It was the misfortune of Mr. Cummings's first literary offering to annoy one of the editor's friends. The Journal was brought to the corporal at noon, while he was considering whether he should rise from his couch or sleep another hour. Reclining among his pillows, he glanced through Cummings's description with the subdued1 giggle2 he always had for the good William's style but as his eye fell upon one paragraph he started sat upright, and proceeded to read the passage several times with anxious attention.
“Only two or three sources of regret occurred to mar3 the delight (in which young and old participated) of that festal and dazzling scene. One was the absence of Miss Fanchon Bareaud, one the donors4; another, that of Corporal Gray; a third was the excessive modesty5 of Major Vanrevel, although present at the time, refused to receive the ladies' sumptuous6 offering and insisted that Captain Marsh7 was the proper person to do the honors, to which the latter reluctantly, though gracefully8 consented. Also, we were sorry that the Major appeared in citizen's dress, as all were anxious to witness him in his uniform. However, in our humble9 judgment10, he will be compelled by etiquette11 to don it this afternoon, to receive the officers of the regular army, who will arrive by the stage about five o'clock, it is expected, to inspect the company and swear them into the service of the Federal Government at the Court House. We, for one, have little doubt that, owing to the Major's well-known talent in matters of apparel, his appearance will far eclipse in brilliancy that of his fellow-officers.”
Crailey dressed slowly, returning to the paper, now and then, with a perturbed12 countenance13. How would Miss Betty explain this paragraph to herself, and how account for the fact that she had not seen Crailey, how for the fact that she had seen Tom? It seemed unlikely that she could have overlooked the latter—Tom was one of those whom everybody saw, wherever he went. And what inquiries14 would she make? For Crailey had no means of knowing that she would not see the Journal. Tomorrow he would be gone, it would be all over, but he wanted this last day to run smoothly15. What wild hopes he had 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 entertained hopes of any kind whatever, since to hope is to bestow16 thought upon the future.
But, however affairs ran with him so far as hope was concerned, he seldom lacked an idea; and one came to him presently, a notion that put the frown to rout17 and brought the old smile to his lips, his smile of the world-worn and tolerant prelate. He flicked18 the paper lightly from him, and it sped across the room like a big bird in awkward flight. For he knew how to preserve his last day as he wished, and to make all smooth.
He finished his toilet with particular care, took a flower from a vase on his table, placed it in his coat, and went down to the dusty street, where everything was warm and bright with summer. It was joy to be alive; there was wine enough in the air; and Crailey made up his mind not to take a drink that day—the last day! The last day! The three words kept ringing through his head like a minor19 phrase from a song. Tomorrow, at noon, they would be churning down the river; and this was the last day—the last day!
“Still not too late to make another friend at home,” he said, stopping to pat the head of a mangy street cur that came crouching20 and wobbling toward him like a staveless little keg worried by scurries21 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 air, to say: “Great lord, magnificent in the graciousness which deigns22 to cast a glimpse upon this abject23 cluster of ribs24, 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 tip of his boot. “Will you share the meagre fare of one who is a poet, should be a lawyer, but is about to become 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 kindly25? Think?”
He made a vivacious26 gesture, the small animal sprang into the air, convoluted27 with gratitude28 and new love, while Crailey, laughing softly, led the way to the hotel. There, while he ate sparsely29 himself, he provided munificently30 for his new acquaintance, and recommended him, with an accompaniment of silver, to the good offices of the Rouen House kitchen. After that, out into the sunshine again he went, with elastic31 step, and a merry word and a laugh for everyone he met. At the old English gardener's he bought four or five bouquets32, and carried them on a round of visits of farewell to as many old ladies who had been kind to him. This done, leaving his laughter and his flowers behind him, he went to Fanchon and spent part of the afternoon bringing forth33 cunning arguments cheerily, to prove to her that General Taylor would be in the Mexican capital before the volunteers reached New Orleans, and urging upon her his belief that they would all be back in Rouen before the summer was gone.
