It is perfectly truthful to say that the violin and flute executed the prelude, and then the trio sounded full on the evening air, the more effective chords obligingly drawn out as long as the breath in the singers could hold them, in order to allow the two fair auditors complete benefit of the harmony. They sang “The Harp that Once Thro’ Tara’s Halls,” and followed it with “Long, Long Ago.”
“That,” Mrs. Tanberry whispered, between stifled gusts of almost uncontrollable laughter, “is meant for just me!”
“Tell me the tales that to me were so dear,” entreated the trio.
“I told ’em plenty!” gurgled the enlivening widow. “And I expect between us we can get up some more.” “Now you are come my grief is removed,” they sang.
“They mean your father is on his way to St. Louis,” remarked Mrs. Tanberry.
“Let me forget that so long you have roved, Let me believe that you love as you loved, Long, long ago, long ago.”
“Applaud, applaud!” whispered Mrs. Tanberry, encouraging the minstrels by a hearty clapping of hands.
Hereupon dissension arose among the quintet, evidently a dispute in regard to their next selection; one of the gentlemen appearing more than merely to suggest a solo by himself, while the others too frankly expressed adverse opinions upon the value of the offering. The argument became heated, and in spite of many a “Sh!” and “Not so loud!” the ill-suppressed voice of the intending soloist, Mr. Chenoweth, could be heard vehemently to exclaim: “I will! I learned it especially for this occasion. I will sing it!”
His determination, patently, was not to be balked without physical
encounter, consequently he was permitted to advance some paces from the
lilac bushes, where he delivered himself, in an earnest and plaintive
tenor, of the following morbid instructions, to which the violin played
an obligato in tremulo, so execrable, and so excruciatingly discordant,
that Mr. Chenoweth’s subsequent charge that it was done with a
deliberately evil intention could never be successfully opposed:
“Go! Forget me!
Why should Sorrow
O’er that brow a shadow fling?
Go! Forget me, and, to-morrow,
Brightly smile and sweetly sing!
“Smile! tho’ I may not be near thee;
Smile! tho’ I may never see thee;
May thy soul with pleasure shine
Lasting as this gloom of mine!”
Miss Carewe complied at once with the request; while her companion, unable to stop with the slight expression of pleasure demanded by the songster, threw herself upon a sofa and gave way to the mirth that consumed her.
Then the candles were relit, the serenaders invited within; Nelson came bearing cake and wine, and the house was made merry. Presently, the romp, Virginia Bareaud, making her appearance on the arm of General Trumble, Mrs. Tanberry led them all in a hearty game of Blind-man’s Buff, followed by as hearty a dancing of Dan Tucker. After that, a quadrille being proposed, Mrs. Tanberry suggested that Jefferson should run home and bring Fanchon for the fourth lady. However, Virginia explained that she had endeavored to persuade both her sister and Mr. Gray to accompany the General and herself, but that Mr. Gray had complained of indisposition, having suffered greatly from headache, on account of inhaling so much smoke at the warehouse fire; and, of course, Fanchon would not leave him. (Miss Carewe permitted herself the slightest shrug of the shoulders.)
So they danced the quadrille with Jefferson at the piano and Mr. Marsh performing in the character of a lady, a proceeding most unacceptable to the General, whom Mrs. Tanberry forced to be his partner. And thus the evening passed gayly away, and but too quickly, to join the ghosts of all the other evenings since time began; and each of the little company had added a cheerful sprite to the long rows of those varied shades that the after years bring to revisit us, so many with pathetic reproach, so many bearing a tragic burden of faces that we cannot make even to weep again, and so few with simple merriment and lightheartedness. Tappingham Marsh spoke the truth, indeed, when he exclaimed in parting, “O rare Mrs. Tanberry!”
