MY LADY'S MAID
It proved the last pound that broke the back of Priscilla's stubborn
resistance. Men and women who had found much to condemn in Miss Sanford,
who had disseminated and discussed the tale of her correspondence with
the _Banner_ and the talk that followed, who had heard with indignation
that it was after Dwight's conference with Miss Sanford that he so
furiously punished little Jim (for, as we know, Mrs. Thornton had
assured everybody that so far as _she_ was concerned she had done her
utmost to make the major understand that Jimmy never did it on purpose),
who had felt the lash of her over-candid comment on their social or
parental shortcomings, now had no little malicious merriment to add to
the deservedly hard things they had said of her. For a fortnight,
probably, Miss Sanford had been the most unpopular woman that
Minneconjou's oldest inhabitant could name; but the men and women who
saw her as one after another she faced the results of her most confident
efforts, began to feel for the lonely, sorrowing maiden a respect and
sympathy denied her before. It was plain that Priscilla was well-nigh
crushed, and "when women weep" and are desolate and hopeless resentment
turns to pity and blame to words of cheer. No one, of course, was ever
told by Mrs. Ray or by Sandy of what had passed in the sanctity of the
family circle, but in her humility and contrition Priscilla spoke of it
to Mrs. Stone and to others, who soon came to try to show her she was
forgiven. There were a few days after Dwight's fever in which she seemed
utterly heartbroken, and Mrs. Ray believed her seriously ill. There were
days in which she begged Aunt Marion to send her home, when, really, she
had no home; to send her East, then, where she could begin anew and work
her way in the world. If it came to the worst, Maidie Stuyvesant would
keep her from starving. But Aunt Marion would listen to no such
proposition. Priscilla must stay with her and at Minneconjou and live
down the unhappy repute. Aunt Marion knew how very much genuine good
there was in Priscilla when once she could rid herself of that
propensity ever to correct, criticise, and condemn; nor had Minneconjou
been slow to see this and to speak of it. Now that the tide was turning,
by dozens they came to talk of her real charity, her devotion to the
sick and sorrowing, the hours she had given--was ever ready to give--to
reading to the bed-ridden and helpless in hospital or the humble
quarters of the married soldiers. Men who had laughed among themselves
at her lecturing and preaching took to snubbing men who spoke in
disparagement of her motives. One thing was certain, whether they shared
her views or not, all Minneconjou believed in her sincerity, and
soldiers honor those who fight and suffer for their convictions. Of
Priscilla it might therefore be said she had made friends in spite of
herself, and though hardened sinners at the mess and humor-loving
husbands in the quarters _did_ indulge in little flings at the ultimate
and inevitable failure of all feminine meddlings in matters that were
purely military, there were few, indeed, after the first mirthful
explosions, who having seen her sorrowful face did not feel genuine
sympathy for her in the collapse of her Anti-Canteen Soldiers'
Benevolent Association.
For with Blenke's fall Priscilla was left indeed lamenting and alone.
Something of a _cause celebre_ was that of Blenke's when it came to
trial. The summary court officer had had his hands full since payday.
The number of cases of absence without leave, drunkenness, disorder, and
disrespect to non-commissioned officers, etc., had sextupled. All were
what might be called typical cases, and traceable, as a rule, to
Skidmore's; but Blenke's, like Blenke himself, was individual and
peculiar. Moreover, it savored of the mysterious.
The man seemed overwhelmed with mortification and distress. No one at
Minneconjou had ever known him to take so much as a glass of wine. No
one at Minneconjou among either officers or men ever really knew him at
all, for Blenke kept his own counsel, lived entirely to himself, was
neat as a new pin, prompt and accurate on duty, smart in dress--more so
than many of his officers, if truth be told--ready, respectful and in
fine a model soldier. But he had no friends nor intimates; he had no
confidants, unless we except Priscilla, to whom he had told much more
than Sandy Ray, when told, would for a moment believe. He came before
the court after two days' incarceration, neat and trim as though just
off inspection. He stood with swimming eyes before the desk, pleaded
guilty throughout, declined to summon a soul to say a good word for him
or his general character, would not even glance at the group of officers
hovering inquisitively about, would not even plead "first offense" or
urge a syllable in mitigation of sentence, even though the allegations
against him, as the court intimated to his captain, "seemed piling it
on." One specification might well have covered the entire tale of his
misdoing, but he stood accused of absence from quarters between taps and
reveille, of presence in premises where he had no possible right to be,
and finally of utter drunkenness. Blenke pleaded guilty to all, and
humbly said that, had there been more accusation, he would have done the
same, for he knew nothing of what occurred after fifteen minutes at
Skidmore's somewhere toward midnight.