But Fanchon could only sob34 and whisper, “Hush35, hush!” in the dim room where they sat, the windows darkened so that, after he had gone, he should not remember how red her eyes were, and the purple depths under them, and thus forget how pretty she had been at her best. After a time, finding that the more he tried to cheer her, the more brokenly she wept, he grew silent, only stroking her head, while the summer sounds came in through the window: the mill-whir of locusts36, the small monotone of distant farm-bells, the laughter of children in the street, and the gay arias37 of a mocking-bird singing in the open window of the next house. So they sat together through the long, still afternoon of the last day.
No one in Rouen found that afternoon particularly enlivening. Even Mrs. Tanberry gave way to the common depression, and, once more, her doctrine38 of cheerfulness relegated39 to the ghostly ranks of the purely40 theoretical, she bowed under the burden of her woe41 so far as to sing “Methought 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 resorting to this unhappy ballad42; today she sang it four times. Mr. Carewe was not at home, and had announced that though he intended to honor the evening meal by his attendance, he should be away for the evening itself; as comment upon which statement Mrs. Tanberry had offered ambiguously the one word, “Amen!” He was stung to no reply, and she had noted43 the circumstance as unusual, and also that he had appeared to labor44 with the suppression of a keen excitement, which made him anxious to escape from her sharp little eyes; an agitation46 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 neutral ground, but she had observed 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 precisely47 a burning interest in the adventure of the Damsel Fair, wandering out of the room during the second rendition, wandering back again, 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 restless, with distressed48 eyes, to which no sleep had come in the night, she could not read; she could no more than touch her harp45; she could not sleep; she could not remain quiet for three minutes together. Often she sank into a chair with an air of languor49 and weariness, only to start immediately out of it and seek some other part of the house, or to go and pace the garden. Here, in the air heavy with roses and tremulous with June, as she walked rapidly up and down, late in the afternoon, at the time when the faraway farm-bells were calling men from the fields to supper, the climax50 of her restlessness came. That anguish51 and desperation, so old in her sex, the rebellion against the law that inaction must be her part, had fallen upon her for the first time. She came to an abrupt52 stop and struck her hands together despairingly, and spoke53 aloud.
“What shall I do! What shall I do!”
“Ma'am?” asked a surprised voice, just behind her.
She wheeled quickly about, to behold54 a shock-headed urchin55 of ten in the path near the little clearing. He was ragged56, tanned, dusty, neither shoes nor coat trammelling his independence; and he had evidently entered the garden through the gap in the hedge.
“I thought you spoke to me?” he said, inquiringly.
“I didn't see you,” she returned. “What is it?”
“You Miss Carewe?” he asked; but before she could answer he said, reassuringly57, “Why, of course you are! I remember you perfect, now I git the light on you, so to speak. Don't you remember me?”
“No, I don't think I do.”
“Lord!” he responded, wonderingly. “I was one of the boys with you on them boxes the night of your pa's fire!” Mingled58 with the surprise in his tone was a respectful unction which intimated how greatly he honored her father for having been the owner of so satisfactory a conflagration59.
“Were you? Perhaps I'll remember you if you give me time.”
But at this point the youth recalled the fact that he had an errand to discharge, and, assuming an expression of businesslike haste too pressing to permit farther parley60, 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 nobody who sent it, and not to give it to nobody on earth but you, and how to slip in through the hedge and try and find you in the garden when nobody was lookin', and he give a pencil for you to answer on the back of it, and a dollar.”
Miss Betty took the note, glancing once over her shoulder at the house, but Mrs. Tanberry was still occupied with the Maiden61, and no one was in sight. She read the message hastily.
“I have obeyed you, and shall always. You have not sent for me. Perhaps that was because there was no time when you thought it safe. Perhaps you have still felt there would be a loss of dignity. Does that weigh with you against good-by? Tell me, if you can, that you have it in your heart to let me go without seeing you once more, without good-by—for the last time. Or was it untrue that you wrote me what you did? Was that dear letter but a little 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 voice? The last time!”
There was no signature.
Miss Betty quickly wrote four lines upon the same sheet: “Yes—yes! I must see you, must talk with you before you go. Come at dusk. The garden—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. Vanrevel” underneath62.
“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 hurry!” said Betty.