But the house had not done with serenades that night. The guests had long since departed; the windows were still and dark under the wan old moon, which had risen lamely, looking unfamiliar and not half itself; the air bore an odor of lateness, and nothing moved; when a delicate harmony stole out of the shadows beyond the misty garden. Low but resonant chords sounded on the heavier strings of a guitar, while above them, upon the lighter wires, rippled a slender, tinkling melody that wooed the slumberer to a delicious half-wakefulness, as dreamily, as tenderly, as the croon of rain on the roof soothes a child to sleep. Under the artist’s cunning touch the instrument was both the accompaniment and the song; and Miss Betty, at first taking the music to be a wandering thread in the fabric of her own bright dreams, drifted gradually to consciousness to find herself smiling. Her eyes opened wide, but half closed again with the ineffable sweetness of the sound.
Then a voice was heard, eerily low, yet gallant and clear, a vibrant baritone, singing to the guitar.
“My lady’s hair, That dark delight, Is both as fair And dusk as night. I know some lovelorn hearts that beat In time to moonbeam twinklings fleet, That dance and glance like jewels there, Emblazoning the raven hair!
“Ah, raven hair! So dark and bright, What loves lie there Enmeshed, to-night? I know some sighing lads that say Their hearts were snared and torn away; And now as pearls one fate they share, Entangled in the raven hair.
“Ah, raven hair, From such a plight Could you not spare One acolyte? I know a broken heart that went To serve you but as ornament. Alas! a ruby now you wear, Ensanguining the raven hair!”
The song had grown fainter and fainter, the singer moving away as he sang, and the last lines were almost inaudible in the distance The guitar could be heard for a moment or two more, then silence came again. It was broken by a rustling in the room next to Miss Betty’s, and Mrs. Tanberry called softly through the open door:
“Princess, are you awake? Did you hear that serenade?”
After a pause the answer came hesitatingly in a small, faltering voice: “Yes — if it was one. I thought perhaps he was only singing as he passed along the street.”
“Aha!” ejaculated Mrs. Tanberry, abruptly, as though she had made an unexpected discovery. “You knew better; and this was a serenade that you did not laugh at. Beautiful, I wouldn’t let it go any farther, even while your father is gone. Something might occur that would bring him home without warning — such things have happened. Tom Vanrevel ought to be kept far away from this house.”
“Oh, it was not he,” returned Miss Betty, quickly. “It was Mr. Gray. Didn’t you—”
“My dear,” interrupted the other, “Crailey Gray’s specialty is talking. Most of the vagabonds can sing and play a bit, and so can Crailey, particularly when he’s had a few bowls of punch; but when Tom Vanrevel touches the guitar and lifts up his voice to sing, there isn’t an angel in heaven that wouldn’t quit the place and come to hear him! Crailey wrote those words to Virginia Bareaud. (Her hair is even darker than yours, you know.) That was when he was being engaged to her; and Tom must have set the music to ’em lately, and now comes here to sing ’em to you; and well enough they fit you! But you must keep him away, Princess.”
Nevertheless, Betty knew the voice was not that which had bid her look to the stars, and she remained convinced that it belonged to Mr. Crailey Gray, who had been too ill, a few hours earlier, to leave the Bareaud house, and now, with Fanchon’s kisses on his lips, came stealing into her garden and sang to her a song he had made for another girl!
And the angels would leave heaven to listen when he sang, would they? Poor Fanchon! No wonder she held him so tightly in leading strings! He might risk his life all he wished at the end of a grappling-ladder, dangling in a fiery cloud above nothing; but when it came to — ah, well, poor Fanchon! Did she
invent the headaches for him, or did she make him invent them for himself?
If there was one person in the world whom Miss Betty held in bitter contempt and scorn, it was the owner of that voice and that guitar.
CHAPTER X. Echoes of a Serenade
MORE THAN THREE gentlemen of Rouen wore their hearts in their eyes for any fool to gaze upon; but three was the number of those who told their love before the end of the first week of Mr. Carewe’s absence, and told it in spite of Mrs. Tanberry’s utmost effort to preserve, at all times, a conjunction between herself and Miss Betty. For the good lady, foreseeing these declarations much more surely than did the subject of them, wished to spare her lovely charge the pain of listening to them.
