by Mary Dillon
CHAPTER VIII
I GO TO MIDNIGHT MASS
"Tender-handed stroke a nettle, And it stings you for your pains; Grasp it like a man of mettle, And it soft as silk remains."
In our room, making ready for midnight mass, which all the family,including guests, were expected to attend, my captain told me what Dr.Saugrain had said to him about mademoiselle. He had told her fully herhistory and expectations (save only her exact rank and title, which hehad thought best still to withhold from her), and the plans of herfriends for her future. He had also told her very plainly that he hadsuspected the chevalier of just such an attempt at her capture as hehad made, and for that reason had been so unwilling that she should goto Chouteau's Pond.
Mademoiselle had listened, and had asked him many questions, and hadat last said that she could not doubt the truth of her guardian, butshe thought it possible the chevalier was honest also, and misjudgedDr. Saugrain because he did not know him. The doctor had tried toconvince her of the chevalier's duplicity, and showed her the letterof warning from France concerning him; but the doctor was not surethat mademoiselle was convinced, and he had determined, as soon assafe convoy could be found, to send her to her friends in Paris.
In the meantime mademoiselle did not seem happy, and the good doctorwas much puzzled to know whether it was, as he hoped, regret atleaving his wife and himself, who had been father and mother to her,or, as he feared, a secret regret for the chevalier, and a lurkingdoubt of the Saugrains.
And now all my bitterness toward mademoiselle had suddenly vanished. Iseemed to understand fully the state of mind the poor girl was in, andthere was no room in my heart for anything but a great pity for her.The remembrance of her face as I had seen it when the chevalier wastalking to her, the generous indignation changing to doubt, and thenthe gradual kindling of a desire for the life depicted to her by thechevalier (and, perhaps, a touch of a softer emotion for the chevalierhimself),--it was like reading an open book, and I said to myself:
"Mademoiselle is torn by conflicting emotions: her love for herfriends here whom she is to leave, and longing for the life in Pariswhich may soon be hers, and, perhaps, love for the chevalier, whom shefeels she ought to despise. What does it matter if she sometimes ventsher irritation with herself upon me, whom she regards as but a boy? Ishall not resent it; but if I find a chance I will try to let her knowI understand."
But I had no chance on the way to mass. Madame Saugrain seemed totake it for granted that Captain Clarke and the doctor would walk withmademoiselle, and I was her peculiar property; and I suppose I hadgiven her the right to think so by always pointedly devoting myself toher.
It was a solemn service at that midnight hour: the bare little churchmade beautiful with our garlands of green, and the twinkle of manycandles around the altar; the heads bowed in prayer; the subduedmurmur of voices making the responses; the swelling note of triumph inthe Gregorian chant; and then coming out under the quiet stars andexchanging greetings with friend and neighbor.
And last of all the quiet walk home, and, to my surprise, I waswalking by mademoiselle's side. I was surprised, for it was not of myarranging, and it set my blood to leaping to think it was possibly ofhers. I made up my mind that no word of mine should mar thefriendliness of the act, and I plunged quickly into a livelydiscussion of the ball that was to take place at Madame Chouteau's onChristmas evening. But she interrupted me almost in the beginning,and, as was her habit when she talked with me, she spoke in French. Itwas only rarely she tried her English, though, when she did, it waswith such a witching grace I could have wished it oftener.
"Monsieur," she said, "I have been so unmaidenly as to inflict mycompany upon you for the walk home when you had not solicited it, butI had a reason for so doing. I hope," as if a sudden thought hadstruck her, "I have not interfered with other plans. Had you desiredto escort some one else home?"
"Certainly not," I said coolly, for I was unaccountably irritated bythe suggestion. "And I did not solicit the honor of being your escortonly because I had reason to suppose it would not be agreeable toyou."
"It was for that I am here without an invitation," she answeredquickly. "I have many times given you occasion to think me entirelywithout manners. I have often been very rude to you. I wish to askyour pardon for my silly speeches at the table, and for all myunamiability, and to assure you I have not forgotten your greatservices to me, and I am not ungrateful. It is because I havenaturally a very bad temper; and now I believe I am not quite well, Iam so irritable of late."
Several times I had tried to interrupt her; I could not bear to haveher humiliate herself to me (for I was sure it must be a humiliationto one of her haughty temper). But she would not listen to myinterruptions; she went steadily on with a voice so low and sweet andsad it quite unmanned me.
Yet because I thought her voice trembled, and in the moonlight (forthe late moon was now well up in the sky) I was sure I saw somethingbright glistening on her long lashes, and because my heart was tornfor her, and I was seized with a horrible fear that she might weep,and I would not know what to do--for all these reasons I spoke quicklyand lightly:
"Mademoiselle, you have the temper of an angel, and if sometimes youlose it, I fear it is because only an angel with wings could bepatient with a blundering giant like me."
