag he see de boss, when he come in to’des evenin’, tek dat heavy musket offn’ da racks ap’ load an’ clean her, an’ he dg