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For a moment he remained waiting. Miss Carewe rose slowly, and, directly facing him, said in composed and even voice: "You force me to beg you never to address me again." She placed her hand on the General's arm, turning her back squarely upon Tom.
Robert Carewe was Rouen's magnate, commercially and socially, and, until an upstart young lawyer named Vanrevel struck into his power with a broad-axe, politically.
Within this fortification rang out laughter and sally from Miss Carewe; her color was high and her eyes sparkled never more brightly. Flourish and alarums sounded for a quadrille.
Carewe happened to be examining the musket his father had carried in 1812, when the weapon was accidentally discharged, the ball entering Crailey's breast; how Mr.
Tanberry bounded across the room like a public building caught by a cyclone, and, dashing at the candles, "Blow 'em out, blow 'em out!" she exclaimed, suiting the action to the word in a fluster of excitement. "Why?" asked Miss Carewe, startled, as she rose to her feet. The candles were out before the question. "'Why!" repeated the merry, husky voice in the darkness.
He immediately sneaked in by the back way, for, in spite of her victory, she still felt a little sorry for poor Fanchon. If it be true that love is the great incentive to the useless arts, the number of gentlemen who became poets for the sake of Miss Betty Carewe need not be considered extraordinary.
And in the instant of that recognition, Tom knew what had happened to Crailey Gray, for he saw the truth in the ghastly face of his enemy. Carewe rode stiffly, like a man frozen upon his horse, and his face was like that of a frozen man; his eyes glassy and not fixed upon his course, so that it was a deathly thing to see.
Carewe shout from the cupola room: 'Stand away from my daughter, Vanrevel, and take this like a dog! Only that; and Mamie and I ran to the window, and we saw through the dusk a man in uniform leap back from Miss Betty they were in that little open space near the hedge. He called out something and waved his hand, but the shot came at the same time, and he fell.
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?"
He spent the noon hour in feeble attempts to describe to Crailey Gray the outward appearance of Miss Elizabeth Carewe; how she ran like a young Diana; what one felt upon hearing her voice; and he presented in himself an example exhibiting something of the cost of looking in her eyes. His conversation was more or less incoherent, but the effect of it was complete.
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