He needed no second bidding, but, with wings on his bare heels, made off through the gap in the hedge. 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 scamper63 with a vicious jerk; and the boy was too awed64 to attempt an escape, for he knew his captor well by sight, although never before had he found himself so directly in the company of Rouen's richest citizen. The note dropped from the small 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.
“I didn't, either!”
Mr. Carewe ground his teeth, “What were you doing there?”
“Nothing!”
“Nothing!” mocked Carewe. “Nothing! You didn't carry this to the young lady in 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 levelled from the magnate's face, the white heat cooled, and the prisoner marvelled67 to find himself in the presence of an urbane68 gentleman whose placidity69 made the scene of a moment ago appear some trick of distorted vision. And yet, curious to behold, Mr. Carewe's fingers shook even more violently than before, as he released the boy's shoulder and gave him a friendly tap on the head, at the same time smiling benevolently70.
“There, there,” he said, bestowing71 a wink72 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 winking73 again with the friendliest drollery74.
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 length of time to peruse75 a little note. But perhaps the great gentleman was ill, 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 expression of such genial76 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 amiable77 jocosity78 of mouth and eye, and nothing seemed to be the matter, except that those fingers still shook so wildly, too wildly, indeed, to restore the note to its envelope.
“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 trifle-ha! ha!—and I suppose he may not have expected the young lady to write his name quite so boldly on the envelope! What do you suppose?”
“I d'know,” returned the boy. “I 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 much did he give you?”
“How much will you take not 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 anyone that you saw me today.”
“Don't shoot, Colonel,” exclaimed the youth, with a riotous80 fling of bare feet in the air, “I'll come down!”
“You'll do it?”
“Five!” he shouted, dancing upon the boards. “Five! I'll cross my heart to die I never hear tell of you, or ever knew they was sich a man in the world!”
Carewe bent81 over him. “No! Say: 'God strike me dead and condemn82 me eternally to the everlasting83 flames of hell if I ever tell!”
This entailed84 quick sobriety, though only benevolence85 was in the face above him. 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 beheld86 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 savor87 of the demoniacal contract; still that was to be borne and the plunge88 taken, for there fluttered the huge sum before his dazzled eyes. He took a deep breath. “'God strike me dead' “—he began, slowly—“' if I ever '—”
“No. 'And condemn me to the everlasting flames of hell '—”
“Have I got to?”
“Yes.”—“'And condemn me to—to the everlasting flames of—of hell, if I ever tell!'”
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 round a block to avoid the door of the Rouen House bar. Nevertheless, the note was in his hand and the fortune in his pocket.
And Mr. Carewe was safe. He knew that the boy would never tell, and he knew another thing, for he had 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 brass89 buttons on an officer's breast make a good mark for a gun steadied along the ledge90 of a window. As he entered the gates and went toward the house he glanced up at the window which overlooked his garden from the cupola.
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1
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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donors
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| n.捐赠者( donor的名词复数 )；献血者；捐血者；器官捐献者 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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7
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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8
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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9
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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10
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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15
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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18
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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19
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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20
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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scurries
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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deigns
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的第三人称单数 ) | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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24
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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25
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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26
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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convoluted
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| adj.旋绕的；复杂的 | |
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28
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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29
sparsely
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| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
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30
munificently
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31
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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32
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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35
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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36
locusts
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| n.蝗虫( locust的名词复数 )；贪吃的人；破坏者；槐树 | |
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arias
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| n.咏叹调( aria的名词复数 ) | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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39
relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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40
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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41
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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42
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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43
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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44
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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45
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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46
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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47
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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48
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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49
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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50
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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51
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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52
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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53
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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54
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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55
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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56
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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57
reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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58
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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59
conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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60
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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61
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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62
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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63
scamper
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| v.奔跑，快跑 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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66
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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69
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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71
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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72
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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73
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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74
drollery
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| n.开玩笑，说笑话；滑稽可笑的图画（或故事、小戏等） | |
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peruse
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| v.细读，精读 | |
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76
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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jocosity
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| n.诙谐 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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80
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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81
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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82
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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83
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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84
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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85
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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86
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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87
savor
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| vt.品尝，欣赏；n.味道，风味；情趣，趣味 | |
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88
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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