"You are no blunderer, monsieur," she said gravely; "and if you are agiant, you are one of the good kind who use their strength and theircourage in rescuing distressed damsels. I hope they will not allrequite you as badly as I have done."
"Mademoiselle,"--I spoke as gravely as she had spoken,--"I hope youwill not let the remembrance of any service I have been able to renderyou prove a burden to you. I would risk much more in your service, ifthe occasion offered, than I risked then, and find my delight in sodoing." And then I added: "I wish you would promise me that if youshould ever need such service again--if you are ever in peril of anykind, and I am in reach--that you will call on me."
Mademoiselle hesitated a moment before she replied:
"You are heaping coals of fire on my head, monsieur; you are farkinder to me than I deserve, but--I promise."
"Thank you, mademoiselle; you have given me my reward, and if you wereever unamiable to me, you have fully atoned. Sometimes I think,mademoiselle," I went on, inwardly trembling but determined, "that youdid not esteem it so great a service that I rendered you--that perhapsyou had rather not have been rescued. Am I wrong?"
I was looking down on her and watching her narrowly as I spoke. Icould see, even by the uncertain light of the moon, that she wentsuddenly white, and there was a perceptible pause before she spoke.
"I hardly think, monsieur, that you have any right to ask me such aquestion, but I am going to answer your question by another." Andslowly the color crept back into her face, and grew brighter andbrighter, but she went steadily on. "Did you overhear what theChevalier Le Moyne was saying to me in the glen?"
It was my time to wince. Must I confess to eavesdropping? It was hardenough to do that under any circumstances--but she might think I hadlistened too to the chevalier's wooing; it seemed to me I could not sooutrage her sense of delicacy as to let her think that. I had beenreared to revere the truth, but for once I thought it not wrong tochip a little from its sharp edge.
"Mademoiselle," I said, "I will confess to you. I missed you and thechevalier from the dance. I had been warned that the chevalier mightattempt to carry you off, and I had given my word not to let you outof my sight. Of course I went at once in search of you, and because Ibelieved the whippoorwills we had heard in the woods to be signal ofsavages, I bade Yorke follow me with the horses. I heard voices, andin following them came to the top of the bluff encircling the glen. Iwould scorn to be an eavesdropper under ordinary circumstances, but achance word caught my ear, and when I found the chevalier was notpleading a lover's cause, but maligning my friend Dr. Saugrain to themaiden he loves as his own daughter, I felt it my duty to listen. Yourrejection with scorn of the chevalier'
s base insinuation against Dr.Saugrain delighted my heart, but when I found that he was continuingwith devilish ingenuity to seek to undermine your faith in yourguardian, I concluded it was time for me to interfere. I told Yorke tobe ready with the horses, and myself went down to the entrance of theglen, intending to interrupt the chevalier, and use my pledge to yourguardian as authority for requesting your return. Imagine myastonishment to find Yorke, whom I had left in charge of the horses,astride the chevalier's neck! What followed you know, and now you knowwhat I heard and why I listened. Was it wrong?"
Mademoiselle was silent for a minute. I think she was not quite surethat I had not heard more than I confessed to, but she was willing tohope I had not.
"Monsieur," she said, "you were no doubt justified in listening, ifone can ever be justified in listening to what is not intended for hisears. But you have used some harsh expressions concerning thechevalier, and I think it is possible you wrong him, even as hewronged my guardian. I do not for one moment believe that my guardianhas had any but the best of motives in keeping from me all knowledgeof my rank and wealth; but I might still be ignorant of it, and I knownot for how much longer, if the chevalier had not revealed it to me.Dr. Saugrain corroborated all that he has said. He only refuses tobelieve that the chevalier was sent by my friends to take me back toParis. He accuses him of being in a plot to get possession of myperson and of my wealth. Yet that is exactly the accusation made bythe chevalier against Dr. Saugrain. Dr. Saugrain admits that all thechevalier said about my present rank and future prospects is true. Whyshould not the rest be true--that he had been sent by my friends tobring me back to Paris? Can you not see that he does not necessarilyseem to me so black as he does to you and my guardian? And it seems ahard thing to me that he should be a refugee among savages, leaving ablackened reputation behind him (for there is no one in St. Louis whodoes not vilify him), when he was actuated by most chivalrous motives,however mistaken they might be; for he thought he was rescuing awronged maiden from those who had unlawful possession of her, andrestoring her to her friends. I cannot but feel shame and regret thatI should have caused the chevalier so great a journey, at such cost ofmoney and fatigue, in vain, and that he may be even now suffering allkinds of exposure from wild savages, if not in peril of his life."
