WHIPPOORWILLS
"Is this that haughty, gallant, gay Lothario?"
It was in the third dance, in the middle of an intricate figure (and
Mademoiselle Chouteau was proving herself a most bewitching partner),
that I suddenly discovered that neither mademoiselle nor the chevalier
was dancing; nor could I see them anywhere, though my glance shot
rapidly into every leafy nook and corner.
An unreasoning terror seized me, and with all my might I tried to
think what I could do. Should I leave my partner and fly in pursuit,
as I longed to do, the figure would be broken up, and should my fears
prove unfounded I could never again hold up my head among the St.
Louis maidens. Yet I thought if I waited until the dance was over
there would be time for the worst to happen, and I had promised not to
let mademoiselle out of my sight. Now did I curse my folly (with many
of my big _d_-inventions) that, since I had come to the picnic solely
to look after mademoiselle, I had allowed myself to make any
engagement with any other maiden, however bewitching.
In my agony of indecision, though I was still going through the
figure in a dazed fashion, great drops of perspiration started out on
my brow. At that moment there came a pause in the dance, while the
figure was changing, and above the babble of talk that broke forth I
heard the distant call of a whippoorwill. It was enough. I bent low
and whispered to my partner:
"Mademoiselle, do you think you could invent a pretext by which we
could both be excused from the dance? Could you be taken suddenly
ill?"
Mademoiselle Chouteau looked up at me quickly; I think for a moment
she thought I wanted to get her away for a cozy flirtation in a quiet
little nook, such as some of the other young couples seemed to be
enjoying. But when she saw my anxious face she spoke quickly, with the
prompt resource I have ever noted in young maidens:
"Certainly, monsieur! In a moment you will see me grow quite pale, and
then we will go and ask Gabriel Cerré and Marguerite Papin to take our
places."
She was as good as her word: in a moment she really seemed to me to
turn pale, and she said, quite distinctly, so that those standing near
could hear:
"I am very tired, monsieur; I will have to ask you to excuse me from
dancing. Perhaps we can persuade another couple to take our places."
I think Gabriel Cerré and Mademoiselle Papin were a little loath to
give up their pleasant chat, but on Mademoiselle Chouteau's
representing that the dance would be broken up, and she was really not
able to take another step, they very amiably consented to take our
places.
Then I had to explain to Mademoiselle Chouteau, very hurriedly, the
reason for my strange request, and in doing so I was compelled to
confide to her somewhat of my fears, and beg her to be silent if any
one should notice that I too had disappeared. She proved a good ally,
and, on my expressing my perplexity as to where to look, she suddenly
remembered that she had seen mademoiselle and the chevalier, as the
dance was beginning, enter the woodland path that led on around the
lake to Rock Spring at its head.
"A favorite resort for young people, and especially," she added slyly,
"les amants."
The dance had been moving rapidly and it was not yet over; they could
not be so far away but that I could overtake them, and I felt a little
relieved. Yet I must see Mademoiselle Chouteau disposed of among her
friends; I could not leave her discourteously, and every second of
delay fretted me greatly. When that was accomplished, I caught Yorke's
eye (for he had arrived very shortly after us, and having made himself
generally useful at the déjeuner, was now watching the dancers with
grinning delight), and motioned to him to follow me.
I slipped into the woodland path, and Yorke did not keep me waiting
long. As rapidly as possible I told him my suspicions, and bade him
slip into the woods where the horses were tethered and bring his own
horse and Fatima by some roundabout way, so as to be unseen, and
follow me on the path to the head of the lake.
It was a comfort to feel that Yorke would not be many minutes behind
me, for impatient as I often was with his pranks and his eternal grin,
I knew him to be a good fighter, and true as steel. Still more of a
comfort was it to know Fatima would be within calling of my whistle,
for I knew not into what I was going, and if those dark forests
overhanging the cliffs on the opposite shore of the lake were as full
of the treacherous savages as the frequent call of the whippoorwills
had led me to think, I might find that the only road to safety for
both mademoiselle and myself was on Fatima's back.