Now, the court wished to know and the listeners wished to hear some
explanation of his having turned up so far from the beaten track; of his
having, when so drunk, managed to walk so far; of his having, in fine,
entered the yard of Major Dwight's quarters. What could have suggested
that? But Blenke knew no more than the dead. The only quarters of late
he ever visited were those of Lieutenant Ray, where, said Blenke--and
here the woe in his visage was indeed pathetic--he should never again
dare show his face. Time had been--a happy time--when he had daily,
almost hourly, duties at the quarters now occupied by Major Dwight, whom
he so honored; but that was while his kind friends of Lieutenant Ray's
household were still the occupants. Possibly in his dazed condition that
memory was working in what was left of his brain. There was nothing to
excuse or explain his wandering thither now, said Blenke. He had no
mercy to ask. He deserved none. So the case was closed with a sizable
fine, and the accused sent back to his company.
But the officer of the day had told a different tale, and the godless
array at the bachelor mess was still having fun with it. Felicie, the
self-styled French maid, had been from the start the object of no little
interest among the non-commissioned element in garrison. Felicie was
pious, if not actually pretty, and assiduous at first in Sunday morning
attendance at the little Catholic church in town, whither Dwight's own
horse and buggy and man were detailed to take her, for Inez could not
think of placing her educated and traveled maid in the same category and
wagon with the soldiers' wives. "Feelissy," from her very first
appearance, was by no means popular with this critical sisterhood, and
when it became evident that some of the best beaux among the sergeants
were also moved to attend early church in Silver Hill, feeling grew
strong against the usurper. Nor was the feeling modified by the fact
soon discovered that the maid had higher aspirations. She was too good
for the soldiers, said her commentators; but that goodness, said her
defamers, wasn't proof against the wiles of those who had more money.
Obviously the officers were aimed at in this observation, and it must be
owned that Felicie's expressive eyes had sometimes wandered toward the
mess, and that her glances fell not all on unresponsive others. The
night of Blenke's wandering was windy. The officer of the day's little
lantern blew out as he rounded a turn from the west gate toward the
bluff behind the post of No. 4, to the end that he stumbled on the
sentry unchallenged, and, when rebuked for his negligence, the sentry
said he was troubled about something at Major Dwight's. He could have
sworn, he said, the door to the high back stoop had opened just a moment
ago, letting quite a streak of light into the darkness for the space of
a few seconds, during which time he was almost sure he saw a slender
feminine shape disappear into the house. Now, he could swear no one had
entered the back gate for ten minutes, anyway, because he happened to be
right there. If it was a woman, as he believed, she must have been out
in the yard as much as those ten minutes, and perhaps someone was there
with her that shouldn't be there. All this had the sentry urged in
excuse of his failure to hear the approach of the officer of the day. It
was a black, moonless, starless night, and the officer concluded to
look. The board fence was high. He stepped within the gate, stumbled
over a loose plank, made quite a noise and said a few audibly profane
things as to the quartermaster's department for leaving walks in such
shape, but he could see nothing. So in a sheltered nook he struck a
match, and the instant he did so a man from the shadows lurched heavily
against him, muttered, "Giv'sh--light--o' man" and sprawled in a heap at
his feet. It proved to be Blenke, and Blenke proved to the satisfaction
of the court that he was blind drunk.
But the officer of the day and his comrades at the mess were beginning
to see light, as did the sentry on No. 4. Was it possible that Felicie,
who scorned the advances of the more prominent of the rank and file, and
had become an object of no little interest even to certain susceptible
subalterns--had, after all, reserved her smiles for the dark-eyed,
mournful, and romantic Blenke? If so, then Blenke had played the part of
a man with the skill of a consummate actor.
"I've seen Willard; I've seen Wyndham," said the puzzled captain, "and I
thought I'd seen 'David Garrick' played to perfection, but if Private
Beauty Blenke, of Company 'C,' Sixty-first Foot, wasn't drunk as a lord
that night, then Willard and Wyndham aren't in the business."