Now here was the opportunity I had desired to assure her of mysympathy, and tell her that I understood the difficulties in which shewas placed; but my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. When Ithought of that villain (for whatever mademoiselle might think, Inever for a moment doubted his villainy) my blood boiled, and,instead, I blurted out roughly:
"Mademoiselle, 'tis incomprehensible to me how you can for one momentgive the word of such a man as the chevalier, whom you have known soshort a time, equal credence with the word of such a man as Dr.Saugrain, thorough Christian gentleman in every fiber of his being,and your lifelong friend and benefactor, your more than father."
But I had spoken beyond my right. Mademoiselle turned on me with coldfury:
"Monsieur, I have not sought this interview that you should teach memy duty to my guardian, nor criticize my attitude toward thechevalier. I am sorry we have allowed the others to get so far aheadof us, but if we hasten we may overtake them and I will relieve youfrom further attendance." Whereupon she started ahead at a round pace.
"Mademoiselle!" I called to her, "I entreat you to listen to me for amoment."
Mademoiselle stopped and turned toward me, and we stood facing eachother in the middle of the road, alone in the white moonlight, for theothers were quite out of sight around a bend in the road, and therewere no houses near. Below us lay the Mississippi, a white flood inthe moonlight, and far across the river the twinkling lights ofCahokia, one of them, no doubt, in Mr. Gratiot's house, where I hadfirst seen mademoiselle. Her eyes were flashing scorn at me now, asthey flashed at me when she knelt with her arms around the greatshaggy brute, and, looking up in my face, called me "Bete!" There wasno doubt about it, mademoiselle could be a little fury at times, andno doubt she would have liked to call me once more, "Bete!"
"Mademoiselle," I said, "I am so unhappy as to be always offendingyou. From the moment when I made my descent of Mr. Gratiot's staircaseon the back of your dog, to the present moment, I seem to have beenable to make myself only ridiculous or offensive to you! I beg you tobelieve that it is a matter of the deepest regret to me that thisshould be so, and to believe that to offend you is ever farthest frommy desire. I realize that I was over-zealous for Dr. Saugrain, whom Igreatly admire and love, and that you certainly had never given me anyright to take such interest in you and your affairs as I just nowdisplayed. I beg you to believe that I shall never again offend inlike manner, mademoiselle la comtesse."
I saw her face slowly change from its expression of scorn to that samewondering look I had noticed in the church, as if she were regardingsome one she did not know and was trying to understand. As I utteredthe last words, "mademoiselle la comtesse," another and a swift changecame over her. Her eyes fell, her head drooped. Still standing therein the moonlight, she suddenly buried her face in her hands and sobsshook her slender figure.
"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!" I cried. "I beg, I implore, you toforgive me. I am, indeed, a brute!" And as she continued to sobdrearily, I was beside myself. What could I do? She looked so like alittle child, and I was so big, to have hurt her seemed cruel andshameful. I was in a state of desperation. I begged her and imploredher not to weep; but it seemed to me she only sobbed the harder. Whatdid one do, I wondered, with a weeping maiden? Had it only been achild I would have known, for I had ever a way with children; butbefore a weeping maiden I was helpless.
And still mademoiselle sobbed on, her sobs coming faster and harder,until, in a paroxysm of grief (or I know not what), she flung herselfupon a low bank beside the road, moaning and crying aloud.
Instantly my courage returned to me. Mademoiselle was acting like achild; I should treat her as one.
"Mademoiselle," I said firmly, "I cannot permit you to sit upon thecold ground. I am very, very sorry for you, but you must at once ariseand dry your eyes and tell me what is the matter, so that I can helpyou."
Mademoiselle but wept the louder. There was no help for it; at therisk of being rude I must stop her weeping and make her rise from theground.
"Mademoiselle!" I said sternly, "you will oblige me by rising at oncefrom that cold ground or you will compel me to go for Madame Saugrainand deliver you into her hands."
For a second, amazement at my tone of authority kept her silent, thenfollowed a storm of sobs and tears more violent than before.
"I am sorry, mademoiselle," I said, in a tone purposely cool andcutting (though it was my own heart I stabbed with my coldness), "thatyou compel me to treat you _comme enfant_. I shall wait one minute,and if you do not rise from the ground in that time I shall call yourfriends." Then I drew myself up tall and stiff, like a sentinel,turned my back on mademoiselle, and took out my watch to note the timeby the moon-beams.