Miss Carewe honored each of the lorn three with few minutes of gravity; but the gentle refusal prevented never a swain from being as truly her follower as before; not that she resorted to the poor device of half-dismissal, the every-day method of the school-girl flirt, who thus keeps the lads in dalliance, but because, even for the rejected, it was a delight to be near her. For that matter, it is said that no one ever had enough of the mere looking at her. Also, her talk was enlivening even to the lively, being spiced with surprising turns and amiably seasoned with the art of badinage. To use the phrase of the time, she possessed the accomplishments, an antiquated charm now on the point of disappearing, so carefully has it been snubbed under whenever exhibited. The pursuing wraith of the young, it comes to sit, a ghost at every banquet, driving the flower of our youth to unheard-of exertions in search of escape, to dubious diplomacy, to dismal inaction, or to wine; yet time was when they set their hearts on “the accomplishments.”
Miss Betty Carewe at her harp, ah! it was a dainty picture: the clear profile, with the dark hair low across the temple, silhouetted duskily, in the cool, shadowy room, against the open window; the slender figure, one arm curving between you and the strings, the other gleaming behind them; the delicate little sandal stealing from the white froth of silk and lace to caress the pedal; the nimble hands fluttering across the long strands, “Like white blossoms borne on slanting lines of rain;” and the great gold harp rising to catch a javelin of sunshine that pierced the vines at the window where the honeysuckles swung their skirts to the refrain — it was a picture to return many a long year afterward, and thrill the reveries of old men who were then young. And, following the light cascading ripples of the harp, when her low contralto lifted in one of the “old songs,” she often turned inquiringly to see if the listener liked the music, and her brilliant, dark eyes would rest on his with an appeal that blinded his entranced soul. She meant it for the mere indication of a friendly wish to suit his tastes, but it looked like the divine humility of love. Nobody wondered that General Trumble should fall to verse-making in his old age.
She sketched magnificently. This is the very strongest support for the assertion: Frank Chenoweth and Tappingham Marsh agreed, with tears of enthusiasm, that “magnificently” was the only word. They came to this conclusion as they sat together at the end of a long dinner (at which very little had been eaten) after a day’s picnic by the river. Miss Carewe had been of their company, and Tappingham and Chenoweth found each his opportunity in the afternoon. The party was small, and no one had been able to effect a total unconsciousness of the maneuvers of the two gentle-men. Even Fanchon Bareaud comprehended languidly, though she was more blurred than ever, and her far-away eyes belied the mechanical vivacity of her manner, for Crailey was thirty miles down the river, with a fishing-rod neatly packed in a leather case.
Mr. Vanrevel, of course, was not invited; no one would have thought of asking him to join a small party of which Robert Carewe’s daughter was to be a member. But it was happiness enough for Tom, that night, to lie hidden in the shrubbery, looking up at the stars between the leaves, while he listened to her harp, and borne through the open window on enchanted airs, the voice of Elizabeth Carewe singing “Robin Adair.”
It was now that the town indulged its liveliest spirit; never an evening lacked its junketing, while the happy folk of Rouen set the early summer to music. Serenade, dance, and song for them, the light-hearts, young and old making gay together! It was all laughter, either in sunshine or by candlelight, undisturbed by the far thunder below the southern horizon, where Zachary Taylor had pitched his tent, upon the Rio Grande.
One fair evening, soon after that excursion which had proved fatal to the hopes of the handsome Tappingham and of the youthful Chenoweth, it was the privilege of Mr. Thomas Vanrevel to assist Miss Carewe and her chaperon from their carriage, as they drove up to a dance at the Bareauds’. This good fortune fell only to great deserving, for he had spent an hour lurking outside the house in the hope of performing such offices for them.
Heaven was in his soul and the breath departed out of his body, when, after a moment of hesitation, Miss Betty’s little lace-gauntleted glove was placed in his hand, and her white slipper shimmered out from the lilac flounces of her dress to fall like a benediction, he thought, on each of the carriage-steps.
It was the age of garlands; they wreathed the Muses, the Seasons, and their speech, so the women wore wreaths in their hair, and Miss Betty’s that night was of marguerites. “Read your fortune in them all,” whispered Tom’s heart, “and of whomsoever you wish to learn, every petal will say ‘He loves you; none declare, He loves you not!’”