So it was with better courage (though I will not deny that my heart
was beating fast) that I set off at a round pace on the woodland path
toward the head of the lake. I had ever an eye for the beauties of
nature, and an ear attuned to all its voices, yea, and a nostril for
its sweet odors, and engrossed as I was (rushing on lest I might be
too late, yet dreading every step that I fall into some ambush of
whippoorwills), I still could not but note how softly the November sun
fell through the half-bare branches, flecking the path with shine and
shadow; how glowing cardinals and flaming orioles, not yet started
south, flitted through the trees in rollicking sport; and how the
sweet odor of dying leaves mingled with the soft call of
wood-thrushes. The cottonwoods had laid down a path of gold for me to
walk upon, but, fortunately, it had rained the night before and the
leaves were still damp and so did not rustle to my tread.
I had hurried on at a breathless pace, following the path that in its
turn followed the windings of the lake for nearly a mile, when
suddenly I heard voices at no great distance ahead of me. I stopped
for a moment, my heart beating so fast I could scarce listen. Yes, it
was a man's voice and a maiden's, speaking in low tones as if for each
other's ears alone, and I did not doubt it was mademoiselle and the
chevalier.
Now it was most distasteful to me to think of playing eavesdropper,
and I was of half a mind to stop where I was and wait until they had
finished what they had to say and were ready to return. I would at
least be near enough at hand to prevent a capture should it be
attempted. But as I waited, mademoiselle's voice was suddenly raised,
and I heard her say in a tone of pain:
"Do not make me distrust my guardian! I can believe no wrong of him!
He has been the only father I have known."
I caught nothing of the chevalier's reply but the two words
"interested motives"; but I thought, since it was evidently no tender
interchange of sentiment to which I would have to listen, but the
rascal was maligning my good friend Dr. Saugrain, it was my duty to
listen with all my ears. I crept forward softly, fearing lest a
crackling twig or a dry leaf might betray my presence, and fearing,
too, since I could not discover whence the voices came, that I might
come upon them unawares and so reveal myself.
Which I came very near doing. Another step, and I would have stepped
over the brink of a low bluff which encircled a cup-like depression. A
cluster of tall oaks rose from the center of the little glen thus
formed, sheltering a silvery fountain gushing from a great rock and
then, in a bright rivulet, dancing merrily over moss and stones to the
lake.
This, then, was Rock Spring, and the source of Chouteau's Pond! A
sylvan retreat indeed for lovers, and I had heard it was much
frequented by them. A fringe of crimson sumac-bushes screened the edge
of the bluff and effectually screened me from two people just below
me. I liked not to be spying, but I felt that duty and honor both, and
my pledged word to the doctor, demanded that I keep mademoiselle in
sight. So I cautiously leaned forward and looked.
Mademoiselle was seated on a boulder with her face turned toward me
and uplifted to the chevalier, who was standing with his back to me,
looking down on her. Her dark eyes were wide and startled, full of
surprise and pain; I was not sure but there were tears in them. Her
straight brows were drawn together in a deep furrow, and the scarlet
lips, usually so like a Cupid's bow, were set and stern. I wondered
what the chevalier could be saying in that low voice of his to move
her so deeply. As he finished, mademoiselle sprang to her feet,
generous indignation in her flashing eyes and ringing tones.
"I can never believe it! Either I have no such prospects, or he has
some good reason for not telling me yet. I will never doubt his truth
and honesty!"
Then I heard the chevalier's reply, low and distinct:
"Mademoiselle, your friends in France doubt both the friends of your
father and mother. They have sent me here to find you and bring you
back with me to your rich estates, to your rank and position, and to
the friends who love you. But they know well Dr. Saugrain will never
let go his hold on you, until he can get control of your property
himself, and so they have instructed me to use all caution and
secrecy.
"In the woods yonder, on the other side of the lake, is a trusty
escort to ride to Cape Girardeau, where a boat is waiting to take you
to New Orleans. In New Orleans is a ship ready to sail the moment
mademoiselle puts her foot upon its deck, and in a little more than a
month you will be in Paris, among friends who will receive you with
outstretched arms, surrounded by every luxury, living the life of
grande dame as you ought to live, among the great nobles where you
rightfully belong, and not in this rude, rough country among Indians
and boors. And mademoiselle will permit me to add, there is no great
lady in France so fitted by nature to adorn her high station as she.