There was no answer, but the sobs grew less until there was only anoccasional convulsive catching of the breath. Then came a moment ofquiet. There were neither sobs nor moans. Then a small and plaintivevoice said gently:
"Monsieur, I will be good now."
I turned quickly. Mademoiselle was starting to rise from the low bank;I grasped her hands and helped her to her feet and looked down uponher. Her face was flushed with weeping; her hood had fallen back andher dark curls were in wild disorder; she might have been a beautifulchild who had been naughty but was now subdued. She adjusted her hoodand her curls as best she could, and then walked quietly along besideme. We neither of us spoke, and we walked rapidly and in a few minutesovertook the others and came up to the house together, and into thebig living-room, where fresh logs piled in the great chimney-placewere blazing and crackling, and lighting every cranny of the longroom.
Mademoiselle was paler than usual, but otherwise there were no signsof the tempest she had just been through, and I looked
at her withwonder. Madame Saugrain, noticing her pallor, and thinking she wascold, put her down on the wooden settle in the chimney-place to warmby the glowing fire, and bustled about helping Narcisse to bring inplates of croquecignolles and cups of hot mulled gooseberry wine,which was much to my satisfaction, for the frosty air and the latenessof the hour had put a keen edge on an appetite that was ever ready fortrencher service.
Now the settle on which mademoiselle sat had a high back and wasturned away from the rest of us, so that, as we engaged in helpingMadame Saugrain, we might easily have forgotten the little figurehidden away upon it. Perhaps the others did, but I did not. My mindhovered around it all the time; but I was divided between a desire totake her some cake and wine, which I was sure would do her good, and afear of my reception if I did, and a baser fear that I might therebylose my own toothsome cake and fragrant wine, which was at that momentmaking most potent appeals to my inner man by way of the nostrils."For," I said to myself, "I know the ways of maidens. They like not tosee men eat. It seems in their minds a greater compliment to them if aman do but nibble and sip and seem to be careless of his victuals anddrink, which I maintain is a great mistake, for a good trencherman isever a good lover, and a man to be trusted in all the serious businessof life."
To ease my conscience and my appetite at the same time, I disposed ofa croquecignolle and my steaming cup of wine with such haste that theone stuck in my windpipe and liked to choke me, and the other burnt mymouth well and might as well have been boiling water for all thepleasure my palate got out of it. Then I pretended to suddenlyremember mademoiselle, and carried her a plate of cake and a cup ofwine with fear and trembling.
She refused them, as I thought she would, but looked up at me verysweetly and asked me very gently to sit down beside her for a moment,and I remember thinking as I did so that I had been wise to secure mycake and wine first, else would I have gone hungry, since I couldscarce have the face to eat if mademoiselle would not eat with me. ButI still thought it would do her good to have at least a little of thewine, and, remembering how well she had yielded to discipline when shefound she must, I set the wine on the hearth where it would keep warmfor further use, and then turned to hear what she had to say.
"I only want to say to you, Monsieur, that I am very much ashamed ofmyself this evening, but I am very unhappy, and I have brooded upon myunhappiness until I have become nervous and irritable, and, as you sawto-night, incapable of self-control. Is that a sufficient excuse forbehaving like a spoiled child?"
"Mademoiselle," I said, "it is far more than sufficient, but I am moredistressed than I can tell you that you should be so unhappy. If youwould but tell me the cause perhaps I could help you. Is it anythingyou can tell me?"
"Oh, no, no, no!" said Pelagie, hastily, and then seeing perhaps by myface that it hurt me that she should think it impossible I could helpher, she added hesitatingly: "That is, I think not. Perhaps it mightbe possible. I will think about it to-night and to-morrow, and perhapsat Madame Chouteau's dance, if I have an opportunity, I may tell you.I believe," still more slowly, "if any one could help me, you could."
I am sure I thanked her more with my eyes than with my voice, but Iknow she understood, and then, thinking she had had more than enoughof serious converse for one evening, I resumed my role of sterndisciplinarian and made her eat a little of the cake and drink most ofthe wine, pretending all the time that she was a naughty child to besternly dealt with. And I could see that the warm wine and the foolishplay were bringing back the color to her cheeks and the brightness toher eyes and the gay ring to her voice, which pleased me greatly. Thenmy captain called to me that it was high time to be saying good nightto the ladies, or rather good morning, and I rose to go, but I turnedfirst and leaned over the back of the tall settle:
"Mademoiselle, at the picnic on Chouteau's Pond I won the first dancewith you, I think somewhat against your will. If I should ask you forthe first dance to-morrow night, would you give it to me willingly?"
"Willingly, Monsieur," with a glance into my eyes (which were verynear her own) by far the sweetest I had yet had from hers.