She bowed slightly, but did not speak to him, which was perhaps a better reception than that accorded the young man by her companion. “Oh, it’s you, is it!” was Mrs. Tanberry’s courteous observation as she canted the vehicle in her descent. She looked sharply at Miss Betty, and even the small glow of the carriage-lamps showed that the girl’s cheeks had flushed very red. Mr. Vanrevel, on the contrary, was pale.
They stood for a moment in awkward silence, while, from the lighted house where the flying figures circled, came the waltz: “I dreamt that I dwe-helt in ma-har-ble halls.” Tom’s own dreams were much wilder than the gypsy girl’s; he knew that; yet he spoke out bravely:
“Will you dance the two first with me?”
Miss Betty bit her lip, frowned, turned away, and, vouchsafing no reply, walked toward the house with her eyes fixed on the ground; but just as they reached the door she flashed over him a look that scorched him from head to foot, and sent his spirits down through the soles of his boots to excavate a grotto in the depths of the earth, so charged it was with wrathful pity and contempt.
“Yes!” she said abruptly, and followed Mrs. Tanberry to the dressing-room.
The elder lady shook her head solemnly as she emerged from the enormous folds of a yellow silk cloak. “Ah, Princess,” she said, touching the girl’s shoulder with her jeweled hand, “I told you I was a very foolish woman, and I am, but not so foolish as to offer advice often. Yet, believe me, it won’t do. I think that is one of the greatest young men I ever knew, and it’s a pity — but it won’t do.”
Miss Betty kept her face away from her guardian for a moment. No inconsiderable amount of information had drifted to her, from here and there, regarding the career of Crailey Gray, and she thought how intensely she would have hated any person in the world except Mrs. Tanberry for presuming to think she needed to be warned against the charms of this serenading lady-killer, who was the property of another girl.
“You must keep him away, I think,” ventured Mrs. Tanberry, gently.
At that Betty turned to her and said, sharply:
“I will. After this, please let us never speak of him again.”
A slow nod of the other’s turbaned head indicated the gravest acquiescence. She saw that her companion’s cheeks were still crimson. “I understand,” said she.
A buzz of whispering, like a July beetle, followed Miss Carewe and her partner about the room during the next dance. How had Tom managed it? Had her father never told her? Who had dared to introduce them? Fanchon was the only one who knew, and as she whirled by with Will Cummings, she raised her absent glance long enough to give Tom a
n affectionate and warning shake of the head.
Tom did not see this; Miss Carewe did. Alas! She smiled upon him instantly and looked deep into his eyes. It was the third time.
She was not afraid of this man-flirt; he was to be settled with once and forever. She intended to avenge both Fanchon and herself; yet it is a hazardous game, this piercing of eye with eye, because the point which seeks to penetrate may soften and melt, leaving one defenseless. For perhaps ten seconds that straight look lasted, while it seemed to her that she read clear into the soul of him, and to behold it, through some befooling magic, as strong, tender, wise, and true, as his outward appearance would have made an innocent stranger believe him; for he looked all these things; she admitted that much; and he had an air of distinction and resource beyond any she had ever known, even in the wild scramble for her kitten he had not lost it. So, for ten seconds, which may be a long time, she saw a man such as she had dreamed, and she did not believe her sight, because she had no desire to be as credulous as the others, to be as easily cheated as that poor Fanchon!
The luckless Tom found his own feet beautiful on the mountains, and, treading the heights with airy steps, appeared to himself wonderful and glorified — he was waltzing with Miss Betty He breathed the entrancing words to himself, over and over: it was true, he was waltzing with Miss Betty Carewe! Her glove lay warm and light within his own; his fingers clasped that ineffable lilac and white brocade waist. Sometimes her hair came within an inch of his cheek, and then he rose outright from the hilltops and floated in a golden mist. The glamour of which the Incroyable had planned to tell her some day, surrounded Tom, and it seemed to him that the whole world was covered with a beautiful light like a carpet, which was but the radiance of this adorable girl whom his gloves and coat-sleeve were permitted to touch. When the music stopped, they followed in the train of other couples seeking the coolness of out-of-doors for the interval, and Tom, in his soul, laughed at all other men with illimitable condescension.
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 53