She will have all Paris at her feet. Come with me now, mademoiselle!
There is no time to be lost! Any moment we may be interrupted and it
may be too late."
My eyes did not leave mademoiselle's face through all this long
speech, and I saw her expression slowly change. The generous
indignation was still there, but I saw that the picture that he
presented of the life that awaited her in Paris began to fascinate
her. She spoke slowly and doubtfully:
"I will tell Dr. and Madame Saugrain all you have told me, and if it
is right, they will let me go with you. I will not doubt my friends."
The villain saw that he was gaining ground:
"They are not your friends! They are your bitterest foes. They are
keeping you from everything that will make your life grand and
beautiful, with the hope of their own gain some day. They will never
let you go! If home and Paris and friends and wealth and rank and
power are to be won at all, it must be at once. Five minutes more may
be too late. That boy [with infinite scorn] may have discovered your
absence and come to seek you."
Suddenly the chevalier dropped on one knee, his hand on his heart. I
turned quickly away (for I would not listen to what I feared would be
a declaration of love), and, as I turned, I saw Yorke coming up the
path, leading the two horses, who were picking their way as cautiously
as if they knew the occasion demanded the utmost secrecy. I motioned
to Yorke to leave the horses where they were (I knew they were so
trained they would stand perfectly still without tying) and to come
silently to me. I felt that the moment of rescue could not be far
distant.
He had crept cautiously up just as the chevalier ceased speaking. I
was intent on noting the position of the horses and forming a plan of
rescue, and so did not observe Yorke, or I might have prevented what
followed. He had stolen up softly behind me, and, unconscious that he
was on the edge of a bluff, had stepped a step beyond me. Of course he
went over at once, heels over head, turning a complete somersault,
and alighted erect, astride the neck of the kneeling chevalier.
At his terrified cry I turned quickly, just in time to see him alight;
and if it had been a time for laughing it would have been a funny
sight indeed: the look of startled terror on mademoiselle's face
gradually changing in spite of herself to one of convulsive merriment;
the chevalier, his nose ground in the dust, squirming helplessly and
sputtering vigorously in French; and, lastly, the big black, the white
balls of his eyes almost starting from his head in amazement and
fright, and a ceaseless torrent of ejaculations pouring through his
white teeth!
"Oh! Oh, Lordy! Oh, my gracious! Oh, de good Lord! Oh, massy!"
Yet he made no effort to rise, and I began to suspect he was enjoying
the situation, for the more vigorously the Frenchman sputtered the
louder the negro bellowed.
It was time for me to interpose, but I wished to avoid the appearance
of having been spying on them, with Yorke, from above, otherwise I
could easily have leaped down the low bluff. Looking around hastily, I
discovered, what I had not noted before, that the main path led around
the foot of the bluff into the little glen from below. I had followed
a branch of it in coming to the top of the bluff. I ran quickly down
to the lower entrance of the glen, but there I stopped a moment to
assume an air as of one leisurely strolling. I did not pretend to see
the group until I was well into the glen where I could also be seen.
Then I struck an attitude of intense surprise for mademoiselle's
benefit (who by this time had caught sight of me), and when I had
sufficiently recovered from the surprise for utterance, I spoke to
Yorke in tones of stern command:
"What are you doing, sir, on monsieur's back? Have you taken him for a
horse? Or a donkey? Off, sir, this moment, and make your humble
apologies to the chevalier."
Yorke was not much afraid of my stern tone. Still yelling bloody
murder, he contrived a most audacious wink with the eye next to me,
but he tumbled off slowly, and then I hastened to help the chevalier
to his feet. He was a sorry spectacle, and I saw mademoiselle's look
of suppressed amusement change to pity and concern. Blood was gushing
from his nose all over his fine clothes, and his face was so begrimed
and gory it would have been impossible to guess it was the dapper
Parisian.
But he was in such a blind rage that for once he ignored his clothes.
Stanching the blood as best he could with his flimsy lace
handkerchief, he poured out a torrent of abuse in mingled French and
English, on Yorke and on me, but principally on me. I tried to
interpose a polite word of regret, but he would not listen to me.
"You air a sneak, a cowaird, sir! You spy on mademoiselle and me!
Cowair-r-r-d! I will have the satisfaction! Sacré Dieu! You have no
doubt told the negro to leap upon my back! I will have r-r-r-evenge!"
And as if reminded by that last word, he turned to mademoiselle and
spoke in French:
"Fly with me at once, mademoiselle! You will not stay to be at the
mercy of a sneaking spy. See! I will call my red friends. Do not be
afraid! They will carry you off, but I will be with you, and we will
find horses and fly."
And without waiting for an answer he turned and imitated three times
the call of a whippoorwill.
I knew what that meant--that in a moment the Osages would be upon us;
and hardly had his first call left his lips before I too had turned
and uttered the shrill whistle that always brought Fatima to my side.
As I knew, the last whippoorwill call had not died away when from the
woods on the opposite side of the lake, silently, swiftly stole first
one dark figure and then another, until at least a dozen savages,
armed and painted, were bearing down upon us with the fleetness of
deer. In a moment more they would be upon us, and neither Yorke's life
nor mine would be worth the asking, and, what was far harder to
contemplate, mademoiselle would be captive in their hands.
She stood for a moment petrified with horror at the sight of the
swiftly advancing savages, and then she turned to me in an agony of
entreaty.
"Oh, fly, fly at once!" she said, "you and your black man, before it
is too late."
I turned to Yorke:
"Go as mademoiselle bids you; get your horse and fly."
Yorke tried to remonstrate, but I would not let him open his lips.
"No; you will only hinder me now. If worse comes to worst, you can at
least bear the news. Go at once!" And without waiting for further
orders, Yorke turned, scrambled up the face of the bluff, and was off.
"But you will go, too!" she cried, as I turned again to her.
"And leave you?"
"Oh, do not mind me! They will not hurt me!" And then, as I stood
perfectly still, with my pistols ready, but with no intention of
leaving her to the tender mercies of the savages and the savage
mercies of the chevalier, she grew desperate, grasping my arm and
trying with her feeble strength to push me toward safety.
"I implore you," she entreated, "if you have any feeling of friendship
for me, fly before it is too late!"
"Mademoiselle," I said, "I stir not one step from this spot unless you
go with me."
"I will but hinder you," she cried, "and prevent all possibility of
escape. Oh, do not stay for me!"
"Mademoiselle," said the chevalier, who had been enjoying this scene,
with no attempt at concealing his relish for it, "go with monsieur,
since he desires it."
Even as he spoke, the first of the Osages darted into the glen; the
others were close at his heels; but at the same moment from the
entrance of the glen nearer to us came the thunder of hoofs, and
Fatima was at my side, her eyes flashing, her hoofs pawing the earth,
her nostrils snorting with rage: for well she guessed that painted
savages meant danger to her master.
I was on her back in a moment, and, stooping, lifted mademoiselle
swiftly to the crupper in front of me. Holding her there with my left
arm, I wheeled Fatima with the one word of command, "Go!" and turning
my head as she flew over the rough earth, I leveled my pistol at the
chevalier.
"Do not stir, monsieur, at the peril of your life!" I called to him,
and kept him covered as we flew. I knew the savages were running to
try to head me off but I paid no attention to them until, rounding a
great boulder, the chevalier (his face ghastly with rage and
disappointed revenge, for so sudden had it all been he had had no time
even to draw his pistol to prevent the rescue until too late) was out
of my range, as we were out of his. Then, turning my pistol swiftly on
the Osage in the lead,--none too soon, for his rifle was leveled at
us,--I fired. The poor fellow fell forward with a wild yell that
turned my heart sick; yet none the less, the others rushing on with
their wild whoops to avenge him, I drew my second pistol and fired
once more.
But I knew not with what result, for mademoiselle, with a convulsive
shudder and a look of mortal woe, cried out:
"You have killed the chevalier!"
"No, mademoiselle," I answered grimly; "I have killed the poor
whippoorwill you asked me for"; and then had all I could do without
paying any more attention to the savages, for mademoiselle had fainted
and lay like one dead on my arm, her white face upturned to mine, her
long black lashes sweeping the marble cheeks, and the dark curls
falling backward from the white brow and floating on the wind, as
Fatima flashed along the woodland path like a swallow on the wing.